James Coom

Chapter 3

I came down the staircase, feeling an urgency growing within me, a need to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the sixth-floor apartment. As I opened the door to the ground floor, my heart skipped a beat. Suddenly, my mom, my dad, and my sister were there, sitting comfortably in the living room alongside other unfamiliar faces.

"Aunty called us all for lunch!" my sister chirped, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I felt a mixture of relief and confusion wash over me, though I couldn't quite place why.

The room was abuzz with chatter, laughter, and the clinking of dishes. My husband, Ian, sat in the middle of the room, seemingly unfazed by the abrupt shift. I wondered if he had orchestrated this whole gathering as a surprise for me, inviting my family to celebrate our new venture. It would explain why he was late—he wanted to create a warm, welcoming atmosphere to reveal the land we had found.

A banana leaf was spread across the table, and my mother began serving a feast of South Indian delicacies: steaming hot sambar, fragrant rasam, and golden-brown masala dosa that made my mouth water. The aroma of spices filled the air, grounding me for a moment.

As we settled in, my sister and I started discussing a funny Instagram reel we had seen recently about cooking, laughing as we reminisced about the silly moments. My mother placed a dollop of butter on my dosa, and I took a bite, the flavors bursting in my mouth. It felt comforting, like coming home after a long day.

But then, as I turned slightly to grab more food, something caught my eye on the back of my banana leaf. A deep red stain marred the vibrant green, like a drop of blood that had seeped through the fibers. It looked ominous and out of place, and a cold shiver ran down my spine. I turned it over, and my heart skipped a beat. The stain was still there, growing, spreading.

Panic rose in my chest. I looked around the room, but I couldn't see anyone's face. I could only see their legs, their clothes, their movements. Their heads, their faces, remained obscured, like something was blocking my vision. My hands trembled, and I knew, deep in my bones, that if I didn't get my family out of that house soon, something terrible would happen.

I stood up, trying not to draw attention, and quietly motioned for Ian to follow me. But no matter how much I tried, I couldn't escape that suffocating feeling, that sense that something was watching me, waiting. I needed to protect my family; I could feel it in the air thickening around us, pressing down on my chest.

Suddenly, I was back in bed of the guest house which we had came that day before evening, Ian gently shaking my shoulder. "Hey, wake up," he said softly. "We need to get ready to go see the land."

I blinked, disoriented. The light streaming through the window felt too bright, too sharp, as if everything around me was a little too real. I sat up, my heart still racing, trying to shake off the dream—or was it a memory?—of that strange place, the apartment, the woman, the blood on the banana leaf.

I forced myself to breathe deeply. It was just a nightmare. But as I sat there, the feeling of unease clung to me like a shadow. I glanced around, my eyes scanning the room. That's when I noticed something that made my stomach drop.

On the floor, at the foot of the bed, were faint, red footprints. The same ones from the dream. I froze, my blood turning to ice.

"Ian..." I started, but my voice came out as a whisper.

He turned to face me, his expression calm, almost too calm. "What is it?" he asked.

I looked from the footprints back to him, my mind racing. "We... we need to leave. Now."

He raised an eyebrow. "Leave? But we haven't even—"

"Now, Ian!" I said, louder this time, scrambling out of bed. I grabbed my things hastily, my hands shaking as I threw on my shoes. The footprints. The woman. The note. I didn't care if it didn't make sense—I wasn't staying another second.

Ian looked at me, a mix of confusion and concern in his eyes, but he followed my lead without question. As we rushed out of the bedroom, I stole a final glance at the corner of the room. There, just barely illuminated by the dim light, lay a small scrap of paper on the floor. The words "James Coom" were hastily scrawled in the same blue paint I had seen earlier, but as I watched, the letters began to shift and rearrange themselves into something new: "Jomos came."

I grabbed Ian's arm. "We have to go," I urged again, pushing him toward the door. My heart pounded in my ears as we stumbled out of the house and into the car. The engine roared to life, and I barely gave Ian time to buckle in before I floored the gas pedal, speeding down the road, away from the land, away from everything.

We didn't speak for a long time. The further we drove, the lighter I felt, as if the weight that had been pressing on my chest was slowly lifting. The normal, familiar world was coming back into focus.

But just as I started to feel like we had escaped, Ian, who had been staring out the window in silence, said, "Did you... did you see her?"

I gripped the steering wheel tighter. "See who?"

He didn't answer right away. When he finally did, his voice was barely a whisper. "The woman. She was standing by the road when we left... she smiled at me."

A cold chill ran down my spine. My heart pounded faster. I didn't look at him, didn't want to see his face.

In the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of something that made my breath catch in my throat.

At the edge of the road, in the distance, I saw her. The woman in the Saree, standing motionless, her eyes fixed on our car as it sped away. And though the road twisted and turned, and the trees blurred by, she never left the mirror.

No matter how fast we drove.