As a child I would beg my grandmother, āTell me of the priestess and her Papa Bois and tell me that story of the children with backwards feet. Tell me about Trinidad.ā
Raised in England, the stories of West Indian forests, voodoo rituals and mythical creatures transfixed my imagination. Grandmother worried for my obsession with the fantastical and the horrifying, fretting that a darkness would ensnare me. To this I laughed and gave no credence to her warnings but she would say, āChild, what you think about, you bring about.ā and so I guess Iām to blame for this.
Joshua, my son, Iāll put it to you plainly- I see a Douen leeching off your spirit. You donāt believe me? It had taken only four nights for this Douen to become a part of our family; a reflection of how fast they work. They see their prey and know instantly how to make them theirs.
It was close to midnight when I first heard it. The whispering scratches of long clawed fingers ran down the outside of the garden door and you, my son, were asleep upstairs. I listened as the scratches grew louder before deciding to open the door. There, beneath the moonlight that streaked across the lawn, stood a scruffy little thing with long matted hair that was not quite dreadlocked. It wore a woven straw hat and was clothed in rags not of this time. A ragamuffin, nine or ten years old maybe. A human resemblance with a question around its being. To this day I cannot say if it is a boy or a girl.
After only seconds of silently peering from under its hat, the thing crept backwards, moving away from me and filling the night air with a low growling laughter that sent the hairs on my neck dancing. Lithely, it skipped the garden fence and disappeared out of sight. I didnāt notice its feet.
The second night beckoned an earlier arrival. I heard the scratches from the other side of the door and there it stood once more. Again the thing stared me down with eyes that defied any authority I may have had. From under its hat those dark eyes demanded my silence until I felt brave enough to ask it āWhere is your mother?ā
āI donāt have one.ā It replied through a quiet sob.
Instinct made me reach to comfort the waif but, when stretching out my hand, it backed away. It was then I noticed its feet. You still donāt believe me do you Joshua? Its feet were backwards, this I swear, its heels pointed towards me. The tales of my grandmotherās magical island came flooding back to me.
Wild, belonging to the rivers and the forests. Godless, with death coming before baptism. Lonely, no mothers or fathers to care for them. Wicked, remaining on earth only to look for young playmates. The Douen, my grandmother would say, found brief comfort in living children but upon growing tired of their new friends they would gorge on their flesh and bones and devour their spirits.
āNever let the Douen hear the name of your child.ā she would say. āOnce they know a name, your child is no longer your own.ā But--
Do you remember, you appeared at my side? I said āJoshua, inside the house now.ā Do you remember?
āJoshuaā it whispered with a smile. I had gifted you to the Douen. Do you remember? Do you believe me?
Wiping away tears, the Douen ran into the darkening garden with its back and toes pointed towards me. It jumped the fence once more and turned to look at me, its black eyes fixed to mine and mouthed Joshua.
On the third night I brought supper to your room. Pausing outside the door, I heard a low growling laugh that wasnāt yours. A churning sickness rose to my throat. When I entered the room you didnāt look up but it did. A toothless smile was visible from behind its matted hair. As it slowly rose from your side my body tensed in anticipation ofā¦ something I wasnāt quite sure what, but it merely walked by me, down the stairs and once again out of sight.
āWhoās your friend?ā I asked āThe one just here?ā
āIāve been alone all night Mummy.ā
I vaguely recalled the tricks Douen would play in order to torment parents and eventually lure the child away. I knew I was alone in this but I questioned why you couldnāt see it. Wasnāt that was a part of its strategy, to entice the child through fun and games? I know how all this must sound.
Finally, on the fourth night I found my answer. I came home from work to find you at the kitchen table with the Douen lurking at your side. You stood and headed towards me and it imitated your movement. Your arm reaches, knee bends and slight bodily turns all mocked by a ghost. It trailed your every move, inching closer toward me and never losing its stare.
And this is how things are now. Iāve put it in terms so that you can understand. Joshua, you never see the Douen because thatās part of its trick. It moves with you everywhere but its eyes are always burrowing right into my own. You ask me why Iām calm. Am I not worried that the Douen will eat you up in the middle of the night? I am going to be honest Joshua -the Douen is not here for you. No. No. I think after all these years it has come to find me. Do you believe me now?
When I was I child I would make wishes. Wishes, I suppose, have darkened my spirit. I would pray that I too would find a Douen milling around my garden, waiting for me to play with it, looking for a friend of flesh and bone. I was curious to see how the dead might look in daylight. How ghosts moved with men. I now know that my grandmother was right. I had brought about what I had thought about, and so now all I can do is follow her advice; invite it in, remove its hat and straighten its feet. Never take your eyes away lest tricks it begins to play.
