By Asia-Marie Charles
In the Caribbean, there is a veil that lifts just as the sun falls. When darkness creeps across the islands, it makes it hard to see the difference. You do not notice from the corner of your eye the way birds contort into something larger or the crickets quickly running sweat from something in the forest that wasn’t there a few hours before. But if you quiet your heartbeats, close your eyes and open your ears, you can listen to the sounds of the supernatural that come to play.
You hear it in the dragging of rusted chains against paved roads, the silver scrapping painfully slow as the journey begins. Anguished, eager huffs of a man-beast thing and sticks slowly cracking under pressure of his hands. There is a semblance of either a prayer or an apology between his lips.
If you move deeper into the island, you may hear the giggling (or if you’re especially unlucky, the screeching weeps) of children, the only children, whose parents could not put them to bed. Their voices gnaw at you until you follow and they just seem to get further and further away the closer you get. And suddenly you can hear little footsteps all around you and you’re so sure they’re right in reach. But it couldn’t be a child. Because if you open your eyes, you would know that thing in front of you doesn’t have a face.
Maybe if you’re really attentive, somewhere in a resting village you can hear the crackling of fireballs near perfectly perfect houses. Hear how it rumbles and whirls as it enters and hovers just above sleeping babies. Listen to the sucking of the babe’s blood and the swirling of the liquid in the being’s mouth. The baby shifts and groans in the crib, the mother rushes from her bed, suddenly aware.
Before your stomach turns, your head will whip to the crashing of waves as they rustle to the shore. Voices mix with the night’s breeze and carry you to them. This time, it might be best to shut your ears. Separate yourself before your lungs no longer have air, and whatever voice you have left becomes melted into their chorus.
If you can follow along the trail of feminine voices back to land, you might find a woman whistling along the pavements. If you’ve been a good man, she may leave you with only a hum and a chuckle to remember her. Your body will rock and your teeth may chatter as she slips deeper into the night but at least you’re alright. Let the sounds of her feet clobbering away remind you what it’s like to be alive again.
And as you draw yourself away from everyone else, you’ll hear the rounding up of the animals and a gruff voice taking headcount. The father of the forest rounds his children with the iron fist of a proper patriarch — and when one of his children is senselessly harmed, with an anger reminiscent of a God. But you need not worry. For most, the sounds are a lullaby. A solemn reminder that these islands are shared, what goes down doesn’t stay below. And really, the people know the only time to be truly afraid is when things are completely silent.
Read interview with Asia-Marie Charles
Asia-Marie Charles is a Creative Writing Student at LaGuardia Community College.
