"The Haunting of Bera"

 

"The Haunting of Bera"

 

In the village of Karamja, in
Pabna, there lived a young woman named Asma. She was in the last days of her pregnancy, waiting for her first child to arrive. Her mother-in-law, out of routine and custom, would wake her up at the still of early dawn to dissociate rice from the grains and prepare it on the wood-fired stove. With the weight of her unborn child and her responsibility as a young bride in her husband's household, she had unquestioningly followed these customs.

One night, before the break of dawn, Asma woke up with soft tugs. Her mother-in-law's voice whispered, "Get up; it's time to prepare the rice for the family." The air was thick and silent, wrapped in the dampness of early morning. Asma dressed slowly, her limbs heavy with sleep, the weight of her belly pressed forward in her last trimester. She gathered herself and stepped into the yard, where her mother-in-law stood leaning against their old guava tree, watching her.

Asma approached her mother-in-law, wrapping her sari tightly around herself to protect herself from the chill. "Ammu, if you don't mind, please give me the rice so that I might begin with cooking," she said in a soft tone. But the old woman did not utter a word. She was staring outside, her eyes wide open without batting an eyelid.

"Ammu?" Asma called again, this time louder, the ripple of unease tingling her skin.

Still, she said not a word. Asma leaned forward, her hand extended and it quivering, but before she could touch her, the woman stepped forward and gave her a hard slap across the face, the force sending Asma to the ground. A jolt of terror and pain ran through her as she crumpled to the floor, her hand instinctively cradling her belly.

She lay there, dazed and immobile, staring at the world blur around her. And in that fraction of a second before she blacked out, she saw how her mother-in-law had turned a shadow, her form melting back into early morning mist.

When Asma came, she was surrounded by her family, her mother-in-law among them, looking genuinely worried and as confused as everybody else. Asma told them what happened, her voice trembling with anger as she detailed the woman who'd slapped her and left her lying in the dirt. Her mother-in-law's face went white, and the older men of the family exchanged nervous looks between them, speaking in hushed tones about spirits and ancient curses. They knew stories of the shapeshifters that prowled around the village at night and took on the appearance of loved ones in their quest to deceive and haunt their victims.

Days later, labor started for Asma, and with much effort, she brought her baby boy into the world. But from the very first moment of his life, something was dreadfully wrong: for his skin would change colors throughout the day—pale and ghostly white in the morning, turning eerie blue by midday, and pitch black by evening when the tides shift.

On the fifth day, Asma awoke to find pressed up against her the cold and lifeless body of her son. Gone was the spirit that had come so fast, taking with it the curious shifting colors that had marked the little one's short life. Squatting beside her were women from the village who spoke soft words of comfort, yet not one was able to remove the pain in her heart. Muttering prayers, mentioning spirits and hexes, but Asma knew her child was a vessel taken by this spirit that had come into her that night, cloaking its voice in her mother-in-law's voice.

She clasped her dead child tight to her breast, the weight of his small, still body upon her like the sorrow that would never rise. Yet to this day, in whispers through the village lives the story of the transforming spirit—an omen, it is said, to those who hear a footfall in the dark or glimpse a shadow lingering where no person should be.