The Skin that Loved.

The old women had warned mothers for generations: Never leave your windows open. Never let the night in. For she is bound to slip through, and when she does, she will feed on the blood of the innocent.

“She will come for you,” the elders would whisper. “The Ole Higue, with her fire-red eyes and her hunger for blood.”

They said she lived in a crumbling hut on the edge of the cane fields, where the bats circled low and the dogs refused to go. At night, she shed her wrinkled skin and became a ball of fire, slipping through cracks and keyholes to drink the life from babies.

But Kamilla—, her mind heavy with exhaustion—had forgotten. The shutters hung ajar, the night’s cool air drifting through. She had been too tired to remember.

It was a pale night, the kind where the moon spilled silver across the earth like a veil. Kamilla was bone-weary. They never tell you that motherhood wrings the body dry. For nights, the little one had wailed, inconsolable, her every effort—rocking, singing, feeding—met only with frantic cries.

Her eyes were swollen from sleeplessness, and her nipples raw from the endless nursing. Hunger twisted in her belly, but tonight—tonight something had broken. Relief flooded through her as she gazed down at her child. He lay in stillness now, his tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm so delicate it made her heart ache.

Love coursed through her bloodstream like an adrenaline, a warmth so fierce it almost burned away her exhaustion. She longed to press her lips to his soft forehead—but she dared not, fearing even the smallest touch might rouse him. Instead, she backed out of the room on trembling legs that had carried her through countless restless nights of pacing the nursery floor.

She thought of the bath she desperately needed, of the ache in her muscles , but that would have to wait. Tiredness was the hand that led her now. She collapsed into her bed, exhaled a sigh weighted with relief, and was swept instantly into the deep, merciful dark of sleep.

And in the silence she left behind, the house seemed to breathe.

The air shifted, cool and searching.

The moonlight on the nursery floor bent strangely, as though something unseen stepped through it.

And the baby, so recently quiet, stirred.

And there she was—

The creature of night.

A shimmer at first, no more than a strange quiver in the air, then a ball of fire burning low against the nursery wall. It pulsed once, twice, before unraveling into shape. Wrinkled skin, sagging breasts, eyes that gleamed red in the moonlight. Her breath rattled like dry leaves. The Old Higue crept closer, her claw-like fingers twitching with hunger. She peered down at the child, her lips cracking into a grin that revealed toothless gums.

The baby stirred, soft and restless, sensing perhaps what his mother could not. His whimper filled the room like a fragile warning.

The Old Higue bent low, her breath falling hot and foul over the child’s tiny face. She opened her mouth, the glow of her stolen fire throbbing in her throat. A sound rose from her chest, not quite a hiss, not quite a sigh, but something old and terrible.

And just as her lips brushed the child’s skin—A terrified gasp drew her attention .

The Old Higue froze, her withered body stiffening, the fire in her throat flickering out. Slowly, her head turned toward the doorway.

There stood little Christina, Kamilla’s eldest, no more than ten. Her nightdress clung to her thin frame, and her face was drained of all color, white as a ghost in the moonlight. Her eyes were wide, fixed in terror on the thing crouched over her baby brother.

The Old Higue hissed softly, a sound that made the air curdle. She rose to her full, crooked height, her shadow stretching long across the nursery floor.

Christina , dumbfounded by fear, stared in silence, her lips trembling, her small body frozen between the instinct to flee and the fear that any movement would draw the creature closer. Her small hands trembled on the doorknob, her wide eyes locked on the wrinkled, fiery figure crouched over her baby brother. The Old Higue’s red eyes gleamed, and Christina expected the worst.

But then—something shifted.

The creature’s gaze softened, and a slow, rasping voice whispered, almost kindly:

“Hush, little one. Do not cry.”

At her voice a shiver raced down her spine, as the Old Higue’s gnarled fingers hovered over the baby’s chest. The glow of fire pulsed from her hands, spreading warmth across his tiny body. His soft whimpers softened into gentle coos. The air shimmered, and she watched, transfixed, as her brother’s pale cheeks regained color and the shallow rise and fall of his chest evened.

All the while, the Old Higue’s voice rose in a sorrowful, melodic cadence, telling her a tale:

“Once, child, I was a goddess. My skin glowed as if lit by the moon itself. With that light, I healed the sick, lifted the weak, and gave joy to the grieving. They loved me for it… until a man came.”

Her fingers curled tight around the baby’s blanket.

“He was clever, silver-tongued. He told me that to wed him, I must shed my glowing skin—that only then could I live among humans as his bride. I believed him. Foolish, foolish love. The moment I shed my skin, he stole it… and with it, my radiance. Without it, my body withered. My beauty turned to ash, my glow became a curse. By night I burn, by day I crawl, and the people I once healed now call me monster.”

She kissed the baby’s brow, the last of her glow fading from her palms. Her face was lined with both age and grief.

“Tell them what you wish, child,” the Ole Higue said, her voice no more than a whisper. “But remember this—sometimes what you fear is only what you do not understand.”

Then her form blurred, melted, and burst again into flame. As the fireball slipped through the cracks and rose into the night sky, Christina could only watch.

She would relate this strange happenings to her mother, who would only laugh and commend her for having a fascinating imagination. No one would believed her.

And though everyone still feared the Ole Higue, She never forgot: The monster they cursed was once a goddess who had given too much of her light to love. As she matured into a young woman, she would often remind herself that sometimes, monsters are only stories we do not understand.