I.A.R Singh
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22/04/2026
🌿 The Pothound From Hell: Claxton Bay (1970s) - Extended Version. ................................................
All dogs go to heaven.
Yet some are sent from hell first.
At least, that's what Kenneth Mohan's story suggests. ...............................................
“It start back in de seventies,” Kenneth began, his voice slicing through the room. "An' ah remember it clear as day!"
His father, Vishnu, had come home one Friday evening with a cardboard box in his hands. Fridays were always good days, since Vishnu was known to bring little surprises such as cake, toys, even foreign chocolates if he could afford it.
That evening the box wasn’t filled with treats.
Instead... it whined.
"A puppy!" Kenneth added. "Chubby an' fluffy an' black like coal... meh sistah did name him Wolfie."
At first, everyone adored the animal. The children carried him around like a baby, laughing at his clumsy steps. But as the months rolled by, something about Wolfie began to twist.
"We know he was ah pothound eh," Kenneth confessed, "Buh nobody did know wuh he really was mix up wit' nah."
He grew into an awkward length, his legs never quite matching the burden of his body. The head hung heavy. Sometimes he held a person in his gaze for long stretches, seemingly measuring them in silence.
Then came the outbursts.
"Boy dah dog en' up rushin' people jus' so for no reason," Kenneth explained, "Everybody get rush or nearly get bite at some point. Buh de only friggin' man he eh play mad wit' was meh faddah."
And at night… the dog seemed to become something else. Wolfie would slink beneath the small wooden house, vanishing into the shadows. When they bent to look, he was gone. It baffled everyone.
Even so, they kept him.
Fear worked in their favour.
"No piper o' bandit did dare come near we yard... nobody cyah come rong so. Wolfie wuddah buss every chain if he want."
But in nineteen seventy-three, unease turned to horror.
A relative had come visiting with her toddler. The little boy ran across the yard, reaching out for the “nice doggie.”
Wolfie lunged.
The attack was swift, vicious. The dog locked onto the child's shoulder and dragged him screaming into the bush behind the house. By the time the family and neighbours gave chase, the cries had stopped.
"Deh search an' search an' deh end up findin' only de chile shoes." Kenneth recalled. "And yuh know Wolfie show up in de night like nuttin' happen."
The village turned on the canine. Men armed with cutlasses, stones, and sticks surrounded the house, ready to end the beast. But when they rushed, Wolfie slipped away, vanishing into the bushes, reappearing miles away with that same unbroken stare.
No one could get close.
After that, the dog was never seen by the family again.
"Boy rell people say deh start tuh see Wolfie outside deh house in de night watchin' dem." Kenneth explained. "Everybody was frighten, all ah we couldn't play outside too late an' ting."
Kenneth fell silent after sharing this. He shifted uneasily, his gaze flicking toward the doorway as though he half-expected to see that shadow waiting outside.
"People did call him de devil dog aftah dah." he concluded, "Ah good bit ah dem say deh see him on de line in Marabella... buh dah was de last we hear 'bout he. Meh fadda did feel de police ketch him an' kill him, buh I feel he jus' runaway an gone.”
So what can be drawn from this tale?
Can a dog truly be so uncanny, so sinister, that it earned the name “de devil dog”?
I choose to see it as the natural consequence of haphazard breeding. A mind ill-formed... turning, in time, to its own dark impulses.
There is also the possibility that such things are born of a toxic setting, patiently working its influence until man or creature is made into what it was never intended to be.
Still, I am speculating.
The truth may be far more diabolical than we are able to conceive.............................................
Have you heard of similar stories? Share your thoughts in the comments below👇🏽
22/04/2026
đź“ś From My Archive: Villagers Afraid To Chop Down Devil Tree. ............................................
The silk cotton tree is presented as both resource and relic of belief.
Used for various practical purposes, yet surrounded by fears of supernatural presences that continue to shape how it is approached.
ℹ️ “Villagers Afraid to Chop Down Devil Tree.” Trinidad and Tobago Guardian, 3 Nov. 2001.....................................
🌿Soucoyant: The Sweetest Dreams - Tabaquite, 1980s. (Narrated by Lisa-Marie Monsegue-John).......................................
I sat with Denise Garcia, who had a story to share from the late eighties. It is one that never fails to get under her skin.
She spoke quietly while recalling it, occasionally pausing as if weighing whether certain details still made sense after all these years........................................
What happened to her took place during the August vacation, when Denise was sixteen years old.
Her parents had decided to take a long overdue honeymoon to Tobago and arranged for Denise to spend three nights with her grandmother in Tabaquite. It seemed simple enough to them, but for Denise it felt like an exile.
Brown-skinned, with thick curly hair and shy by nature, she preferred the familiar comfort of her neighbourhood in Point Fortin. She had never slept away from home before.
Her grandmother, on the other hand, was ecstatic when Denise arrived. The old woman fussed over her, cooking a hearty meal and pulling out dusty photo albums from a wooden cabinet.
Denise’s grandmother was frail and well into her eighties, yet she moved about with a surprising energy that often made you forget her age.
They sat together for hours, flipping through old pictures of weddings, and relatives Denise barely recognised.
By the time night settled, the old house had gone quiet except for the choir of insects outside. The house itself was small. Only one bedroom. One bed. Her grandmother insisted Denise take the mattress that she placed on the floor beside the bed.
“Yuh go sleep right deh, you too big to sleep wit' me.” she said warmly.
Denise didn’t argue.
Despite the intermittent whistles and low rumbling snores coming from her grandmother’s nose, sleep came easily.
And with it... dreams.
She found herself walking beside Rick, the boy she was "in love" with at school. In the dream he was taking her to a concert. Music played somewhere ahead of them, lights glowing in the distance. She remembered feeling unbelievably happy.
But the dream ended abruptly.
Denise woke suddenly with the strong urge to use the washroom.
Half asleep, she climbed sluggishly to her feet and shuffled out toward the small outhouse behind the house. The night air was cool and heavy with the smell of mud.
When she returned, her grandmother had not moved a single inch. The old woman continued that same low, whistling snore.
Denise lay back down on the mattress and stared up into the dark ceiling.
Her mind drifted again to Rick. She tried to force the dream back, replaying the moment in her head as if it might pull her back into it. And before she realised it, she was asleep again.
Morning came with her grandmother shouting from the living room. The old woman had been awake for hours.
“Denny! Wake up!”
Denise tried to move but felt strangely exhausted, as if she had not rested at all.
“Denise!”
By the third call she slowly rolled onto her side and pushed herself upright with effort.
Every limb felt heavy.
She went to brush her teeth and that was when she saw it in the mirror.
Her shoulder.
"It was blue-black." Denise explained, "Like somebody beat meh!"
But she quickly convinced herself she must have hit it on something when she went to the outhouse earlier that morning.
That had to be it.
"I didn't tell grammah anyting about it," Denise insisted, "It din hurt, so I say is nuttin'."
The second night began almost exactly like the first.
The mattress went down beside the bed again. Her grandmother climbed in and soon enough the familiar whistle of her snoring filled the room.
Denise eventually drifted off.
Again, she dreamt of Rick.
This time he appeared outside her classroom holding a rose and a chocolate. The dream felt incredibly vivid... almost real. She could remember the way he smiled, the way the afternoon light fell across his face.
"I remember him handin' me de rose," Denise said, her eyes beaming. "Then he kiss me in front everybody."
Then her eyes fluttered awake.
At first she didn’t understand what had woken her. Then panic crept in.
"I did feel numb," Denise described, "Ah couldn't move ah inch! Ah couldn't even turn meh head."
And that was when she heard that sound.
Wet, slow and rhythmic.
Right beside her... so close it seemed to whisper directly into her ear.
Denise lay there frozen, listening. Unable to even cry out.
"An' it didn't want to stop," she recalled, "It song like how dem dog does song wen deh drinkin' water."
Under the hold of whatever shackles held her, she eventually drifted back off too sleep.
She dreamt again.
Rick.
This time they were sitting by a river while he read a poem aloud to her. Denise could no longer remember the words of the poem, but she remembered how deeply in love she felt in that moment.
Her grandmother was once again already awake when morning came.
"Denise!" her grandmother bellowed.
Denise woke suddenly, almost violently.
"I wake up one time," she claimed, "get up dotish an' meh eye feel like it swell up."
When she finally made it to the washroom, she screamed.
The bruise from the day before had grown.
It spread from her shoulder, stretching halfway down toward her elbow.
"Das wen I start tuh panic, wat if dis ting keep spreading?"
Her grandmother came immediately when she heard the scream.
Denise showed her the mark.
"Grammah squint she eye." Denise continued, “Den she tell me tuh go boil water and bring ah cloth."
She dipped the cloth in the warm water and gently pressed it against Denise’s shoulder.
In that moment, Denise told her everything.
About waking up. About being unable to move. About the wet sound she heard beside her in the dark.
Her grandmother’s face changed.
The warmth drained from it.
Quietly, the old woman said something with a straight face that made Denise’s stomach drop.
“Dat was Teresa from up de road... she is ah soucouyant.”
Denise stared at her.
Her grandmother continued, more serious now than Denise had ever seen her.
Lately, many villagers had been complaining about strange marks appearing on their bodies. Marks just like Denise’s.
"I start tuh wonder if she goin' mad," Denise remarked, "Or if I goin mad... because I couldn't believe wuh ah hearin'."
And then that sound from the night before replayed in her mind.
"I didn't want to take she on den eh," she confessed, "But wen yuh tink 'bout it, wuh else it could be?"
By the third night, Denise refused to sleep. She stayed awake, listening to her grandmother’s steady snores and thinking about everything the old woman had told her, and how easily she had said it.
Thinking about how she never had such vivid dreams before, and felt in control of everything she was doing.
And of course, at regular intervals, she thought of Rick.
The night passed without incident, and Denise swore she would never sleep there again.
"As de years pass, I does still always tink about it," Denise said, leaning back with sigh, "I never again gone through dat, so me eh know wat tuh tink nah."
Still, what can we make it all it all?
Maybe it was just a series of natural events that happened to coincide at the wrong time.
Or could it have been that one thing that was far stealthier? Something that had a way of summoning the ideal dream, thus ensuring the victim slept soundly while it drank its fill...........................................
Have you heard of similar stories? Share your thoughts in the comments below. 👇🏽
18/04/2026
đź“ś From My Archive: Obeah in Tobago Courts - 1991..............................
A moment where the rational world of justice collides head-on with belief, fear, and cultural undercurrents.
Names written on eggs, midnight rituals, and an alleged attempt to “reinforce mental control” over a trial. If nothing else, the article certainly is fascinating. ............................
Have you heard of similar stories? Share your thoughts in the comments below below👇🏽
Article: “Black Magic in Tobago Courts.” Trinidad Express Newspapers, 23 June 1991.
17/04/2026
🌿 The Exorcism: Chaguanas, 1980s - Extended Version................................
This account was pieced together from the recollections of Mrs. R. Nagoo, who spoke of an incident in a modest church during the nineteen eighties that refused to leave her thoughts. .................................
The tambourines stopped first. Then the drumming faltered and died.
Sunlight spilled into the cramped wooden house in Chaguanas, now serving as a church. On that Sunday morning, twenty worshippers broke from their rhythm, faces drawn toward the doorway.
Two elderly women appeared, guiding a young brown-skinned woman in a white nightie into the space. Her beauty was undeniable, but her expression was cold, her steps uneven. Murmurs rippled through the room.
The pastor, Pastor Myles, beckoned them forward, lifting his hand in welcome. Now Pastor Myles was young, sharp-eyed, and carried himself like a man already certain of his calling. The few followers he had managed held to him like disciples.
The old women eased her gingerly up through the gathering to the makeshift altar. Someone whispered, “She nuh lookin' too right.” Others muttered much darker theories.
Pastor Myles stepped forward, palm raised to her forehead. The girl flinched, her body flinched, lips curling back into a hiss.
“Get all de chiren out!” he said sharply. His voice cutting through the growing intensity in the room. “And de unbaptised too... now!”
The benches scraped, hurried feet shuffled. The girl’s eyes darted across the room, her chest heaving as something inside strained to burst free.
"Brothers an' sisters," Pastor Myles continued, "We battle not against flesh an' blood, but de forces of wickedness, come start tuh call out tuh God."
Pastor Myles narrowed his eyes onto the young woman and then spoke with fire.
"You are standin' on holy grounds, an' every knee will bow before him... tell me your name!"
The girl looked him dead in the eye with that cold expression, and just stared right back.
Pastor Myles went again.
"In de name dat is above every odda name... I command you tuh tell me your name!"
That’s when she fired back, yet the voice that came out of her was not hers. It was deep, cracked, weathered with age.
“You doh know meh name preacherman?”
The room froze. The air felt locked in place.
The man of God drew in a long breath, his helper at his side, the congregation behind them murmuring fervent prayers. The young woman, though, smiled. A smile too calm to be comforting.
"De God of Abraham, an' Isaac is commandin' you!" Pastor Myles insisted with authority. "Tell me your name!"
The girl's head snapped right toward the helper and whispered... "You know my name?"
The helper recoiled, eyes widening, fear briefly interceding her faith.
“Pray!” the preacher ordered.
The voices in the room rose in a broken chorus. The girl never blinked, just stared at him with eyes that now seemed to bleed tears at the edges.
He placed his hand upon her head. His helper stepped forward and joined him again, pressing down firmly.
Then the room seemed to rip apart.
She screamed.
The violent sound shook the walls, rolling from an inhuman growl into a shriek so high-pitched that some covered their ears in panic. And it wasn’t one voice... it might have been three. Grinding and twisting against each other, racing from her mouth like cries from an injured beast.
Somewhere mixed in was a tinge of laughter too distinct to ignore.
People stumbled over benches scrambling for the door. Others kept on clutching their ears, faces twisted in horror.
Pastor Myles stood firm, lips moving in scripture. His helper followed suit. The young woman thrashed once, then twice, before collapsing in a heap at their feet.
Silence.
She remained on the floor, her chest rising faintly, as Pastor Myles launched seamlessly into another sermon. Time dragged on before her eyes fluttered open again. When she looked up, the madness was gone.
"De gyirl get up ah different person yes." Mrs. Nagoo remarked. "Deh help she up an' she was lookin' good embarrassed. I feel ovah sorry fuh she. De devil hah so much people in dah kind ah bo***ge eh, buh God... God know wuh he doin'. He will never leave us nor fuhsake us, he will stand by our side."
That young woman left the church that day transformed. Light seemed to cling to her, and a smile softened the contours of her face. It was a far cry from the figure that stuttered through the doorway a few hours before.
And what do we make of it, if it is true?
Was it really some foul demon that had latched itself onto her?
Or was it merely the echoes of a fragile mind? A condition beyond our understanding perhaps... yet all too human.
The truth refuses to settle neatly into either explanation.
Curiously... in the end... she never told them her name. ........................................
Have you heard of any similar incidents? Share your thoughts in the comments below👇🏽
17/04/2026
🌿Shadow People - A Haunting in Princes Town (1990s) Extended Version..................................................
I sat with Michelle Ramcharan one afternoon, anticipating the unease to come. What she recounted had lingered with her since the 1990s, when she once called Princes Town home.................................................
"Me an' meh boyfrien' Sheldon did move een dis new apartment." Michelle began, "Big space, nice yard, nice rooms, tile-out. Everything was nice de first week eh, buh de week after is wen de chouble start."
One night, alone in bed while her boyfriend worked late, Michelle unexpectedly heard slow, dragging footsteps crossing the living room. The bedroom door was wide open, and beyond it the living room was a pool of blackness. She strained her eyes, trying to pierce that dark.
“Hello?” she called out.
Immediately the strange movement stopped.
Then silence... that high-pitched vacuous silence that would sometimes claw into your ear canals.
"I was 'fraid tuh move," she admitted. "Something was wrong... ah did jus' know it."
She stayed rooted in bed until Sheldon returned hours later, too terrified to move. When she told him, he brushed it off as nerves in a new place. But the tricks of her imagination, as he called them, only deepened.
The very next night she awoke drenched in sweat. Her clouded eyes immediately drifted toward the open door... and there, at the edge of her vision, stood a figure. A silhouette. Blacker than the black around it.
"I bawl-out an' Sheldon was nex' tuh me an' he wake up one time," Michelle confessed, "But de ting disappear same time. So yuh know he think ah was goin' mad... he din want tuh hear me."
The following night, that changed.
Michelle surfaced from a heavy sleep, her eyes snapping open to the silhouette of a tall, slender figure at the foot of the bed.
She tried to scream but no sound came. She tried to move but her body was pinned, rigid, as if under a blanket of lead. There, she was trapped in her own head for what felt like ages, her eyes locked on the uninvited visitor.
At some point, the distinct outline seemed to slowly swell, drawing closer, larger with every breath... the dread becoming almost tangible.
Desperate, she shut her eyes and recited a prayer, a haphazard scripture muttered against her teeth. It felt like a gamble, fearing her eyes would then open to a face leaning inches from her own.
But when she mustered the courage, she warily peeked, and the presence was gone.
When she could finally move, Michelle shook Sheldon awake.
He exploded this time, furious with what he thought was hysteria. He cursed as he got up, yet his rage bled into stillness. Michelle saw the colour drain from his face.
"He see it!" Michelle insisted, "He see it and freeze-up like he jus' geh slap!"
Through the open bedroom door, in the far corner of the living room, the lanky silhouette waited for Sheldon's eyes to adjust to it.
"Sheldon run een de livin' room yes," Michelle continued, eyes widening. "An' den he run back an' close de door. I never see him look so. He finally believe meh. Boy we gone an' move out ah dah place de day after. He wasn't stayin deh ah next night."
After leaving the apartment, neither Michelle nor Sheldon ever encountered anything of the sort again. It wasn’t until weeks later that a former neighbour confided in them accounts that would cast new light on the strange events.
"He say de landlord was always doin' all kind ah ritual in de night," Michelle whispered, concluding her story, "How he use tuh pray tuh ah black statue and sacrifice fowl an' ting... cyah say fuh sure eh, buh I feel dat is why dah spirit was roamin' rong inside deh."
Ultimately, the story leaves me suspended in doubt.
Were these incidents really a projection of the landlord's secretive acts, performed under the cloak of night?
Or could it be nothing more than the mind’s own conjuring?
As always, the verdict is left entirely to you my friend. ............................................
Have you heard of any similar stories? Share your thoughts in the comments below👇🏽
17/04/2026
đź“ś From My Archive: Man Who Lives The Legend of the Crucifix Fish - 43 Kids and Odd Hobby. (Erin, 1980s).........................................
This strange one was sourced from the Bomb, dated 14 July, 1987. It tells of a legend that not many know of... that of the "Crucifix Fish."
Here Alloy Ahyee, of Erin, was said to be one of the few men who owned some.
Did this have anything to do with him having multiple wives, and forty-three children? ........................................
Have you heard of this legend? Share your thoughts in the comments below👇🏽
🌿"A Monster in Human Form" - Mano Benjamin (Personal Accounts) Narrated by Lisa-Marie Monsegue-John ...................................................
ℹ️Reader Advisory: This piece contains disturbing descriptions of violence, exploitation, and abuse. It may be distressing for some readers. Discretion is strongly advised. ...................................................
There was a time when Mano Benjamin’s name did not need explanation. Like Boysie Singh, it was spoken as warning rather than history. Parents in the sixties and seventies used it to frighten children into obedience. To also expose them, perhaps, to the idea that the world was not safe, that monsters did not always live in stories..................................................
Long before he was branded “The Beast of Biche,” Mano Benjamin was known in Upper Laventille as “The Green Faced Man.” He was described as a tall, dark, muscular figure, with "jumbie eyes," and a voice so chilling it froze persons in their tracks.
Women reported waking in their bedrooms to find him standing over them. He violated them, then vanished. For months he evaded police, moving like a phantom through Laventille and Morvant.
His capture at that time came not through strategy or surveillance, but desperation. One of his victims recognised him and threw acid in his face. The police finally found him lying in a hospital bed, his face wrapped in bandages.
Benjamin later surfaced in Biche, working as a watchman at the quarry. There, fear followed him. Villagers described him as boastful, dangerous, never without a knife. He bragged about his skill as a knife thrower. He "limed" openly at a bar. Even the police, it was said, kept their distance.
He would eventually set his sights on two young sisters from Coalmine Village.
Lucieann and Dulcie Ramirez.
Lucieann and Dulcie were on their way home from school when Benjamin abducted them. Some would later debate whether the girls initially went with him willingly... a thought that feels obscene when weighed against what followed.
The sisters were held captive at his quarters at the quarry. What was done to them defies language.
They were beaten repeatedly. Tied. Tortured. One sister’s breast was mutilated, nearly severed with a knife. The other was cut from va**na to a**s and sewn back together with a "coco" needle and thread.
"Mano Benjamin performed surgery on those girls!" Ainsley Lucky insisted, using the word to describe the deliberate, methodical nature of the mutilations.
"He would then put pieces of flesh that he cut off and place in a cup of water overnight... then drink the concoction the next day."
They were also forced to march around the quarry at night, only to be shot with a pellet gun if they missed a step.
One eventually had her tongue cut out and her eyes gouged. The other survived with injuries so severe she could barely walk for the rest of her life.
Both women have now passed.
When Mano Benjamin was finally arrested, women poured into the streets to curse him in every language they knew. Many described him as barely human. Newspapers covered the case relentlessly, struggling, as the nation did, to process the scale of the brutality.
At sentencing, Justice Evan Rees did not mince words.
“I am sending you to prison because you are a bad man and I want to completely ostracise you from society. You are a monster in human form.”
Benjamin received thirty years.
But that was not the end of the story.
In prison, Mano Benjamin found religion. He became a Christian. He repented. And on that basis, he was released ten years early for good behaviour.
Yes. Released.
In one of the most unexpected twists of this story, it was the very judge who condemned him who later tried to help him reintegrate into society. Benjamin visited Rees after his release, who was by then the Ombudsman. Rees admitted he felt sorry for him, and believed he had a duty to assist him in securing housing.
Benjamin eventually settled in an abandoned World War II-era bunker along Erin Road, Cap-de-Ville, an area known as Gun Hill.
Fear returned.
Cap-de-Ville residents claimed that when Mano walked the streets, schoolchildren scattered. Taxi drivers refused to stop. His presence alone was enough to empty spaces.
Journalist Louis B. Homer would later interview him there at his home. Homer admitted he was “shaking in his boots” for the duration of the interview.
Benjamin complained bitterly about his treatment from the public.
"Fifteen years I come out of prison. I keepin' up with de law an' people still provokin' me." Mano would confess to Mr. Homer. "I go to de hospital in Sando an' de doctors an' nurses refuse to treat me. Ah losing meh sight, ah cyar hear good, but people still reportin' me to de police."
He denied those crimes entirely when asked by about them by Mr. Homer.
According to Benjamin, the police had framed him. The real perpetrator, he insisted, was still living in Biche.
Surprisingly, it was also reported that he entered a common-law relationship with an East Indian woman after his release. She would later throw boiling water on him after enduring repeated beatings at his hands.
In February 1998, Mano Benjamin was found dead in a semi-decomposed state at his home in Cap-de-Ville.
And that, officially, was that.
Some stories make you angry. They short-circuit reason. They test the limits of forgiveness, faith, and justice.
This is one of them.
Many believe Mano Benjamin did not receive the punishment his crimes demanded. That karma turned a blind eye. That justice failed... not only two sisters, but an entire nation haunted by what one man was capable of doing.
Others argue that he gave his life to Christ, and therefore became a changed man.
For many, that is an impossible pill to swallow.
The idea that repentance alone can soften the weight of such crimes feels less like mercy and more like mockery. It raises an uncomfortable question... where does redemption end, and accountability begin?
There are no satisfying answers, only an enduring discomfort. ..................................................
Have you heard of Mano Benjamin? Share your thoughts in the comments below👇🏽
* Much of this account draws from my interactions with my good friend Ainsley Lucky, Attorney-at-Law, and from numerous conversations over the years with the late, great Louis B. Homer. Additional details were gathered from residents of Cap-de-Ville. ...................................................
15/04/2026
🌿A Caregiver's Nightmare - Gopaul Lands, Marabella (1990s) - Extended Version. ..............................................
Geeta’s memory didn’t come out in order.
Sometimes she stopped mid-sentence, staring at her hands like they belonged to someone else. Other times, she rushed her words as though trying to outrun them.
What she described back in the nineties was nothing short of a nightmare...............................................
"It was in Gopaul Lands dis ting happen," Geeta began, "I get ah wock tuh take care of ah old lady in ah big-big house. She son was always workin', an' did need somebody tuh watch she cause she does forget who she is. Ah was cleanin' an' cookin', feedin' she, an' bathin' she... I was doin' everyting."
For a while, the job was uneventful. But then came that Divali night a few weeks later, when the neighbourhood roared alive with fireworks and firecrackers, sounds that dug into your chest. The blasts split the night with deep, thunderous shocks that fizzed through the darkness and rattled houses.
"Dah night," Geeta continued, "When dem rocket gone up de fourt' or fif' time, ah start to hear ah knockin' in tanty room. An' same time I start tuh feel like de house get heavy."
She followed the noise, pushed open the door... only to see the woman down on all fours, her lips curled back, an ungodly growl rumbling from her figure.
Geeta's jaw dropped, as she found herself rooted to the spot.
"Ah was ketchin' meh nennen tuh breathe," Geeta confessed, "I doh know how ah din fall d**g flat right deh."
At once the old woman rose, standing as though nothing had happened. She brushed past a trembling Geeta and went into the kitchen, sitting on a chair with her eyes blank, her body still as stone. But when the next round of explosions split the air, the old woman was at it again.
"Ah scratch bomb buss," Geeta insisted, "an tanty drop d**g on de grong again an' start tuh growl like ah dog... an' de 'oman eye did gone up een she head!"
Then, with a burst of movement, she sprang onto the counter, clawing her way up onto the overhead cabinets with unnatural ease.
"Is how tanty move like spiderman up de wall," she explained, "Ah say Lord fadda... ah cyah handle no more."
Geeta’s voice shook as she recalled it. The sound of her own scream still rang in her ears, the panic that sent her fleeing barefoot out the house, locking the door behind her.
There, she could hear the old woman inside, scurrying across the walls and furniture... that low growl rising now and then into a long, uneasy moan.
"I wouldn't lie, ah rell cry," Geeta continued, "Ah start tuh ask God tuh cover meh... an fuh dah 'oman nuh tuh dead inside deh."
When the son returned hours later, he found Geeta sitting in the driveway, pale and trembling. She poured out her story, but he only nodded grimly.
"He tell me he bring all kinna doctor an' preacher an' pundit tuh help she, buh nothin' wock. Nobody did know wuh tuh do."
Geeta never went back. She left the job that very morning. Still, the old woman’s blank eyes remained with her, as did the menacing memory of how she moved.
“Some people say de scratch bomb an' rocket does bring out spirit.” Geeta whispered, her gaze drifting away. "But meh daughter tell meh de noise must be make she go mad... but how de jail you guh go mad an' run-up de wall so?... Eh?... Dat doh make no blasted sense!”
And so, in the wake of Geeta’s tale, the images linger. The questions, of course, begin to crawl out.
Was it the unravelling of a dying mind?
Possibly.
But what about the inhuman way the old woman carried herself?
Some suggest that it may have been the cruel machinations of some foul entity. A liberated demon that manifested itself in ways we cannot fully comprehend.
Answers, if they exist at all, remain out of reach. .....................................
Have you heard of similar stories? Share your thoughts in the comments below. 👇🏽
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