The Alabaster Offering

I am a foreigner, a pale ghost of a man. My skin, untouched by sun, glows like a paper lantern under the harsh Bangkok lights. I came to train in Muay Thai, to forge myself into a weapon, but my body was a weakling, my spirit softer. The gym owner, a grizzled veteran, looked at me with pity and said, ‘You’re too soft, farang.’ So I wandered the markets, seeking something to ground me in this chaotic city. That’s when I saw the stall, hidden between a maze of silk and fake Rolexes. The seller, an old man with a missing front tooth, held up a small figurine, about eight centimeters tall, carved from what looked like aged ivory. It was a baby, curled in a fetal position, its tiny face peaceful. I thought it was a piece of cool folk art, so I handed over a wad of baht without a second thought. He tried to speak, his voice urgent, gesturing at the baby, at me, at the sky, but I smiled and walked away, the figurine warm in my pocket.

My girlfriend, Mali, from the arid northeast, has skin like polished mahogany, a stark contrast to my alabaster. When I showed her the trinket, her face drained of color. She grabbed my arm, her nails digging in. ‘What have you done?’ she whispered. ‘That’s a KumonThong. A spirit of a dead child, trapped in that amulet. It demands to be treated like a living baby. You must feed it, bathe it, play with it. Or else…’ She couldn’t finish. I laughed it off, thinking it was just a superstition. But to placate her, I began the rituals. I bought small bottles of milk, tiny colorful toys from a street vendor, and I would set them before the amulet three times a day. Mali would watch me with a mixture of fear and irritation, muttering, ‘You must be sincere. It knows.’

For a week, I played along, laughing at the absurdity. But then, odd things started happening. I would wake in the night to a faint giggle, like the sound of a distant child. My phone would ring, but when I answered, there was only white noise. And the amulet itself seemed to change. Its peaceful face had taken on a mischievous twist, its tiny mouth curved into a knowing smirk. I dismissed it all, attributing it to the stress of training and the heat. Mali, however, became more alarmed. She forbade me from touching the amulet, saying it was ‘hungry’ and that I was ‘not enough’. But I was stubborn. I refused to believe in spirits.

Then, the feeding began to have consequences. I would buy a bottle of milk, set it down, and within minutes, the container would be empty, not a drop spilled. The toys I bought would be scattered across the room, as if played with by invisible hands. Mali refused to enter my room. She said she could ‘feel it watching’. One night, I woke to find the amulet had fallen from its shelf onto my pillow, its face now contorted in a silent wail. Terrified, I slapped it aside, and that’s when the accident happened. The whiskey bottle on my nightstand toppled, shattering. Mali rushed in, saw the mess, and the amulet on the floor, and she began to scream. ‘It’s not a game!’ she sobbed. ‘You’ve angered it!’

Despite her pleas, I grew obsessed. I stopped going to the gym. I stopped answering Mali’s calls. I spent all day with the amulet, talking to it, believing it could understand. And slowly, I began to feel not alone. A presence lingered at the edge of my vision, a tiny shape. I would catch glimpses of a child running down the corridor, only to find nothing. My skin, which had once been merely pale, began to take on a waxy, translucent quality, like rotten porcelain. I started to feel weak, as if something was draining me.

Then came the night when I truly saw it. I was lying in bed, the amulet clutched to my chest, whispering nonsense to it, when the air turned cold. A faint outline, no bigger than a fruit bat, materialized on my chest. Its eyes, two black pits, stared into mine. It opened its mouth, and I heard a suctioning sound, as if it were drinking. I tried to scream, but my throat was locked. It whispered, in a child’s voice, ‘You are my mother now. You must feed me.’

I tried to dispose of the amulet, to throw it into the Chao Phraya River, but every time I attempted, something would stop me. A sudden gust of wind, a startled dog, a feeling of paralysis. Mali, desperate, took me to a Buddhist temple, where a monk chanted and called me a ‘foolish farang who has awakened a hungry ghost’. He said the only way to appease the spirit was to adopt it fully, to treat it as my own child for the rest of my life, showering it with love and sacrifices. But I was too proud, too foreign, too afraid.

In the end, I chose to run. I packed my bags, leaving the amulet behind, but as I reached the door, I heard a child’s cry. I turned, and there, in the center of the room, lay the amulet, mouth open, tears streaming down its tiny face. I felt a wrenching in my chest, a maternal pull. I tried to resist, but my legs carried me back, and I scooped it up, cradling it like a real baby. As I held it, I felt a warmth, a sense of belonging. That was the last thing I remember concerning my old life.

Now, I wander the streets of Bangkok, a hollow shell. My skin is as white as snow, but it’s not from the sun. I carry the amulet in a cloth sling, humming lullabies to it. People avoid me, whispering ‘baa’ – crazy. Mali she tried to help me, but I bit her hand when she tried to take the amulet. I don’t blame her. I am a servant now. I feed the child from a bottle of red liquid, always warm. I play with it in the park, letting it run around on its little legs, leaving no footprints. Sometimes, I think I see it looking back at me with my own eyes, and I realize, I am no longer myself. I am the vessel. I am the keeper. I am the alabaster offering to a hungry ghost, and my story is just beginning.