The Ol' Higue of Baracara

The night hung thick over the village of Baracara, nestled against the Berbice River. Moonlight shimmered off the water, casting long, shifting shadows on the land. The trees whispered to each other in the wind. Their voices whispered secrets too ancient for human ears.

But there was something else in the night. Something lurking beyond the reach of the moon’s cold glow. A presence unseen but felt in the marrow of those who knew the old stories.

Deep in the heart of the village, in a wooden house perched on stilts, a mother sat awake. She rocked her newborn in a slow, rhythmic motion. Her eyes, weary yet alert, darted to the window, where a faint glow flickered in the darkness. She clutched her child closer, her pulse hammering in her throat.

The old folks spoke of the Ol’ Higue. The dreadful bloodsucker who prowled the night, seeking the lifeblood of infants.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the loose shutters, and the woman’s breath hitched. She glanced at the bowl of rice placed near the doorway. It was a precaution passed down through generations. The Ol’ Higue, they said, was cursed with an insatiable need to count. And if she encountered rice, it compelled her to tally each grain until dawn broke.

Beyond the village, hidden among the shadows of silk-cotton trees, something stirred.

A woman moved with unnatural grace through the underbrush. She was wrinkled, hunched, and draped in a tattered shawl. Her feet did not disturb the fallen leaves; her breath did not fog in the cool night air.

She muttered strange words beneath her breath. Ancient incantations that sent the night creatures scurrying in fear. When she reached a clearing, she stopped, her gnarled fingers rising to her face. With slow, deliberate movements, she began peeling away her skin.

As the skin separated from her bloodstained flesh, She folded it with care and set it aside. Like an old, but priceless garment.

Beneath the discarded flesh, she gleamed. Her very essence seemed to combust from within. Her body was engulfed in flame like a Bunsen burner. Now, it was a pulsing, fiery specter.

Freed of her human disguise, she ascended into the night sky. She became a streak of orange-red fire twisting and darting through the air. As she flew above the village, her glowing form traced a path over rooftops. Over sleeping livestock. Over men who snored in drunken stupors. She was searching, sniffing the air for the irresistible scent of fresh, young blood.

And then she found it.

The scent curled into her nostrils like a lover’s whisper, rich and sweet. She descended upon the wooden house as silent as a falling leaf. Pressing herself against the walls, she felt for the slightest crevice. Her essence, fluid and malevolent, found a keyhole—small, but it would do.

She poured herself through the keyhole, twisting and shifting until she was inside.

***

The mother, eyes heavy with exhaustion, jerked awake. The air in the room felt different—thick, charged with something unseen. The flame in the oil lamp flickered wildly. As though caught in a breath of wind, though the windows remained shut. She clutched her baby tighter, her ears straining against the oppressive silence.

A soft rustling reached her ears, like the whisper of a snake twisting its scaly body over dry leaves. It came from the foot of the bed. The mother’s heart pounded. She turned her head slowly, eyes widening in terror.

A pair of gleaming red orbs peered at her from the darkness. They hovered midair, shifting, pulsing with an eerie glow.

Then, an old woman took shape. Twisted and gnarled, her fingers were claw-like, her grin a crescent of jagged teeth.

The Ol’ Higue exhaled, and the air turned cold.

"Give me de chile," she crooned, her voice a rasping whisper. "I only need a taste."

The mother did not answer. Instead, she reached for a Holy Book beside her, her fingers trembling. She opened it, her lips forming silent prayers, her eyes locked onto the creature before her.

The Ol’ Higue hissed, recoiling as though struck. "You cyan stop me," she snarled, but doubt flickered in those burning eyes.

The mother’s voice, trembling yet strong, rose in a sacred chant. It was an incantation of faith passed down through generations. The words filled the room, pushing back the shadows. They pressed against the wicked thing that lurked within.

The Ol’ Higue screeched, her body writhing as it twisted in torment. She turned, searching for escape, her fiery form flickering wildly. And then she saw it—the rice, scattered in a neat pile near the doorway.

Her breath hitched. Her body shuddered.

She tried to resist, to pull away, but the ancient curse took hold. Her fingers twitched, then reached, unbidden, toward the grains. One. Two. Three. She began to count, her voice trembling with fury and desperation.

The mother watched, hope surging in her chest. The creature was trapped. The night wore on. And the Ol’ Higue’s voice grew hoarse as she counted, over and over, compelled by the cruel magic that bound her.

Then came the first light of dawn. A golden sliver of sun crept through the window, stretching long fingers across the floor. The Ol’ Higue let out a wail, her form unraveling like smoke in the wind. She screamed, her voice shrill and filled with rage, before vanishing into nothingness.

The mother wept, clutching her child to her chest. The nightmare had passed, for now.

In the distant woods, where the roots of the silk-cotton trees ran deep. An old, empty skin lay folded in the dirt, waiting. Its owner was dead. It would no longer rise in a ball of fire, to patrol the skies and seek new victims.

But of course, there were others. And somewhere, deep in the shadows, another ancient hunger stirred once more.