A Halloween Special
A Short Story published in Brittle Paper
Don’t whistle at night. Do not accept food from just anyone. And always keep your hands and feet tucked beneath the sheets.
Some childhood warnings stay with us, even when we stop believing in them.
This Halloween, I am sharing my short story, The Nights That Dreams Are Scared Of, first published in Brittle Paper’s African Horror: An Anthology edited by Tahzeeb Akram, earlier this year.
The full story will be available here for two weeks only, until 14 November.
Read on. Perhaps with the lights on.
The Nights That Dreams Are Scared Of
I
Always have your hands and feet tucked into your sheets as you sleep…
The nightmares shove and punch each other for breathing room, before they crash out of Iggy’s mind, thudding into his Stoneybatter apartment, shaking him awake. His eyelids flutter once, twice, before stiffening back shut. And he is plunged back into another peaceless sleep. Dreams —nightmares — have become restless ever since he promised Zee refuge at his place.
A scream. It pierces through the night, more panicked than the rest. Pulled back into the room, Iggy’s eyes snap open.
Zee.
He reaches for her but she jerks away from his caress. A chill drags its wet tongue along his body. His hair pricks up. No denying it, something is in the room with them. An absence sucking at their essence, their sleep, their dreams.
A few huge breaths and his heart soon calms. He will not feed Zee’s fears.
He wraps her in his arms. A few seconds pass. Her heartbeat and breathing slow into a calmer trot. Fear’s grip relents, the air trapped in her chest escapes. An exhale, and then the room unclenches. One by one, the leaked nightmares fade. Zee relaxes into his embrace, finally, her clasped hands nestle in the hollow of his chest.
The nightmares now a blur confined to the corners of the room, Iggy can surrender to the pull of sleep.
Just as his body plateaus into an almost calm, an angry shudder jerks him awake. Zee is up, again.
“Her maggots! They’re sucking at my soul again,” her hands reaching into the darkness as she wails.
The banshee cry drags Iggy out of slumber, and he jerks up to sit alongside her. She is gone before he can reach her. Zee fumbles around the bedside table. With quiet thumps, it all falls down; first her Vaseline, then the adult colouring book, and finally her phone. Iggy shivers, he cannot breathe. The absence is creeping around and over them, sucking away at the air. Her wails have set the nightmares free.
Iggy cannot be scared, that role has already been taken.
“Zee, it was just a dream. Relax.”
And then there is brightness. Zee has found the lamp’s light switch, finally. She returns to his side, the anguish behind her bloodshot eye is as harrowing as the absence.
“Okay. Let me check.” He stumbles to search under the bed for any movement. He sighs, patting at the carpet with a trembling hand. Four seconds, ten. Something pink and black catches his eye. He squints and in spite of himself, he groans. Another one of Zee’s many many stray clothes.
“Nothing. It’s safe here. She can’t get to you anymore, trust.” Iggy climbs back into bed, his limbs not as nimble—one of the after effects of her night terrors.
Like all her little trinkets and dresses and notebooks and coats and scarves and boxes of stuff, his space cannot contain all her anxieties. Zee is not responding to anything. Therapy sessions, the pills, his love—useless. He brushes Zee’s trembling back, to still her terror and hopefully his own anguish too. Pulling deep breaths in and out, he calms his thoughts. He plants a butterfly soft kiss on her shoulder:
There is nothing under the bed. Nana said evil only becomes strong enough to harm you when you give it energy.
His rhythmic motions on her back knead away the gif that has been stuck on loop in his mind; the writhing creamy white shaggy mat.
Now that he thinks about it, the night he shared take-cares with Zee and Betty over red wine was the last time he had peace.
II
Do not whistle at night, or you will beckon bad spirits
The chilly Dublin evening is begging, demanding, to be let in, its howling whine the unintended but appropriate mouthpiece for Iggy’s frustration.
Zee and Betty, unfazed, are delving into memories of the homes they left. Iggy is focused on the wallpaper; wilting and curling at the corners. Sweat drips down the fading flowers, they are suffocating, just like him in Zee and Betty’s sweltering apartment.
With the help of some wine, thirty minutes of small talk with Betty in the sweltering lounge might have been doable. But an hour and three mugs of Tesco’s Merlot later, the heat and Betty’s animosity are only increasing.
Zee’s hand finds him, luring him out of his sunken thoughts. He sits up and settles onto the edge of the couch. She squeezes his hand once, and he is back in the room. He returns Zee’s embrace with a peck on her hand.
‘Talking of home. What’s the one take-care you’ll never forget?’
‘Take-care?’
“Superstition… The cautions elders share, like it’s bad luck to open umbrellas indoors.”
Zee and Betty both nod.
Duppies, tokoloshes, ghosts, spoek. Bad spirits. They all have different words for those brought to life by evil, but if any one of them were to ever cross an old woman muttering curses and pointing in their direction at night, each of their hearts would plummet to the bottom of hell at the same immeasurable speed.
Zee curls her feet behind her, settling into the warmth of Iggy’s body. “If you want to collect bad energies, walk in between people having a chat,” she says. Both Zee and Betty are from South Africa and Iggy’s lineage traces back to the Caribbean…
“Don’t step over people’s legs or they’ll stop growing.”
…but Iggy feels it: they were all raised by the same community, kept in check by the same superstitions.
“You are beckoning tokoloshes if you whistle at night.”
Iggy gets up, walks across the room to the counter by the sink, grateful for his box of Chilean Merlot. He rolls a block of ice across his forehead and peels his sweater off. He gulps down half a mug of wine before refilling it and returning to his seat.
On Zee’s other side, Betty leans over, hands on her knees.
“Listen…”
Betty tucks herself tighter into the pink and black checkered blanket she is always wrapped in. Iggy, nose scrunching, moves away, a reflex. Betty bends her neck so her head is resting just over her knees; wrapping her voice into the character of the muttering, cursing witch, she croaks,
“Always have your hands and feet tucked safely into your sheets or else…”
From the corner of his eye, Iggy notices Betty’s ashy hand scuttling across the couch, reaching for Zee’s feet. Zee shrieks. Her nails dig into Iggy’s arm. He gestures at the retreating fingers, Zee following his eyes breaks into a broken giggle.
“Let’s be honest. These are really for naughty kids, right? Or else a ghost will tickle me if my hand dangles out of my sheets?”
“Oooh Zanele, must be nice. Wish I had your privilege to be so I don’t care about things that have the rest of us in a chokehold.”
Zee crumbles into Iggy.
How does Betty’s forever slipping mask still catch Zee off guard?
Iggy rubs Zee’s shoulders, shrugging, unmoved. This is his forte, before he escaped to join his mum in Brixton, his nana used to stir in eerie ‘take-cares’ with the tales she spun for them left-behind small ones every night. Iggy leans forward, a bead of sweat drops into his almost empty mug. He locks them both in a stare and whispers, “Never, ever…” For a moment, Iggy falters. He drowns in Zee’s eyes, wide in anticipation.
For take-cares to have a real impact, you need to bring it close to home. Up the ante.
He stalls.
Let it go. Maybe this take-care is too cruel.
A grunt from Betty brings him back to the moment.
“… never ever accept food from a foul soul or you will forever be trapped under the cook’s spell, nightmares or duppy.”
“Euwww!” Zee, shifting away from Iggy’s sweating body, pretends to retch.
Betty used to pester Zee to eat her awful cooking. She only stopped once Zee announced she was moving to a strictly plant-based diet. The GP gave me no choice, Zee had added to snuff out the nagging that would have most definitely followed. Betty throws a look of disdain at Iggy. He chuckles, his nana would be proud.
Zee gulps, “Duppies? Ghosts? But the cook is alive as they have to prep your food, right? Then where does this ghost come from?”
“Not all ghosts are dead.” Iggy whispers the rest of the explanation, “Some duppies are just extensions of some people’s dead dreams or evil spirits. Betty, tell us about the duppy, ahem the tokoloshe, under your control.”
Betty glares at him, a shiver flees down his spine. Zee shoots him a look.
“My bad, I was joking. I’m sorry Betty, please don’t let it come for me. But for real, you guys just don’t get take-cares.”
They both roll their eyes. Zee smiles, resting her head on Iggy’s shoulder. Her fingers brush along his thighs. Just one glass of wine is all Zee ever needs. Her touch, his salve. The heat is a little less oppressive.
A loud sniff and the dragging of phlegm pulls Iggy back to the room. Betty coughs. Her stink eye sears into him. Caressing Zee’s back, he ignores her. And then the first warning shot for Iggy to leave is fired. Betty yawns, stretching her hands above her head. A pungent odour drifts towards Iggy. He overrides his reflex, he needs to stop reacting to the heaviness that follows Betty’s tiny body, lingering in the tiny hairs of his nostrils long after she is gone. Iggy is certain her breath, armpits, shoes, room and blankets carry with them the remains of generations’ worth of decayed dreams.
“Time for our beauty sleep, Iggy. It’s a school night.”
How is Zee unable to smell Betty’s bullshit?
On his first night with Zee, months ago, he had wanted to say,
‘Your housemate is weird as fuck.’
But he instead committed to get along with Betty even though she does not veil her disdain. She low key threatens to tell their company that Iggy is spending nights in their apartment, but Zee stresses that she needs to keep peace, for her job.
“My company has really come through, you can’t deny that. This apartment and, if I pass probation, they will sponsor my visa. And anyway, this, just like Vegan Zee, is all temporary.”
Iggy gets it. It is nearly impossible to find a liveable room in Dublin without having to give up your unborn children and all your dreams. Their company had suggested Zee move in with Betty from Payroll in an available apartment in one of their Rathmines residential properties. They had bought the house, already sliced up into tiny Dublin sized apartments to help Ukrainian refugees settle in Dublin. Betty and Zee, as everyone called Zanele, were both young, from the same place, and both needed to find themselves in the city. It made sense.
But does it? These chaperoned visits are childish.
But the patient bird gets the fattest worm. The situation is suffocating but temporary.
“Don’t leave yet, young man. Come.” Zee’s whisper lifts Iggy off the couch, guiding him to her room.
III
Doorways are portals. Stand idle in one and risk inviting evil, unworldly spirits in
Iggy, again, shrivels in their shared space, but a smiling Zee stands at the door, and the heat feels different now. Iggy takes a step towards her but his foot is stalled midair by the clink of a spoon against ceramic. Iggy and Zee’s eyes are both drawn towards the sound. Betty stands by the sink, holding out the same brown mug Iggy was sipping wine from earlier. Lips pursed, Betty lets out a soft whistle,
“You guys have to taste this.”
Iggy’s answer, an instinct, an instant,
“No thanks. I’m cool.”
Zee falters. He loves and hates her empathy. He wishes he could knock her mum’s sensibilities out of her head. The voice is probably the reason why Zee refuses to spend a night at Iggy’s.
“What is it?”
Zee takes timid steps towards the now beaming Betty. Also curious, Iggy follows, against his better judgement.
“I got this in the African shop today. Give it a taste, it’s divine.”
Iggy and Zee peek into the mug. A murky, brown swirling mixture. Iggy recoils, but it does not matter. Betty has decided he no longer exists. Her smiling eyes focus only on Zee.
“Try it, Zanele. It’s spirulina. Drink, you’ll wake up fresh, no traces of the wine or a hangover.”
Iggy smirks, “Why is it brown though?”
Zee’s face bunches up into a scowl. Betty, frowning, dismisses Iggy with a swing of her arm. The whiff conjured by the movement leaves him breathless.
“It’s spirulina mixed with some other vital herbs. It’s a superfood. Africans have used this for centuries. Guess you guys must have forgot about that on your transatlantic trip. Do you know that even astronauts drink spirulina to stay fresh and on top of things?”
Iggy remains unconvinced. “But that smell though?”
Zee shrinks. Betty’s eyes lock onto Iggy, her plastered smile not creasing. Her hand with the mug is still up, held out towards Zee.
“Zee, you don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to.”
“Damn, Uncle Iggy, the seventies called. Jirre, Zanele, does he talk to you like this all the time?”
Iggy kisses his teeth, “Careful Zee, remember what happens if you eat food prepared by a foul soul…”
Zee sighs, glaring at both of them. She grabs the mug from Betty and gulps the mixture in one go. She swallows it fast, Iggy can feel the wince that flickers across her face. Before Iggy or Betty can say anything else, Zee is back at the door. This time there is no sultry whisper enticing Iggy to follow her.
IV
Never eat in the dark, you will not know who you are eating with
Blue ticks. On the morning after the take-cares, all Iggy’s messages to Zee are met with blue ticks.
She’s pissed off. She wants her space. Cool. Iggy can be a reasonable man.
After work his heart warms at the thought of her voice. The phone rings and rings and rings. It rings until it goes through to voicemail. An angry vibration, Iggy stares at the message.
Iggy. we need a break. i need space
They have shared about one thousand messages ever since they first matched on Hinge, and he has never seen a message with so many typos from her. No matter how turned on or mad she is, she would never disrespect grammar like this.
The phone does not even ring on his next attempt. Straight to voicemail.
Grey ticks. The next day. And the day after that. His messages, not read, not delivered. On the third day, instead of taking the bus home after work, Iggy takes the 140 to Rathmines.
He knocks twice on the worn door of the red brick three storey house. Someone from one of the other apartments lets him in with a smile. Iggy has that effect on people, with the exception of Betty. His knocks on Betty and Zee’s door are swallowed into the blue worn carpet on the landing. Nobody answers.
Zee cannot honestly still be mad. Of course not, she had even kissed me good night.
Iggy returns the next day. And again, the door to their apartment remains unanswered. Knuckles lifted, he bangs on the door.
Betty.
Her stench, stronger than ever, surges out the door’s keyhole, an angry swarm of bees carrying with them the apartment’s suffocating heat. Sweat scampers out of Iggy’s pores.
A shadow dances in the space between the door and floor.
“I can smell and see you, Betty. Open up!”
The door opens slightly, Betty’s face pops through the small gap. She hisses, “Go away Iggy. No one wants to see you.”
“I want her to say it to my face. Let me in.”
Iggy is not fast enough. His fist hits the door as it shuts in his face. Down on all fours, he bends his head to look under the door. A creamy white shaggy rug rests outside Zee’s bedroom door.
That is new.
The creamy white rug shifts left and right. And then as one writhing mass it scuttles towards him. As it gets closer, Iggy realises a restless mat of tiny white bodies is creeping towards him.
Maggots!
He gets up and bangs on the door. An angry buzz lashes out, striking at his wind pipes.
“Leave us alone!”
Gasping, he stumbles out of the house. The crisp autumn Dublin air is unable to flush out the sight of the writhing mass. He ruffles through his pocket. His phone. Zee’s work and then her mother.
Maggots!
He bends over the yellowing grass in the front yard, his hands on his stomach, as disgust tremors through him.
V
Do not accept gifts from just anyone, that’s how some people share their bad energy
Zee’s mother was delirious in the latest video call. “Where did you say this housemate is from? Heh! Those people! You do not mess around with their muti, it’s the bad kind. Do not eat anything from them. Burn everything she has touched. They find clever ways to work their evil. Do you have a Bible? Do you know someone who has powerful muti to counter her spells?”
My nana Zee, still recovering from the five days she spent locked in paralysing darkness, still has the same soft heart and squashed the conversation before Iggy could reply.
“They do not have muti, juju or evil spirits in Dublin, ma. Betty just wanted a friend, she aint bad.”
On the call, Iggy nodded. Zee is still ranking her own needs last. She does not want her mum, a pending-visa and fourteen-hour flight away, to panic over anything else. So, he did not mention the smell of decaying dreams or the swirling brown mixture or the slithering maggots or her banshee wails piercing through the night.
But in the reality of their four walls, still reeling from the emptiness of those five days, he ignores Zee’s denial. Every evening, he sprinkles salt around his bed to bind any bad spirits. She might try to disregard it, but a murder of nightmares followed her into his apartment. And he promised to take care of her. This evening, he had searched under the bed. There was nothing. Nothing but that pink and black cloth.
Tonight, like every other in this past week since his wish was answered and Zee finally moved in, his nightmares smash against each other. Shoves. Punches. Grunts and kicks. They all barrel out of his mind.
Iggy blinks. Something is crushing deeper and deeper into his chest.
Zee.
“Babe.” But he cannot turn his body to his side.
“Babe, this ain’t funny. Get off me.”
When did Zee get so heavy? Move.
The only sound in the room remains his shallow breathing. The heat in Zee and Betty’s apartment is but a flicker compared to the growing burn in his chest.
Move.
His head creaks up and forward. A growing dark halo pulses around his eyes. “You took her from me.” A dark heaviness perches on his chest. He falls into a sleep, the kind that dreams are scared of, the kind that feels heavy, like quicksand engulfing a victim that has already lost its will.
Move. Just move.
His eyes open. That pink and black something under the bed. Pink and black. Betty must have slipped it into the boxes when he was rescuing what he could from that sweating Rathmines apartment.
Iggy groans.
But the salt.
His hand scuttles around to find Zee’s, he squeezes it. A tear rolls from his eye. He will keep on fighting, for her.
“Zee.”
His voice is swallowed by the absence. He sniffs around for Zee’s calming energy. But the stench rushes through his nostrils and clogs up his chest. Not Zee.
And just like his rhythmic motions on Zee’s back, Iggy is stuck in a loop.
Still in the mood for a little more horror?
This story is one of 15 in African Horror: An Anthology, edited by Tahzeeb Akram and published by Brittle Paper.
Discover the other 14 stories and download the anthology for free.
Happy Halloween!
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