“Are you Mr Chokhlang? Have you come back to me? Did you know that I made your favourite fish for dinner?”

​

Mrs Chokhlang knew a lot about ghosts. She left food and drink for the spirits at her shrine every night and for this reason had always hoped herself to be protected from any danger, but as is the case with many superstitious people, her faith was not stronger than her fear. She feared being haunted by a real ghost more than anything else in the world, and the second her husband died she was convinced it would happen to her sooner or later; she set about cutting down all the coconut and banana trees in her compound just in case the renowned Tree Ghosts should emerge one night, and even then struggled to sleep soundly. She told herself that even if the ghost of her husband came back, she would not want him, because he would be a ghost and not the man that she missed.

​

The Creature, however, did not seem to resemble a ghost, at least not any of the kinds that Mrs Chokhlong had heard about. Nor did it resemble her husband – it was taller and a great deal less human-shaped. It did not seem angry, nor violent, nor even scary. Perhaps he was a spirit of the mountains who had descended too far, or a Blind Ghost who had lost its way, or a spirit of the sea who needed guidance back? If so, why did it not speak? Why did it not tell her what it was? She was curious, but not enough to feel any desire to help. She made up her mind to go straight to the local monastery to tell the monks that they needed to ensure there were no malevolent ghosts in the village.

“I don’t want you here.” 

She marched away from the motionless Creature, set down the limes at the shrine and began towards the monastery. Soon enough she gathered enough courage to look back.

​

But the Creature was gone. 

*

Towards midnight, Uncle Kyaw, one of the village elders, was sitting on a little wooden fisherman chair outside his hut, half awake, half asleep. The cicadas echoed loudly, but the night was still. Kyaw was an old man and had accepted that he was reaching the end of his life and although death still scared him, he found comfort in reminding himself that he had devoted thirty years of his life to monkhood and would therefore return as something at worst sentient, at best wealthy. Due to his years as a monk, Kyaw was deeply respected in the village as someone of high moral order and authority.

​

As he sat in his chair, he felt a beetle crawl over his big toe. He moved and with one, still agile, hand immediately swiped it dead. Kyaw watched as one of its legs let out a final twitch before finally laying still. It was when he had done this that he looked up and saw the Creature.

​

“What are you?” he asked. 

The Creature said nothing. Uncle Kyaw thought that he was dreaming, or else that he had finally reached an age where he saw things that were not really there. Nevertheless, he did not try and wake himself up or blink to make the Creature disappear. He merely looked at it, almost grateful to be seeing something so strange before he renounced his mortal sight forever. After all, Kyaw thought then that the Creature looked beautiful, almost angelic. 

“Have you come to take me to heaven?”

​

The Creature remained silent, turning Uncle Kyaw’s awe into distress. He sat up a little more.

​

“Have you come to take me to hell?”

​

He thought that he could see the Creature affirming this in some way, although he knew not how, for it had no face, no expressions and was silent.