Once I’m through, I’m no longer in Menlyn Park. Instead, I’m standing on the platform of the Gautrain station in Hatfield. The ever-present green fog obscures the platform. Darkness still reigns over this unusual dream, even here in a different segment of my psyche. The sleek bullet-shaped train stands in the field of fog, waiting for non-existent passengers.
Click.
Terrified, I board the Gautrain without a ticket.
The doors slide shut as I survey the compartment. All it holds are human-shaped silhouettes. Faces don’t stare back at me, but from the prickles on my neck I sense someone or something watching me.
The Gautrain pulls away without a sound. The fog thickens but does not rise.
A solitary shadow figure shifts in its seat, a clear indication for me to sit. Social convention comes into play at this point.
I take the offered seat and thank the male silhouette.
He nods back and goes on with whatever it is fictitious shadow people do.
I look around the compartment, still searching. For what, I don’t know, but it’s important I find it.
An uneasy quietness fills the train as the benign shadow people sit motionless in their seats and stare into space. Outside, the black canvas of nothingness stretches on forever.
I fumble with my hands in my lap, my gaze darting around the compartment for the elusive creature. Nothing. I’m safe, for now.
If only I could wake up.
No, I need to find what I’m looking for.
The train slows down until it comes to a complete stop in the Pretoria station. Silhouettes stand and exit the Gautrain in single file. My neighbour sits tight. Nobody and nothing boards here. Soon, we’re moving again but the scenery never changes and the fog never dissipates.
“Excuse me,” I ask the shadow man beside me.
He slowly turns his attention from the window.
“Do you, perchance, know what I’m looking for?”
He shakes his head, bit by bit.
“Thank you.” Trying was worth a shot. What harm could it do?
A few minutes pass before the train rolls into the Centurion station. This time my neighbour stands up, nods my way in greeting, and exits the train along with more shadow people. Nobody boards.
The motions repeat station after station until I’m the single occupant of the Gautrain.
When the last stop comes up, Park, I decide to get off. What use is it sitting on a train that doesn’t go anywhere?
The doors slide open and I walk out, only to end up right back in the Menlyn Park parking lot where the gravestones are still enveloped in green fog, black night and utter loneliness.
Obscenities echo back in my own voice, repelled by the concrete and stone pillars.
Click.
It’s not hidden somewhere ahead, as I had hoped, but behind me. Near me.
Click.
Its breath tickles the nape of my neck. I can’t escape, even if I run.
Click.
My courage wavers. I’ve been made a fool. This hunt is over. It’s been over before it began. I know this now.
Claws wrap around my arms.
My pulse races, my hands sweat, my body does not answer my requests to run or fight.
I’m spun around to face the creature haunting my nightmare; a creature that’s neither bird nor beast. It’s a man, but not a man per se. Feathers cover his entirety. Hands and feet aren’t hands or feet, but claws. Shark-like teeth fill his mouth. His captivating ochre eyes stare at me with predatory malevolence.
My legs give in from fear. He keeps me upright with ease, and says without moving his lips: What a pretty little thing you are.
He leans in until our lips almost touch. He sucks the air right out of my lungs.
My diaphragm deflates. My body aches. My lungs are burning from abuse. I’m trembling. I’m dying.
“Stop!” I manage weakly, looking into malicious, demonic eyes that are too close for comfort.
He doesn’t release his hold on me, but pulls away far enough so I can take a lungful of air.
“Please.”
Stop! Please. The creature mimics my voice effortlessly, and cackles again.
The green fog comes alive, swirling and twirling, growing as it surrounds us in a funnel. The hideous being leans closer to my ear, hot breath blowing against my neck. A single claw drags its way down my throat and plays at the edge of my corset. Run. Hide. But know, Him watches you always.
The creature suddenly releases me and I stumble to my knees. The green fog slams into my face. I’m blinded by the neon green tinge. It chokes me with the toxicity of mustard gas. It forces its way down into my throat before settling in my lungs. Wave-like crashes deafen me as the fog searches for entry at any other viable orifices. Once, twice, thrice, the fog slams down.
I’m heavy and sluggish and there’s no escape, no matter where I turn or how much I thrash.
I stifle a whimper as I bolt upright on a strange bed in a strange room.
No.
My hands tremble as my gaze darts from corner to corner, floor to ceiling, in search of the creature that terrorised my dream.
It’s my bed in my room, and nothing’s out of its place. I inhale deeply, press my palm against my chest to calm my fluttering heartbeat, and take a few moments to gather myself.
It’s just a nightmare. It’s just a nightmare. It’s just a nightmare. I think the mantra until I’ve convinced myself I’m no longer stuck in my own mind.
Dawn trickles into my bedroom through the uncovered window. The indigo sky is being pushed into submission and a pinkish haze takes its place. Cornflower blue is hot on the dusty pinks’ heels. Soon, the sun will emerge from its slumber, cutting through the remaining darkness with magnificent oranges and sunburst yellows. A new day approaches, unaffected by the wiles and woes of mankind.
When the dream recedes into the back of my mind, I gently lift my weight off the bed and head to the kitchen barefoot.
I switch the kettle on, unarm the alarm system and unlock the door. I step outside and look out on my yard.
Apart from a single loquat tree in the corner, spilling its fruits onto the grass, there isn’t much of a view. There’s birdsong, of course, but their songs are off-key today. A bad omen, if my experiences are enough proof to go by. The breeze blowing through the valley is hardly enough to cool the sweat on my neck. Even now with sunrise barely taking root, the weather is intolerable.
Another hot day is coming. Oh joy.
I ache all over from Rochester Ramphele’s assault, but the pain reminds me I’m alive.
My cheekbone throbs were his fist had connected with my face, my left kidney feels tender to the touch, but other than the few scrapes and bruises I sustained, I’m perfectly fine. He got off way worse than I did. Mosepi texted me Ramphele’s injuries: two broken ribs, a broken nose, and seventeen stitches to his face and head. Being sued for assault is a possibility but I doubt he’d win the case if it even got to court. One can hope.
The kettle clicks off loudly, startling me. My nightmare has caused more damage than I thought. No. It’s not the nightmare making me jumpy, I decide.
I make my way back into the kitchen, wary of anything out of the ordinary. My gaze flick around the room, scanning across the dishrack where a couple of clean mugs and a plate have been left out, across the kitchen table where an empty fruit bowl sits beside the kerosene lamp I use whenever Eskom implements load-shedding, across the closed cupboards and drawers that houses a myriad of kitchenware. Nothing is out of place, yet my paranoia is not unfounded. There’s an undeniable oppressiveness in the air, a malevolent presence of some sort. I feel it prickling on the back of my neck.
There hadn’t been time for me to investigate the recent strange occurrences in my house. There’s never enough time. Still, as I walk to the kettle to fill my caffeine need, I realise putting an investigation of my own house on hold might not have been the wisest decision.
A loud crash resonate
s from my bedroom.
I spin around to face the hallway, fearful of another unwanted encounter sneaking up on me. Nothing stirs for some time.
With the back door still open behind me, I consider the variables. A slight gust might have slipped into the house, winded through the hallway and into my bedroom and knocked something over.
Perhaps. Improbable, but maybe.
I move towards the hallway, cautious and silent.
I reach the door and peer around the corner.
My heart races, my breathing becomes shallow, fear curdles the gastric juices in my empty stomach.
Looking similar to church pews, the morning after a big rugby game, the corridor is empty. I consider calling Howlen then for backup but I forgot my cell phone on my nightstand.
I slip into the gloom with one shoulder pressed against the cool wall. The only light comes from my bedside lamp at the farthest end of the corridor. Focusing on the strip of light, I place one foot in front of the other. Slowly, ever so slowly, I make it past the spare bedroom which acts as a home office-slash-library. Further on, I pass the bathroom where knock-off Italian tiles and taps gleam. Another bedroom across the hallway, the guest bedroom, stands silently with its door closed. That door is always closed; I don’t know why I prefer it like this.
My bedroom is a few steps away but I pause. Listening, waiting, I keep watch of the yellow light in the open door. Some gut feeling keeps me from approaching.
A shadow flickers across the floor, moving with such speed it could’ve easily been a trick of the eye. Uniting in terror, my heart stops beating for a second, I suppress a scream as my throat constricts my vocal cords, and an adrenaline shock runs through my body.
Do I run away like a normal, rational human being? No, I do not. I tell myself to calm down. I rationalise the fleeting shadow as a creation of my overactive imagination. I’d like to think myself inventive enough to come up with something better than shadows though.
Courage, but mostly curiosity, spurs me onward.
I scan the ceiling. Then my gaze drops to eye-level, and I gasp.
Crudely shredded strips of fabric—once being a duvet, bedsheets, curtains, and even my designer clothing—are strewn across the floor. Feathers lie lifelessly wherever they fell, after something with vicious claws ripped through my pillows. The crash originated from my dressing table being thrown across the room and into my wardrobe. The force used to accomplish this broke the dressing table into pieces and left the wardrobe doors hanging precariously from their hinges.
Nothing but pure, unadulterated hatred could’ve incited the devastation I behold.
Rushing forward, ignoring the splinters stabbing into my bare feet, I grab and tear and search through the debris for my cell phone. Whatever’s penetrated my house is still here, watching—biding its time for whatever nefarious task it’s been summoned to perform. I feel its watchful, patient gaze, and I fear it. Oh, how I fear it.
By the time I see a glint of hard plastic tucked between the mattress and nightstand, I’m trembling so much I can’t operate the damn thing. My fingers keep slipping across the touch-screen, dialling incoherent numbers.
“Fuck,” I growl, annoyed with how technology has devolved to make it almost impossible for a distraught person to make a call in an emergency.
Eventually I dial Howlen’s number. His phone is ringing when I push the cell phone against my ear.
“Esmé,” he answers, wide awake.
I revert to speaking in Afrikaans even though my family predominantly speaks English now.
“I don’t understand you, May,” Howlen says.
“Come over,” I blurt out, desperate. “Please.”
Chapter 19
The correct name of the dumping site is the Ollie Deneyschen Tunnel, although locals simply refer to it as the Daspoort Tunnel.
According to high school history teachers in the area, who sometimes touch the subject of local history, the late councillor A.P. Deneyschen had commissioned the tunnel in the late 1960s, after realising the Iscor mineworkers who resided in Hercules travelled a long way to work. The tunnel was thus built, connecting Claremont and Danville, to shorten their journey. It took forty months to complete, cost R1.7 million to build, and was officially opened to the public by the then Mayor of Pretoria, Mr. G.J. Malherbe, on 10 August 1972. With a length of 537 meters and a width of 11.6 meters, the Daspoort Tunnel handles almost six thousand vehicles per day.
Even though he knew them by heart, these details are inconsequential to the killer.
The most relevant fact concerns the Daspoort Tunnel’s ventilation shaft.
Positioned in the middle of the tunnel, the shaft measures approximately 4.57 meters in diameter, and runs about fifty-five meters between the tunnel and the top of the mountain.
Without the shaft someone can succumb in this carbon monoxide funnel. With it, though, the killer can get to work on making a name for himself…globally.
As he pushed the half-rusted wheelbarrow across the rocky terrain, Abraham Amin’s stiff corpse shifted position. Abraham’s entrails didn’t spill, but he grew tired of balancing the bastard on one wheel the whole time. The steep incline of the mountain didn’t help either. Nevertheless, he kept moving, kept racing against the rising sun, ignoring his burning shins and calves and thighs.
The thick, long bungee cord, acquired online, was coiled tightly and placed atop Abraham’s leaking corpse. Shit and gore had already seeped between the fibres of the cord, defiling the expensive purchase.
C’est la vie, he thought.
Skeletal trees, with next to no foliage, moved by as the wheelbarrow rolled up the mountain. Past boulders and rocks, over gravelly dirt, around mini bluffs, and up he went. His body protested when the wheelbarrow was parked near the ventilation shaft, even if the whole drive, manoeuvring, and climb lasted less than fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.
He looked around, searching for any witnesses. Squatters, the homeless, and criminals frequented the area, as he well knew. With nobody in sight, he pulled his backpack off his shoulders and went to work hammering hooks into various predetermined places around the shaft.
The sun rose. Traffic buzzed from either side of the mountain. Time was running out. When everything was in place, he found the harness in his backpack and walked back to the wheelbarrow. Then he wrestled to get it onto Abraham’s body, rigor mortis making everything more difficult. Next, he pushed the wheelbarrow closer and hooked the bungee cords on to the harness.
Slick with sweat, he strapped Abraham into position. He couldn’t care less if he left DNA evidence behind. Leaving behind evidence wasn’t a major concern when his ultimate goal was to be found. Of course, he wanted to be found on his terms.
Esmé would need all the help she could get. Not that his DNA would get her anywhere. He pinned a hastily scrawled note to Abraham’s shirt which would hopefully inspire her to stop fucking around and play along.
“Come on, Abe,” he groaned, grabbing hold of Abraham’s arm, and lifting him over his shoulder.
Careful not to get tangled up in the cords, he dropped Abraham’s corpse near the edge of the shaft, before straightening up the area. Untangled cords were checked over one final time. Tangled cords were quickly sorted out because the aesthetics of the scene would be ruined if Abraham didn’t fall exactly right. The backpack was packed up and pulled on, before he hid the wheelbarrow in some underbrush a short walk away.
When he returned, his gaze lingered on Abraham for a while. Glazed-over eyes stared back, judging him even from the afterlife.
“Oh, Abraham, I really don’t appreciate your gravely admonishments,” he said, looking at his wristwatch. 07:06 a.m. “Perfect.”
With a scuffed boot, he nudged Abraham closer to the edge, centimetre by centimetre, until a last mighty shove would do the trick. “Auf wiedersehen, Herr Amin.”
The only sign of his success was the muted chaos that ensued.
Abraham Amin’s killer walked back the way
he came, unbothered by an instinctive urge to flee the scene. Brakes screeched. Fast moving metal collided against fast moving metal. Glass shattered. Vehicles honked. Then silence, a momentous quiet between tragedy and realisation. It stretched on beautifully. Then the screams started.
And it was the most glorious sound he had ever heard.
Chapter 20
I sit amidst the wreckage of my room plucking through the contents of my underwear drawer.
“Every single piece of lace clothing I own is gone.” I giggle hysterically as I throw cotton lingerie—the unattractive ones women wear when the laundry’s piled neck-high—over my shoulder. “Every goddamn G-string, gone.” I look to where Howlen stands staring at the destruction. “It’s hilarious,” I say.
“What happened in here? What happened to you?” Howlen takes a step forward, but hesitates. “Jesus, what happened to your face, May?”
“Oh, you know, an unseen preternatural entity decided to turn my bedroom into its lair. The perverted fucker, seemingly, also has a thing for lace underwear.” I glower at the ceiling, as if whatever did this lives up there. It quite possibly does live in the space between the roof and the ceiling but I can’t be certain until I actually grow a pair and investigate. “As for what happened to me, my face, and whatever else might not look especially rouge noir as usual, well, I almost got killed because of you. I told you to shut up, but did you listen? Nope.”
“Are you okay?”
“Do I look even remotely okay?” I ask, lying back into the fabric and feather nest. “I ache all over. I’ll probably be slammed with a lawsuit because I beat the living shit out of the guy who tried to shoot me. I’m tired and I’m also now sharing my house with God knows what. Not to mention, you basically dumped me last night via text message. It’s really the least of my problems, I know, but your timing needs improvement.” Sighing, I pushed myself onto my elbows. “On the upside, my shoes survived. I would have been inconsolable if they’d been…” I gesture to the room around me. “You know?”
“I was under the impression you’d spoken with Father Gabriel over this entity long ago.”
Muti Nation Page 11
