Somewhere in the Baraderes hill, Haiti
The determined yet terror stricken faces of the villagers were illuminated by the fires on their torch as they stood in wait for daylight to break. It was dawn and they were gathered around a lumber dwelling, with the intentions of bringing an end to an ancient evil which has now been visited upon them. The dwelling was at the outskirt of the village, yet the evil which it harbored, polluted the whole village with undisguised rancor. The whole village now reeked of intense corruption and all life form, vultures inclusive, have deserted the village.
There is a great belief amongst their people that a land without vultures is an execrable one. It is believed that if vultures which are agents of evil tidings should flee from the path of what is perceived as evil in intentions, then all hope is lost if drastic measures aren’t employed. So it is with this great courage and dread that they have gathered to spifflicate this ancient evil which is wary of daylight and fire.
As dawn broke, the shaky voice of the Bokor and his villagers resonated all over the hill in a holy chant.
Though the Bokor’s terror was visible, his resolve remained stock solid as he stood firm and determined.
Now, he is burdened with the responsibility of putting an end to what one naive fool and another Bokor had unleashed in their midst.
**********************
Somewhere in the lumber dwelling, the emaciated remains of a young man lay at the farthest corner of his barred room. The room had been barred from inside, an indication that he had desperately tried to prevent something from coming in. But the look of petrified horror that permeated through his sightless eyes proved that his efforts were for naught. The haunted look on his face screamed of the arrant terror that was induced by the emergence of an ancient evil that claimed his life. The look of forlorn terror etched on his lifeless body painted the horror that had preceded his torturous demise. He was a soul devoid of peace and now dragged to an unwilling grave.
What horrendous thoughts had darted through his head in the throes of his terror?
Which of his memories flitted through his mind, bitter or sweet?
What dark yearnings could have tranquilized his terrors?
Which deep regrets lay buried beneath his lifeless mass?
Perhaps, he’d regretted holding on too tightly to his memories. Perhaps, he’d regretted not letting sleeping dogs lie. Perhaps, he’d regretted being too weak to take charge. Perhaps, he’d detested himself for being too terrified to embrace it. Perhaps, he’d regretted embarking on his selfish route. Perhaps, he’d regretted the volatile love he felt. Perhaps, he’d regretted his pathetic and soon to be extinguished existence. Perhaps…..
Who knew?
On the other hand, perhaps, he’d reminisced of the beautiful and the cheerful times they’d spent together. Perhaps, he’d relived the walks in the park or the picnics on the beach. Perhaps, he’d thought of anything that would put a smile on his face, anything sultrily gratifying enough to give chase to the darkness which infringed upon his selfish soul. Perhaps…..
Who knew?
*********************
All that is known is that it began after two climacteric events. The first being her untimely demise, the other, when he carried her remains to a neighboring village’s Bokor. In all honesty, he’d already lost conviction in the Bokor’s powers, after all it had been two weeks and yet nothing. He’d hoped that Tamia was in a better place now as he concluded that he had been damn duncical to have even accorded the Bokor any shred of belief. But could you blame a man for holding on too tightly to his last shred of hope?
He’d never been a believer of vodou but when he lost Tamia, everything changed as he’d desperately embraced any means which offered him any shred of hope. His sorrow had been consuming, his pain had been harrowing, his resentment for life had been complete and above all, his fury towards the Maker had been unbridled. He wondered what was just about life if she was to die now, after all the barriers they had defied just to be together. He’d been the son of the French ambassador to Haiti, while she’d been the second daughter of their Haitian gardener yet the difference in class hadn’t deterred them.
The union had all but been doomed from the inception but they’d stubbornly held on to their verboten affection. Both families forbade it but they ignored their pleas and threats, so he was disowned while she became a pariah in her community but they cared less. Who could blame them? After all, women were universally known to throw away everything for love while the French were known for being hopeless romantics.
Their attraction wasn’t of the conventional love at first sight scenario. Rather it had grown and blossomed over time. His intense attraction for her had stemmed off the fact that she bore an uncanny resemblance to his mother who’d died when he was a kid. She was petite, easy on her feet, lithe and above all, had chubby cheeks which fondly reminded him of chipmunks. So he’d thus given her the name Tamia, which in French meant chipmunk.
Now she was dead and her people would have nothing to do with her remains. Now she was gone and he was all alone in this harsh region, without a friend and family. In those lonely moments, he’d thought about his father and his lessons. He wouldn’t give up, he said to himself for despite their so many differences, he and his father shared one common trait, they never gave up.
As a child, his father had ingrained in him a philosophy of life. His father believed that when there is no path to a desired goal, you create more than one of your own paths. When there is a great boulder between you and your desired goal, dig through that boulder with your bare hands or better still, bulldoze your way through with your shoulder. Smash all resistance, destroy all barriers, and break all rules that don’t suit you, then create yours. He believed that a man who gives up easily would be trampled upon frequently and therefore had no place in this harsh world.
With that in mind, he’d set out to the neighboring village where it was whispered, lived a dark Bokor with the powers to bestow and prehend life.
*****************
The weather had been calm on the day he carried her to the Bokor and it had given him hope of better days. He’d looked down at her face and seen that even in death, it still maintained its vibrant and exquisite qualities. He’d seen that even in death, her face still oozed out her raw sexuality in unhealthy doses. The day had been so serene and he thought it would surely have brought a smile on her face if she’d been alive. It’d been so peaceful that he’d painfully craved her presence, her laughter and her touch.
The Bokor had ranted and chanted to his deity as his Tamia lay on the bloody alter, naked and covered in strange and obscene gallimaufries. He’d been held captivated and repulsed at the same time by the barbaric ritual that was being performed but his love helped him prevail. At the end of the ritual, when he was asked to stretch his hand over her corpse for it to be cut, he’d hesitated.
The Bokor had proclaimed that for a life to be recalled, a life must be given. But the question is this;
Would he have gone ahead with the ritual if he’d known he was exchanging his father’s life for a Lamia?
Moreover, the Bokor claimed that his blood which was the final ingredient for the ritual, would act as her beacon and guide to wherever he was, when she came back. But the question again is this;
Would he have gone ahead with the ritual if he’d known he would be bound to her for all eternity?
His hesitation was but for only a brief second as the thoughts of her back in his arms clouded his judgment. So he stretched out his arm for it to be cut and for his blood to be splattered all over her. With the ritual completed, her body was carried deep in to the forest to be buried. The forest had stood still in terror and all that could be heard was the sad hooting of an owl, as thought mourning the passage of several lost souls.
****************
Two weeks later.
He’d gone to bed early because a heavy storm had been brewing. An hour later, he’d been awakened by the violent sound of swinging and banging. He’d then felt a cold draft, an indication that a window or door was open, so he’d grudgingly rose to investigate and found his front door blowing with the wind. He was certain he’d latched the door firmly, so he’d cautiously stepped out to check for intruders. But all he saw were the sorrowful and watchful round eyes of an owl on the oak tree in his front yard.
The following night, he was seated and reading with his lamp, when out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something flitting past his window. But before he could get up to investigate, he heard a knock on his door. He was startled because he practically lived in isolation but nevertheless, he rose to open the door and it revealed the greatest shock of his life.
There she stood before him, hollowed cheeked and as beautiful as ever. She’d looked at him through those bland yet seductive eyes and he felt as though his soul was being suctioned. He couldn’t look away as she just stood there on the doorway stark naked and vulnerable. She never uttered a word but he could hear her in his head as she claimed to be cold and pleaded to be let in. He felt dirty and violated as her voice tore through his mind but yet he felt elated.
Then he remembered the Bokor’s parting words;
“When she returns, she will return a Lamia. You must invite her in, for she cannot enter without one. If you refuse, she will keep on coming back until you agree for she is now bound to your soul”.
His longing and pain almost made him invite her in but something made him stop. He wasn’t sure if it was cowardice or caution but it just didn’t feel right as he realized that whatever was at his doorstep wasn’t alive, it was just a caricature of his Tamia. So he sadly mouthed a NO as he learnt his first cardinal lesson;
When the dead come back, they are not quite alive.
The sadness that reflected on her face sent arrows through his heart but he held on to his resolve and locked the door on her. But three nights now, she has returned pleading to be granted passage, three nights he’d been too terrified to let her through. Three nights now, he’d heard the distant screams of the villagers after he’d rejected her and then he learnt his second cardinal lesson;
The dead bring death along with them.
On the fourth night, she returned again looking even more radiantly beautiful but not alone. This time, she’d brought along with her, an incentive, something she assumed will appeal to his loving heart. Something she felt would touch the more sentimental part of him. Again, he heard her in his head, pleading to be let in. He was mesmerized by her corrupt voice in his head and felt as though he was being drawn into a voiceless abyss. He was sinking deeper and spiraling out of control. He was almost lost till a sharp cry jarred him back to reality.
In her hand was a bundle; in the bundle was an abominable monstrosity.
In the monstrosity was a black and putrid mass of flesh.
In the flesh were malformed tendons and cartilages.
In the tendons and cartilages was his unborn son.
He heard their voices in his head pleading to be let in. He heard their voices claiming they’d come back to be with him. He heard their voices claiming they loved him. He heard their voices accusing him of rejecting them. He heard their voices snaring at him and calling him a coward. Then he heard his son’s voice promising that he would be a good boy. He heard her voice promising to be a good wife and that he should remember she’d been carrying his seed before her untimely demise. The pain and torture he felt was indescribable, it was feeling even demons didn’t deserve. It was a feeling that ate up the remnant of his sanity as he learnt his third cardinal lesson;
When the dead come back, they come back wrong.
He began to lose grasp with reality and the concept of time began to elude him. He began to fear leaving his abode for fear that they may be lying in wait. He lost his freedom and worse, he had nowhere to go for he was a beacon, bound to this evil manifestation by blood. And so he learnt his fourth cardinal lesson;
Bringing back the dead came at a great personal cost.
The guilt he felt each night was unbearable as they both bombarded him with accusations. They felt angry that he’d selfishly dragged them from a better place only to be rejected by him afterward. They claimed that this world was a horrible place to live and this life wasn’t worth living because the abundant peace one receives after letting go is priceless. And so he learnt his fifth cardinal lesson;
They dead don’t want to return, not after experiencing the peace afterlife offered.
By then they’d already burrowed under his lumber settlement and made it their place of rest. By then, he’d already barred his door and windows, making sure nothing came in or went out. By then the evil manifestation and its abominable urchin realized he wasn’t going to bulge, so they angrily began to plot his death for rejecting them. And so he learnt his sixth cardinal lesson;
The dead will try to kill you. It was only a matter of time, all they need is justification.
At the last hour of his death he bemoaned his selfish actions and cursed the day he was birthed. All because of his fear to live alone, he’d brought upon the village this great evil. All because of his selfishness, his sweet and petite chipmunk had become an evil and horrendous caricature. All because of his refusal to let go, his Tamia had returned a Lamia. All because of his desperate actions, the villagers have focused on him and his love, desperately wanting to put an end to their existence. And as the life finally sipped through his body, he learnt his seventh and eight cardinal lessons;
The dead only brought unwanted attention to yourself
and
The return of the dead is always temporary, for the living will find a way to make it permanent.
******************
Only the maker has the right to bestow and prehend life. Also, there is a reason why the dead are called the dead and a reason why they should stay dead. There is a reason why they are dead and there is a reason why they should be left to rest in peace. You don’t have to be blessed with Solomon’s wisdom to know this. Neither do you need to have garnered experience with age like Methuselah did to realize this.
My Dark School Of Thoughts 
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