In this week's post, I am sharing the short story I wrote over the past few months. It was inspired by the legend of Šulak (pronounced shoo-lak), the so-called demon of the privy. I encourage you to look at the Šulak Wikipedia page after reading the story to learn more about the history of the legend. This was my first short story attempt, so I definitely learned a lot throughout the writing process. I hope you enjoy it!
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It was small—crammed really—but cozy. A sliver of a house nestled between hundreds of others just like it. The townhouse: a bastard child of an architect and efficiency. 40% of a single-detached for 80% of the cost. Sami and his mother’s townhouse sat just inside the outskirts of the city. Not in the shimmering suburbs with its repressed condescension or the vibrant city center with its towering ostentation—but the dense, sticky middle. The kitchen and eating area dominated the first floor, save a tiny corner near the front window where Sami and his mother would share a ratty armchair and watch TV. The second floor wasn’t any more spacious, with the townhouse’s only bathroom squeezed in between Sami and his mother’s bedrooms. A narrow hallway extended from the top of a weathered hardwood staircase, constricting the upstairs rooms. The passage ended in a windowless dead-end wall painted a sickly yellow. There is a fine line between coziness and claustrophobia.
It had been about a year since Sami and his mother moved into the townhouse. Sami's mother was a nurse at the only hospital in the district, which, unfortunately for her, was located on the other side of town. Plagued by erratic shift scheduling and the hour-long bus commute, Sami's mother was stuck leaving for work very early or arriving home quite late. As such, Sami would see his mother at breakfast and, on rare occasions, just as he was going to bed, or Sami would walk to school by himself in the morning and then see his mother at dinnertime. Sami, falling into routine with unconscious ease as children do, wasn’t fazed by his mother’s varying schedule. But Sami’s mother worried about the effect her perpetual absences were having on him. Sami had always been a pitiful child: slight, seemingly ragged, and having wide, heart-melting brown eyes. Sami’s mother tried her best to make sure that Sami always felt happy and safe—working these crazy hours a necessary evil to that end—but the last thing she wanted was for Sami to feel neglected or lonely.
Sami's mother, already prone to fits of nervous energy, was further worn down by a disordered sleep schedule. Being a light sleeper, it was hard enough for Sami’s mother to fall asleep on a good night. Mismatched shifts that forced her to go to bed at 8 PM one evening and 2 AM a few nights later certainly didn't help the issue. Sami's mother tried to use every moment efficiently, working tirelessly to get to bed as early as she could. She would bolt to and from work, cut out eating breakfast, even pre-make dinners for the week—but even then, it seemed like she would always end up in bed hours after she wanted to. Making matters worse was a nettlesome late-night habit of Sami’s. Almost every evening Sami would drink a large glass of water and, invariably, wake up hurrying to the bathroom in the middle of the night. The rush of water through the bathroom pipes, conveniently adjacent to her bedroom wall, would jolt Sami’s mother awake night after night. Once roused, Sami’s mother would often toss and turn for hours, struggling to fall back into the same deep sleep.
Sami’s mother had spoken with Sami many times about his late-night routine. She suggested drinking less, peeing an extra time before bed, or even just refraining from flushing the toilet or opening the faucet—but Sami had refused every one of her suggestions. One morning, after yet another night of bleary-eyed stares at the bedroom ceiling, Sami’s mother was burnt out. As she and Sami sat down for breakfast, she decided to take a different tack in convincing Sami to give up this habit—no, this vice—of his.
Sami’s mother puttered around the kitchen, turning to smile at her son. “Good morning, Sami! Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, mama,” Sami replied, climbing into a chair and resting his face in his hands.
“I must say, you’re a very lucky boy,” Sami’s mother said, handing him a bowl of cereal. “I get so nervous when I hear you walking around at night. I’m afraid you’ll meet the Šulak.”
Sami warily raised a spoon of milk-soaked Cheerios to his mouth. “What’s a Šulak?”
“You’ve never heard of the Šulak?” Sami’s mother put her hand to her mouth in mock surprise. “Šulak is an old Babylonian legend. It speaks of a demon that strikes when little boys are in the wrong places at night—which is why I always worry when you use the bathroom.”
Sami’s eyes widened with fear.
“No one quite knows what the Šulak looks like,” Sami’s mother continued, figuring that she might as well fully commit to the bit if she wanted this ruse to work. “Some say that it looks like a lion, towering on two legs; others say that it is little more than a formed shadow, with long, gnarled fingers and piercing, yellow eyes.” Sami’s mother kissed his forehead. “But luckily Šulak seems to have left you alone. It must know that you’re a good boy. Now hurry up and eat your breakfast; you don’t want to be late for school.”
Judging by the unusually quiet and jittery way Sami got ready for school, Sami’s mother hoped that her story had done its job.
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As the sun set, Sami prayed that his mother would get home before he fell asleep. On nights when she got home late, Sami, floating in half-sleep, would sometimes hear her slowly open his bedroom door and softly mouth a kiss in his direction. It was little things like that that made Sami feel safe in the tumult of their overgrown neighbourhood. Eyeing the dusky orange horizon, Sami nervously finished his perfunctory glass of water and dove into bed. Huddled under the sheets in his slowly darkening bedroom, Sami resolved to stay awake until he heard his mom arrive home. As valiantly as he tried, after an hour or so of fidgeting, Sami drifted off into an uneven slumber.
Sometime in the depths of night, a familiar feeling caused Sami to stir—he had to use the bathroom. Sami blinked wearily, pushing off his bedsheets and squinting at the hazy grey shadow of his room. He suddenly froze. What about the Šulak? Sami wasn’t sure that he believed in monsters but didn’t want to take any chances. He squirmed uncomfortably for a few minutes, trying to ignore the fullness of his bladder, before falling back into a fitful sleep.
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Sami flinched in his half-dreams. He felt as if a hole was burning through his lower abdomen. He groaned inwardly and unconsciously jumped out of bed, sprinting into the bathroom and sitting on the toilet, sighing with relief. The bathroom was a claustrophobe’s worst nightmare. The toilet and sink sat neck-to-neck, both chipped in several places and stained a dirty yellow that appears only after years of neglect and never washes off. Directly across the two appliances, much closer than it should have been, sat a small shower-bath. The blue-green squiggle-patterned plastic shower curtain fought unsuccessfully to brighten the compact space. A dingy window, situated on the only wall not occupied by an amenity or door, didn’t help much either; it had been painted shut, with a film of dirt rebuffing any attempts by the sun to befriend those inside.
Sami’s pain dissipating, he drowsily looked up from his toilet perch, the gloomy shower curtain gliding into his field of vision. As if in a trance, he began tracing the curtain’s patterned blue-green dotted squiggles with his eyes; they swam all over the plastic veil like a million spotted snakes. Sami slowly made his way up the curtain, the pattern looping left, then twisting up, then curving right, then slithering towards the top, where four charcoal-stained streaks interrupted his reverie.
A chill surged through Sami’s body—as if his veins had frozen over. With the pendulous inevitability accompanying moments of absolute terror, Sami was helpless to do anything but continue his gaze upward. Shrouded in the phosphorescence of faraway streets and the waning moon, a pair of four thick, dark fingers curled over the plastic shower rod—as striking of a juxtaposition against the blue-green shower curtain as lightning across the night sky. Sami’s lips gaped in a soundless shriek as a sharp, ovular shape rose over the curtain rod like a grotesque of the sun over the horizon.
The mass appeared monstrous and bulbous—a nearly three-foot misshapen patchwork of varying shades of scarlet and black, beset by a perverted dreamcatcher of entwined scar-like ridges. As silent tears streamed down Sami’s face, the small part of his brain not paralyzed by fear deemed this mass to be a head. The giveaway was what appeared to be the creature’s eyes: two glistening yellow bulbs—for there was no word to describe the colour of these would-be eyes but a blazing, burning, highlighting yellow—rooted in sunken eerie black sockets. Painstakingly, the head made its way over the curtain rod, the shadowy shape from which it seemed to protrude from remaining indistinct in the low light.
Sami’s mind fixated on two things as the bogey, still clenching the shower rod with its dark fingers, loomed over his pathetic child-body planted on the toilet. The first came to Sami’s attention when what he had previously thought was a flap of loose skin peeled back to expose a thicket of crooked, skeletal teeth—sallow and stained in contrast to the creature’s blazing eyes. The fang-filled maw slowly and crudely took the form of a depraved grimace. Sami’s stomach tightened as if crushed into a small, dense lump by inner hands. Panic spread from his stomach to his arms, legs, hands, chest, face—like gastric acid had leaked out into the rest of his body—as if the papery lining of the stomach, the only thing keeping his terror in check, had been breached. Sami’s second fixation reverberated through his head as he finally felt an audible screech escape his shrivelled throat: the thing had no ears.
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Sami’s mother woke to the melodious twitter of songbirds outside her window. Squinting at the burgeoning sunlight, she fumbled for her phone, twisting in beige sheets as she stretched to her nightstand. Sami’s mother rarely set an alarm on days she started work late—Sami’s nighttime commotions serving as an unwelcome, yet effective, wake-up call. She looked at her phone—8:35AM. Sami’s mother gawked disbelievingly at the time. Most days, she would drag her zombified body out of bed around 6:30 AM, fed up pleading with herself to fall back asleep. Last night she didn’t even remember tossing and turning. Wow, my story must have worked! Sami’s mother rolled out of bed, hastily donning a ratty white robe hanging on the hook affixed to her bedroom door. I better go wake up Sami. He’s going to be late for school! She had no sooner opened her bedroom door when Sami darted by, dressed, backpack in hand, and yelling, “Bye Mom, I’m gonna walk to school today!” Startled by Sami’s abrupt exit, Sami’s mother called after him, “Okay! Be safe! Love you!” Still a bit taken aback by the morning’s unexpected turn of events, Sami’s mother was almost unsure what to do. Energized by a rare good night of sleep and an equally beneficial self-sufficient child, she contented herself by brewing a warm cup of tea. Sitting at the chintzy kitchen table, she dipped a frosted scone in her mug and listened to the morning clamour of honking traffic and chattering neighbours. The idyllic sense of normality it brought revitalized Sami's mother almost as much as the good night of sleep.
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Sami eyed the egg yolk sun as it dripped below the horizon. It leered at him, taunting with its portent of darkness. Sami did not remember much of the previous night; he had woken up just before dawn shivering and plastered in an unholy sweat. Flashes of blazing yellow slashed through his head, exacerbating the tight, leaky feeling in the pit of his stomach. He recalled going to the bathroom during the night but not leaving his room. Sami had quietly gotten ready for school with the rising sun, attempting to quell his frayed nerves and hollow spirit. Rubbing from his cheeks the salty remnants of tears he did not remember, all Sami wanted to do was sink into his mother’s arms. But thinking back to how visibly exhausted she had been in recent weeks, he chose to let her sleep. Sami tried to rush out the door as quickly as possible so she wouldn’t see his state of distress. At school, Sami could barely focus. He gazed out the window at the untouchable azure sky, desperately racking his brain for what had struck him into such a state.
Now, as Sami prepared for bed, watching the trees’ crooked shadows creep up the wall outside his bedroom window, he concluded that he was suffering from the aftereffects of a particularly bad dream. What else could it be? Like every child, Sami had suffered nightmares before, not enjoying them, but accepting them as one of the unfortunate consequences of growing up. Sami was excited to become a grownup so that he wouldn’t have nightmares anymore. Sami once asked his mother if she ever had bad dreams, and she said that even if she had nightmares, she was always so tired that she slept right through them. That always fascinated Sami, being so weighed down with exhaustion that you slept through sleep. Sami had always been a fitful sleeper—especially since moving into the townhouse. There was rarely a quiet moment in their neighbourhood. Distant shouts from the streets, the steady pulse of music from a neighbour, sirens; Sami would hear them all as he lay in his bed, slipping in and out of consciousness.
Sami’s most common nightmare was his mother getting taken away. They would be out together on the street, holding hands amidst a crush of people, then, in an instant, the crowd would turn, encircling them and screaming at Sami for something he had done or didn’t do or was about to do. Sami and his mother would hold on tightly to each other as the throng pressed in. Then Sami would close his eyes and abruptly realize that his hands were empty. His mother was gone, carried away atop the horde of men. Sami would usually wake up at this point, clutching at his blanket and screaming. His mother would hear his cries and come to rub his back, reassuring him that it was just a dream. Sami hated nightmares, but there was something different about the way last night affected him. A feeling of violation had penetrated his being. A feeling that still pricked up the hairs on his neck every now and then with a flash of yellow. Terrible as they were, Sami questioned whether a mere nightmare could have caused this.
Shrouded in fading half-light, Sami donned his plaid-blue pyjama set and tucked himself into bed. Sami couldn't articulate why, but he was terrified at the prospect of a late-night bathroom visit. He had even sworn off liquids after he got home from school. Eyes hollow and open, Sami couldn’t shake the creeping sense of dread that lay in the shadows of his room like a dank fog. He tossed and turned in a half-awake trance for what seemed like hours, imagined remembrances of yesterday's ordeal twisting in and out of genuine memories. Sami thought about his mom: how much he missed her when he ate dinner alone; how proud she was when he made her that birdhouse for Mother’s Day (despite having nowhere to hang it); how he would lie in bed listening to her cry on nights she thought he’d already fallen asleep. Sami waded through a land of sharp shadows and uncertain movements. He skipped slowly from thought to thought, careful not to disturb the room's stillness. In this manner, Sami lay wanly, until, betrayed by his own body, a familiar feeling began to percolate below his stomach. A wave of guilt washed over Sami—he had been extra careful not to drink before bed. Droplets of shame escaped from under his eyelids. Sami tried so hard to be good, but he always ended up letting people down.
Sami folded back his sheets tremulously and landed gently on the scuffed hardwood floor. With shallow breaths and small, controlled steps he advanced past his bedroom door. Sami kept a painstaking silence. He tiptoed over each creaky floorboard—having unconsciously memorized the soundless path down the hall. The bathroom door floated ajar, beckoning. Sami tiptoed into the bathroom’s dusky glow. The ethereal chipped sink stood forbiddingly, with the white-rimmed, oval mirror above offering a sinister reflection of the shady shower curtain. Sami directed his gaze downward as he snuck past but couldn’t resist. Instinctually he was compelled to look at the shower. The misty veil and its avowed concealment hovered like a phantom in the low light. Sami could almost swear that the rippled plastic was swaying to some occult wind and that tearing back the curtain would reveal a dark portal to strange, abominable places. No fear is more ancient and terrible than that of the unknown.
Sami gulped, shuffling out of his paralysis and deeper into the bathroom. He shoved down his pyjama pants and sank onto the toilet. Clenching his eyes shut to avoid staring at the shower curtain opposite him, Sami chanted in his head: there’s nothing here; there’s nothing here; there’s nothing here. Sami swayed from side to side as if teetering on the edge of a precipice. As if he had stumbled up a rocky hill rife with crevices and dancing spectres and now stood at the top, overlooking his destination—whatever that was. Why had he travelled to the top? Was it too late to turn away? Too late to head back? Would he unclench his eyes and find himself already falling? Sami choked back gasping breaths, struggling to contain his terror.
All at once, Sami realized he had finished. He slowly raised his chin, eyelids parting in synchronistic repulsion. Sami’s heart thrashed spastically in his chest like an umbrella yanked away and tossed about by the wind. He exhaled sharply. An inky rectangle filled the space between the shower rod and the ceiling. Nothing more. Staring at the vacant darkness, Sami felt a strange sense of relief. Like he had escaped some horrific fate.
Pulling up his pyjama pants, Sami crept to the sink to wash his hands. His eyes rose to meet his gaze in the mirror as he reached for the tap. Sami’s focus shifted to the reflected shower curtain as he noticed a peculiar gleam over its rod. Squinting at the mirror, the gleam sharpened into two white orbs. In the center of each sat a nickel-sized obsidian dot, embedded in an arabesque-like squall of razor-thin tributaries that zigzagged through the glistening white like red lightning. The orbs seemed to hang in the air—independent of body, reason, or intention. Sami was transfixed. Beyond the orbs—framing them—a silhouette materialized. Sami felt dizzy. The room began to pinwheel in his head. He couldn’t move. The shape shifted in the darkness. A tugging discomfort pulled about Sami’s midsection. Then the dark prevailed.
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Sami’s mother woke with a start. The day was still. Dust motes drifted haphazardly through the air, creating a second-rate milky way over the sun rays streaming through the bedroom window. Absent from the morning scene was the songbirds' usual trills. They had already flown back to their lofty nests to tend their chicks. Sami’s mother reached for her phone—9:52 AM. Geez, I sure slept in. Sami? Sami’s mother wrapped herself in her robe and strode to Sami’s room, his open door revealing a blanket-strewn empty bed. Sami’s mother frowned anxiously, worrying as mothers are wont to do, but the memory of Sami trying to leave without notice yesterday reassured her. I have to talk with Sami when he gets home. I should start setting an alarm too. But I need to tell him to wake me if I sleep in on these afternoon shift days. I barely see him on days I work as it is.
Sami’s mother sighed as she plodded down the stairs to the kitchen. Today would be her third afternoon shift in a row—meaning that she would leave for work around noon and usually return just before 2 AM. Maybe I’ll call in sick tomorrow, surprise Sami with lunch. It’s so hard not seeing him at night. Sami's mother began to spread cream cheese on a toasted bagel, her brow furrowing in thought. Or I could stop by the store before work and get him the crisps he loves. A treat to make him feel good today. She held on tightly to that warm-hearted thought, letting it rise into her chest, fill her up, provide solidity to her body and mind, convince her that she was enough. Sami’s mother took a deep breath in and out. Melancholy aside, she felt alert this morning. Sami’s mother rifled through her memories, searching for the last time she had two consecutive nights of extended, restful sleep. Taking a bite of her creamy breakfast, she was stumped. Although to be fair, memory loss is a common side-effect of sleep deprivation. Sami's mother's thoughtful gaze passed over the sink, half-full with dishes from the night before. Typically she would spend the mornings of her afternoon shift days dragging her feet around the house, attempting to complete the day’s chores half-asleep before work. However, today she decided to supplement her rested spirits with a bit of self-care. A hot bath would be perfect right now.
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Sami’s mother walked into the bathroom wearing an innocent smile. She hadn’t taken the time to enjoy something as simple as a warm bath in ages. Raising her hand to pull back the blue-green shower curtain, she paused. An idea to enhance the experience began to take hold in her head. Sami’s mother darted back to her room and grabbed an old lavender candle and grubby matchbook. Re-entering the bathroom, she swung open the shower curtain to reveal a bare white tub. Sami's mother spun around slowly, scanning the bathroom. Aha, there it is. She knelt to pick up her find: a faded yellow bath plug, hidden in the shade of the tub and bone-dry with disuse. Slapping the plug into the bath's drain, she turned the faucet to a balmy temperature. Feeling rather silly about the giddiness spilling into her smile, Sami’s mother lit the candle and set it down on the floor beside the tub. When the bath had filled to a respectable level, Sami’s mother shut off the tap, disrobed, and slid into its steamy depths. Eyes closed, a quiet sigh of contentment escaped her mouth. Melting into the welcoming warmth Sami’s mother began to drift…
It’s like a warm blanket. A temporary escape from the everyday cold. If only I could live in this comfort. Like when I was five. When the heat was friendly, not stifling. It was the last time the world held me with that comfort. I’ve moved from that year to this one in instants, bounding from flashpoint to flashpoint. At first, in hysterical distress, I questioned whether this was the way of the world. It must be my fault. It was my fault when I was six and then again when I was thirty-two. Then I became numb to it. In the movies, the afflicted work feverishly to break the curse—succeeding after a tense third act. In folklore, the afflicted either break the curse or die trying. Although, they don’t die in a conventional sense. The curse swallows them up and spits them out. Looses them to pursue new victims. Those living with the curse, living in spite of the curse, are never shown. How it hangs on them like a harness, tethering them to an overburdened carriage carrying who knows what for who knows whom. How the children are born with it. Born without hope. I tried to carry Sami’s load as best I could—and for five years we were okay. Almost happy. Then we were thrown forward from that flashpoint to the next.
This is the third place we've inhabited since then. To say “lived in” feels like an overstatement, much less "settled in". First, there was the junkie. Out of his mind on who knows what, he came at me in the ER. That was fine; I was used to the crazies—in the ER you get all sorts. Until he followed me home after my shift. Banged on my door for hours, yelling about coffee and the colour of my scrubs and how he saw it in me—the curse—and how he had it too. Sami and I played cards in the bathroom with the broken lock until he shambled off to haunt someone else. The second was somehow less scary—or maybe only because we weren’t there. I rushed from Sami’s school to drop him off at the apartment and did a double-take. It was gone. A black husk stood in its place. Standing in front of the charred building was the strangest thing. It wasn’t so much sobbing devastation as it was bleak emptiness. We were lucky, didn’t lose much, just toys that Sami cried over and a few relics from my childhood that I stopped relying on ages ago. That was a year ago. And now we were here. Waiting for the next thing to happen. It was inevitable, predictable, and that at least I could live with. It was the unpredictable that—
Sinking deeper into the tub’s soothing depths, Sami’s mother had accidentally knocked the plug off the tub drain. She sighed. Well, I suppose I’ve had enough fun for one day. Keeping her eyelids shut Sami’s mother decided to let the water drain slowly around her. She lay still, her olive chest rising and falling with enduring softness. The lip of the water’s surface imperceptibly lowered itself down her body. Sami’s mother tried to soak in the tranquillity for as long as she possibly could. After several minutes of blissful silence, she suddenly bristled with discomfort, a chill leaping up her spine to rankle the nape of her neck. The water had turned tepid. Shaking out of her reverie, Sami’s mother sensed that the water’s descent had slowed, feeling its surface quiver around her midsection in an uneasy calm. Confused, her eyelids parted, and she gaped in horror.
The water was opaque—drenched scarlet. It was barely water. A crimson ring had stained the tub where the water level had fallen. Sami’s mother shrieked, stumbling up, splashing, and falling over the edge of the bath. Dripping red, she splattered on the vinyl flooring, landing hard on her right elbow. Flailing in a desperate state of confusion, she clawed at the tub’s brim, staining the lip with her wet fingers. Sami’s mother managed to pull herself into a seated position, leaning against the outside of the tub and panting. Her mind was a beehive of jumbled thoughts, frantic speculation, and, most prominently, fear. Irrationally, her mind immediately went to Sami. Some animal probably crawled into the pipes and died. There’s nothing to worry about. No need to panic. Sami’s mother couldn’t stop shaking. She felt asthmatic—her shoulders heaving with each floundering breath that seemed to draw in even less air than the last. Tears welling under blue-green irises, Sami’s mother rose to her knees. She had to check on Sami, for her own sake if not his. Eyes flitting about the bloody horror in her bathroom, Sami's mother felt violated. As if someone had reached down her throat and yanked out veins, intestines, organs, her heart—until they had enough of her blood to paint this gruesome scene. Logic be damned, Sami's mother resolved to call the school right this instant. With that thought halfway from her brain to her body, she froze. Her hands jerked up violently to cover her mouth. A shrill, strangled sound emanated from the pit of her throat. She had noticed something floating amidst the gore.
The small nub of a child’s finger.
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The police were called later that day. Sami's mother didn't show up for her shift—an odd enough occurrence that the hospital asked an off-duty nurse to check on her. After knocking to no avail, the violent clangs and frustrated screams that filtered through the front door were enough impetus for the nurse to make the call. When the police entered the bathroom, they saw Sami's mother—still naked and plastered in blood—frenetically attacking the bathroom drain with a kitchen knife. Leftover blunt instruments from previous attacks lay scattered around her, misshapen and bloodied. Alarmed by the gruesome scene that greeted them, the police immediately subdued Sami's mother, dragging her to a waiting police car. She fought hysterically, her guttural screech echoing throughout the townhouse. "HE'S IN THERE! HE'S IN THERE!" The forensics team brought to analyze the scene was baffled. The police couldn't explain it; Sami's mother couldn't explain it; even a nervous plumber couldn't explain it. It being just how the police found Sami's entire body, not one bit missing, crammed into that shower drain.
SPOOOOOKY
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