The Girl and the Ghost

by Hanna Alkaf

  He is not the first, nor will he be the last. Pink turned to look at her, his voice gentle. You will find, child, that there are many monsters in this world who hide their darkness beneath a mask of piety. Call yourself a religious man and nobody will question you; do it well enough and you can stab them in the back, again and again and again, while they nod and say it is all for their own good.

  Suraya shuddered. “We can’t let him collect you too.”

  How do you propose we stop him?

  “We’ll think of something.”

  Pink shook his head, but said nothing. He just kept staring out at the world, now alive with fresh morning sunlight and new possibilities.

  In the distance, they heard the front door slam shut; Mama, off to the village school for another day of teaching.

  “We could run away.”

  No. He didn’t even bother to look at her.

  “Why not? If we ran away, somewhere he couldn’t find us, you’d be safe. You wouldn’t be part of his nasty old collection. And I could take care of you. We could take care of each other.”

  There was a long pause. Suraya, that is no life for a child. A life spent hiding and running, a life spent scraping and scrambling just to survive each day. You cannot be serious.

  She set her little chin and looked straight at him, his brave, brave girl, his master. “I am,” she told him firmly. “I don’t see how there can be any other way.”

  And what about food? What about a place to live? What about money? What about school? What about Jing? What about your mother? He fired the questions at her rapidly, never waiting for an answer. Please, Suraya. No more foolishness.

  When she spoke again, her voice was small and sad. “And what about you?”

  Before he could answer, the tinny ding of the doorbell echoed through the house.

  Suraya frowned. “Who can that be? Nobody ever comes around this time of day.”

  Or at all, mumbled Pink caustically, rubbing his aching head.

  Pretending not to hear him, Suraya made her way to the front door and opened it just the tiniest of cracks.

  It was Jing.

  “Hullo,” Jing said, then stopped, rubbing the cast on one arm awkwardly with her other hand. She was dressed in her school pinafore, her backpack slung over her shoulder, a white-robed Princess Leia keychain dangling off the zipper.

  What is she doing here? Pink hissed. Surely even in their troubles, they need not include her as well?

  “What are you doing here?” Suraya echoed.

  “I waited for Ma to leave after dropping me off at school, then I took the bus here. You weren’t kidding, man, it really takes damn long.” Jing peered at her anxiously. “You okay? You haven’t been in school so long already. I was getting worried.”

  “I’m . . .” Suraya hesitated.

  Tell her you’re fine, Pink said quietly, straight into her ear. Tell her to go home.

  “Why don’t you come in?” she said instead, opening the door wider and gesturing inside.

  Pink sighed.

  Inside, Jing spent an inordinate amount of time walking around Suraya’s small room, running her hands and eyes over everything, from the little bookshelf beneath the window, to the bed with its faded floral sheets, to the wooden desk covered in pots of pens and pencils, though the notebook was now firmly locked away in a drawer.

  Suraya stood by the door, her arms crossed tight across her chest. Nobody ever came into her room, and Pink knew how vulnerable it made her feel to let Jing in, taking in everything with her sharp little eyes.

  “Let’s go get a snack,” she said finally, holding the door open. “You must be hungry.” It was a safe bet, Pink thought. As far as he could tell, Jing was always hungry.

  “Okay,” Jing said.

  “Come on.”

  “Okay! I’m coming.” Jing made her way hurriedly to the door.

  “Hurry up,” Suraya tossed behind her shoulder to Pink.

  “What are you talking about? I’m already out here.” Jing’s face wore a frown of confusion, and she was so busy staring at Suraya that she never noticed the little grasshopper leaping past her toward the kitchen, where the snacks were waiting.

  Outside, the storm clouds began to gather.

  They sat together on the cold concrete of the porch, passing a jar of iced gem biscuits back and forth between them, listening to the crash of thunder and watching the rain pelt and pound the earth. The biscuits had been Suraya’s favorite ever since she was a little girl, and they always had them at home; Pink could still remember the old days when she’d called them biskut aiskrim, thick vanilla discs the size of a button covered in a pure sugar swirl of green or white or pink that looked exactly like a dollop of ice cream.

  “So what’s going on?” Jing had to yell over the drumming of the rain on the porch’s tin roof. “I know something’s wrong.”

  “How do you know?” Suraya yelled back.

  “It’s written all over your face.”

  There was a rumble of thunder, farther away now than it had been just a few minutes ago. The storm was moving on.

  “It’s . . . complicated.”

  “So what.” Jing shrugged, taking a handful of biscuits and passing the jar back. “Look, if I can make it through reading all three Lord of the Rings books and still keep the characters straight without my head exploding, then I can handle your life.” She bit off a swirl of pink icing and chewed it thoughtfully. “Especially if your story has any Aragorn types.”

  Pink thought it felt good to hear Suraya laugh. It felt good to see her smile. What didn’t feel good was the realization that she hadn’t been like this with him, not for a good long while.

  He sidled up to her ear. Tell her, he said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure about what?” She’d barely been here half an hour, and already the look of confusion on Jing’s face was becoming a permanent feature.

  Tell her. Maybe she can help.

  “But what if she doesn’t believe me?”

  Jing wasn’t chewing anymore, and her confusion was tinged with worry.

  “What’s going on, Sooz? Who’re you talking to?”

  The storm was almost gone by now; all that was left was a stubborn drizzle and a chill in the air that made Suraya shiver. “You’re going to think I’m crazy,” she said, half laughing.

  In an instant, Jing was next to her, her arm around Suraya’s shoulder. “You can tell me anything,” she said seriously, her eyes earnest behind her glasses. “I am your friend lah, silly. The Chewie to your Han. Let me help you.”

  Pink didn’t know what Chewies and Hans were. He just knew he wanted to be Suraya’s friend too. And that meant letting Jing in, no matter how much it hurt.

  Suraya took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said. “Here goes.”

  She talked for what felt like a long time, until the chill in the air had long disappeared.

  A shadow fell across Jing’s face, making it hard to read.

  “Well?” The nervousness in Suraya’s voice was palpable.

  “Where is he now?” Jing asked. Her tone gave nothing away.

  “Here.” Pink hopped from her shoulder onto Suraya’s open palm.

  “That’s him?” Jing’s hand went to her cast almost protectively. “That’s your . . . your friend?”

  “You don’t believe me?” Suraya bit down hard on her bottom lip to keep it from trembling, and Pink watched as a drop of blood welled up from beneath her teeth.

  This is ridiculous. The air shimmered around him, and for an instant there he was, in all his monstrous glory, scaled and horned. The glow of the late afternoon sun made it look as if his skin flickered with fire.

  Then the moment was over, and there was nothing but the tiny green grasshopper on Suraya’s palm.

  Jing blinked. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Okay. I’m convinced.”

  Suraya sucked in a deep, noisy breath, as if someone had let go of their iron grip on her lungs and she could fi
nally take in some desperately needed air. “Oh thank goodness, because I don’t think we can do this on our own.”

  “That’s me.” Jing smiled a nervous smile, still cradling her injured arm. “The third musketeer.” Her eyes never left Pink, who stayed perfectly still in Suraya’s hand.

  “Well then.” Suraya looked from one best friend to the other and took a deep breath. “Let’s get to work.”

  Twenty-Five

  Girl

  “OKAY,” JING SAID, pacing up and down in Suraya’s little room. “The first thing we need to do is find out his origin story.” She jerked her head in Pink’s general direction.

  “What?” Suraya stared at her. “We have no time for stories. We need a plan.”

  Jing stopped pacing and sighed. “Have you learned nothing from Star Wars? The only way Luke could defeat Darth Vader was by knowing how he became Darth Vader. When he knew that, he could figure out how to defeat him, by tapping into the person he used to be.” She coughed. “So we need to know where . . . Pink . . . came from.”

  You must know my past to determine my future? Pink rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Spoken like a philosopher.

  “He says you sound like a philosopher.” Suraya was sure Pink could speak directly to Jing if he really wanted to. He just didn’t want to.

  “Or someone who watches a lot of movies.” Jing flopped down hard on the bed, making Pink jump. “So spill, little demon. Tell us how you were made, and who made you.”

  Tell her to kindly not address me as “little demon.” I have a name.

  “His name is Pink, Jing.”

  “All right, Pink.” Jing rolled her eyes. “Stop being such a nerf herder and just answer the question.”

  What is a nerf herder? Why does she speak in tongues?

  “Pink.” Suraya shut her eyes and massaged her aching temples. “Please just tell us.”

  Tell you?

  “Tell us where you came from.”

  There was the tiniest of pauses before he replied. I came from your grandmother, of course. She made me.

  Suraya regarded him with narrowed eyes. “What did he say?” Jing whispered. “You’re making your level ten angry face. The last time you made this face it was because Shuba tried to copy you during the geography test, remember or not? That scolding you gave her! I think her right ear was almost about to fall off. . . .”

  “Shush, Jing.” Suraya kept her gaze steadily on Pink, who seemed to be working very hard not to look at her. “Pink, I know what it’s like when someone is trying to avoid telling me something. I live with my mother, remember? Now talk. Where did you come from?”

  It was a long time before Pink spoke again. To make a pelesit, he said finally, one would need to dig up the corpse of a recently deceased child and place it on an anthill.

  Was it Suraya’s imagination, or was the air suddenly weighed down by a sudden chill?

  Then, when the scurrying feet and sharp teeth of the ants make the dead child cry out, you would bite his tongue from his mouth, say a special incantation, and bury it where three roads meet, for three nights.

  By the time Pink’s story ended, Suraya’s tongue felt like sandpaper, and her mouth was so dry that it took her a minute to form the words for Jing’s benefit.

  “That’s how that thing was made?” Jing’s eyes were wide. “Someone BIT a dead kid’s TONGUE out of his MOUTH?”

  “He’s not a thing. He’s a . . . he’s Pink. And yes, that’s how he was made.”

  “AWESOME.”

  Suraya turned back to Pink and took a deep breath. “And it was my grandmother that made you?”

  Pink’s voice was gentle. Yes. It was the witch.

  It felt like someone had wrapped her chest in metal bands and was squeezing them tight, so that she could hardly breathe. “You told me that was what she was. But you never told me this was how she was.”

  You never needed to know.

  Jing was peering closely at Pink, her face alive with horrified excitement. “A dead kid’s tongue,” she breathed. “Coooooooooooool.”

  “Jing!”

  “Sorry!” She straightened up, her expression apologetic. “Sorry. I know this is a lot for you to take.”

  Suraya tried her best to take a deep breath. There was no time for this; no time for confusion and racing thoughts and taking apart her entire family history. “Enough of that. Now that we know, how do we use that to help us keep Pink out of that pawang’s slimy clutches?”

  Jing frowned in concentration. “Well, if it . . . I mean he, sorry, he . . . if he came from the grave, maybe that’s where he needs to go. You know. Back.”

  “Back?” Suraya frowned. “You mean, like, bury him?”

  “Ya!” Jing pushed her glasses up from where they’d slipped down her nose in her enthusiasm. “If you think about it right, he’s like . . . a missing piece. Maybe reuniting him with the rest of his old self will give him peace. What do you think?” She turned to Pink, her eyebrows raised.

  You would return me to the grave?

  “You’d be safe there. Nobody would be able to hurt you. Maybe . . . maybe you would like it?” Suraya turned to him, her face unsure. “Maybe it would be like going home?”

  There was a pause.

  All right, he said softly. All right. Let us try.

  And then the doorbell rang once again.

  Nobody had gates or fences marking the borders of their gardens in Suraya’s village; since everyone was friends and neighbors, nobody saw any reason to keep visitors out instead of welcoming them in.

  So there was nothing to stop the pawang from marching up to Suraya’s home and ringing the bell, and nothing to prepare Suraya for the shock of seeing his face looming near one of the small slivers of windows on either side of the door, trying his best to peer through the multihued panels of stained glass.

  In her pocket, Pink froze.

  The pawang’s roaming eyes met hers, and he smiled, showing rows of perfectly straight white teeth.

  “Assalamualaikum,” he called. “Won’t you open the door?”

  Suraya’s heart began to pound. “I can’t,” she managed. “My mom isn’t home and I’m not supposed to open the door to strangers.”

  The pawang laughed, a strangely high, light sound that carried through the glass window and grated on Suraya’s every nerve. “I’m hardly a stranger, child,” he said. “I’ve been in your home and eaten your food. I’m your friend. Let me in.” The stained glass distorted his smiling mouth so that it looked like a wide, gaping maw.

  In her pocket, Pink shook his head frantically. Suraya wished her heart would stop beating so loud.

  “It’s hard to talk to you through this barrier, my dear,” the pawang continued, his voice silky and wheedling. “Why don’t you open it? Just a little? All I want is to have a little conversation.”

  Suraya squeezed her eyes shut and remembered a thousand wicked little eyes, staring straight into her soul.

  Outside, the pawang sighed. “Very well then. I suppose I’ll come back when your mother is home.” He leaned forward then, so his lips were right against the crack where the door met the wall, so that his voice, when it came, was whispering almost directly into Suraya’s ear.

  “You should trust me, you know,” he said softly. “Everything I do is for your own good. And trying to defy me won’t help you at all.”

  Suraya stood frozen to the spot, her hands cold and clammy, her heart racing as if it would explode straight out of her chest.

  The pawang straightened up. “All right then,” he said, his tone cheerful. “See you another time!” And he walked off without a backward glance.

  Jing crept out of Suraya’s room, where she’d stayed for fear of being found playing hooky. “Who was that?”

  Suraya wiped the sweat from her brow and tried to pry loose the cold fingers of fear that clenched at her heart. Pink hopped up from her pocket to her shoulder, nuzzling his tiny head against her pale cheek. “He’s the reason we need to figure
out a plan as soon as possible.”

  “Okay,” Jing said, fishing her phone out of her bag and carefully avoiding Suraya’s gaze while she called up the search engine. Jing rarely used her phone or even talked about it in front of her friend. Long ago, when Suraya had been pouting about not getting the same golden-haired Barbies the other girls spent hours dressing and undressing, her mother had sat her down and explained to her that the world was divided between the Haves, the Have-Nots, and those who Have-Enough-to-Get-By. “That’s us,” Mama had said. “We have just enough to live. Not enough for the luxuries others have. Understand?”

  “Understand,” Suraya had said then. And she did understand. She understood that a phone was a thing only Haves could really afford, and that Jing was a Have, and that knowing how much more she had compared to Suraya made her uncomfortable—maybe even a little guilty—even though Suraya herself didn’t care. What she did care about right now in this moment was finding the best way to help Pink, and if Jing’s phone could help them do that, all the better.

  “The first thing we need to do is figure out where you come from, Pink. Sooz, do you know where your grandma lived?”

  Suraya shook her head, a hot flush creeping over her cheeks. “I, umm, didn’t even know I had a grandma until I was, like, five. My mother never talks about her.” She couldn’t help but read a thousand different judgments in the lines of Jing’s frown as she stared at the phone, waiting for her app to load.

  “Okay, okay, never mind,” Jing said. “Small matter. We can still figure it out. Does the thing have any clues?”

  “Stop calling him that! His name is Pink.”

  Suraya watched Pink thankfully ignore the jab from Jing and instead mull over her question. It took a while. Finally he spoke, It’s been so long since I last thought about the witch, longer still since I set foot in any of my former homes. The witch moved about often. She was not one to stay in one place for long, nor would she have been welcome. But at the last village, in the place she drew her last breath . . . there were jambu trees in the garden, and a round pond with tiny fish flitting in its depths. And we were close enough to the mosque to see the blue dome and the minarets from the kitchen window, and to mark time by the call to prayer.