The Restless Night

Ahvana had not come to the Callahans’ party for fun. Something had awoken her early in the morning, an itch that needed to be scratched. The thrum of the bass, the bitter smell of beer, the neon lights bouncing off sweaty faces—those were only distractions, camouflage. Vice was not the escape Ahvana was looking for. Instead, she hoped to live up to her name and rid herself of this steadily encroaching darkness within her soul. What she wanted was an excuse to escape the house, to step outside her grandparents’ constant vigilance, to slip the perfect-granddaughter costume they forced her to wear. At home, Ahvana was obedient, well-dressed, her black hair brushed into a shining waterfall down her back. At home, she never talked about the shadows that kept her up at night.

But here, at 2:57 in the morning, the mask had already slipped. She sat on a cold stone bench near the Callahans’ garden, goosebumps pricking her bare arms, her blood-red velvet skirt riding high on her thighs. Surrounded by the Callahan’s menagerie of cold and unforgiving statues of Western heroes, she shuddered and got up, softly tapping her screen to check the time. Her phone glowed against her palm, the lockscreen numbers blinking like a dying candle. Ahvana was just thinking about leaving before dawn betrayed her absence- torn between letting loose or returning home- when she heard the heavy thud of footsteps behind her.

She turned.

Brad Callahan lumbered into view, his six-foot-two frame swaying with drink. Cornsilk hair clung damp with sweat to his forehead, and his pale blue eyes were cloudy, but they still managed to slide over her body with an ugly, familiar hunger.

“Where you going, Molly?” he slurred, mangling her name.

Her mouth curved into a tight, sharp smile as she rolled her eyes. Of course. He could recognize her but refused to say her name properly.

When she ignored him, he sneered. “Didn’t know Indian girls were so damn uptight.”

Ahvana tilted her head, eyes glittering with something unnamed. “I wasn’t aware star athletes were so fond of being fucking racist.”

His expression soured. With surprising speed, he lunged forward and seized her wrist, his clammy hand locking around her skin. Ahvana did not jerk away. She did not even blink.

Instead, she reached calmly into the hidden velvet-lined pocket of her skirt and drew out her copper-handled knife. She flicked it open with a smooth snick, the blade catching the moonlight.

Brad faltered. About time, honestly. “Hey, I was just messing around, y’know?” His ruddy face began to take on the pale color of a fitted sheet. Unfortunately, regret had come far too late.

Ahvana raised her arm slowly, deliberately. She was practically shaking with anticipation: the itch would be scratched, finally. With her eyes still fixed on his, she dragged the knife across her left palm. Blood welled instantly, rich and dark, running down in heavy rivulets. She clenched her fist, forcing it to drip steadily into the grass.

The earth shifted.

The soil drank greedily, swelling and shivering with delight. Brad swayed on his feet, blinking in bewilderment as the ground split open. Fingers—or what looked like fingers—thrust upward, raw and knotted, dragging up a gaunt, misshapen body.

The bhūta rose, taller than Brad, skin cracked and stretched thin over bone, joints popping and snapping as it unfurled. Its sockets were bottomless wells, leaking thick rivulets of gore. The feet attached to its gnarled, twisted legs were facing backwards in deadly imitation of a human. Every movement was accompanied by the sound of bones grinding and wetly breaking, as if the thing was being reassembled each time it twitched.

Brad’s mouth hung open. “What the—“

It turned its head with a sharp crack of its neck. Ahvana smiled brightly. She raised her hand; the creature mimicked the gesture.

Then it lunged.

Its desiccated claws tore into Brad’s chest with a wet crunch, sliding between his ribs as if they were paper. Bone splintered, ribs snapping one by one like brittle twigs. Brad screamed, high and jagged, as the bhūta pulled him close and twisted its claws. The sound was obscene: cartilage tearing, vertebrae popping in sequence, sinews snapping like the bullied string of a violin pulled too tight.

Blood sprayed across the grass in an arc, speckling Ahvana’s legs. She watched, calm and delighted, the darkness that awoke her left sated and satisfied. Brad’s body convulsed in the demon’s grip. His sternum cracked open with a sharp crack. The bhūta dug deeper, dragging organs into view, slick coils gleaming in the moonlight.

Brad choked, his eyes rolling back, his mouth bubbling red. His legs twitched weakly. The demon gave one final wrench. The spine split with a sound like dry wood underfoot. His body folded in on itself, arms bending the wrong way, neck snapping sideways until his head lolled limply at a grotesque angle.

Ahvana stepped closer, crouching at the edge of the steadily spreading pool of blood. She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Ribs first, and then the spine. Such a clean break. Beautifully done.”

The bhūta froze, gore dripping from its claws, as if waiting for her approval. She smiled, warm with pride as a parent at a child’s juvenile performance, and flicked her fingers. The creature sank instantly back into the soil at her command, dissolving into black sludge that the grass swallowed whole. All that remained was Brad’s ruined corpse, his limbs twisted, his chest cavity cracked open, blood soaking the ground in thick, molasses-like rivers. 

Ahvana leaned down, plucked a napkin from his pocket, and dabbed delicately at the blood speckling her legs. She tucked it neatly into her pocket, then walked back to her car, leaving no footprints in the dewy grass behind her. 

She slid into the driver’s seat, and started the engine, the scent of iron still clinging to her skin. 

Her voice was light as she pressed her foot to the gas. “I may actually be able to sleep through the night tomorrow.”