Nimal froze. The figure had no face on the front. Only smooth, pale skin where eyes and mouth should be. But on the back of its skull—two hollow eye sockets and a lipless grin.

Then he heard the sound of dry leaves being crushed—circling him. A cold breath on his neck. A whisper, sharp and thin as a mosquito’s whine:

That night, Nimal had to deliver a sack of rice to a widow’s hut beyond the Passa Paththa. The widow was ill, and the moon was new. He took his lantern and staff and set out, whistling an old tune to keep courage.

Then he heard it: a soft footfall behind him.