The Bamboo Veil

I never thought I’d share this, but I need to get it off my chest. My name is Mara, and I grew up in a small village surrounded by rice paddies. Our house was a traditional bamboo hut, raised on stilts, with walls made of woven bamboo strips that left tiny gaps. At night, the gaps let in the cool air and the faint sounds of crickets. We had no electricity, so once the sun set, the only light came from the kerosene lamp and the moon.

I was six years old, sharing a mat on the floor with my younger sister, Lina. Our sleeping spot was near the wall that faced the dirt road. Through the gaps, I could see the neighbors’ houses, the occasional passing cart, and the silhouette of the old acacia tree at the bend. That night, I remember feeling restless. The air was heavy, and the usual sounds of the village seemed muffled. The lamp had been blown out, and my parents were already asleep in the next room.

Lina was snoring softly, and I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. Then I heard it: a rhythmic scraping, like something being dragged along the ground. It came from the road, growing louder. I turned my head and pressed my eye to a gap in the bamboo. Outside, under the pale moonlight, a figure was moving toward our house. It was tall, thin, and stooped, wrapped in what looked like a dark shawl. It moved in a strange, jerky manner, pausing every few steps.

My heart began to pound. I wanted to call out to my mother, but my voice was stuck in my throat. The figure stopped right in front of our wall, so close I could see the folds of its clothing. It tilted its head, as if listening. Then, it slowly reached out a long, gray hand and pressed it against the bamboo, right where I was looking. A cold shiver ran through me, and I pulled back, covered my mouth.

When I looked again, the eyes were gone. The figure had vanished. I told myself it was just a shadow, a trick of the moon. I buried my face in my pillow and tried to sleep. But then I heard a whisper, so faint, right by my ear. It said, ‘I see you.’ I squeezed my eyes shut, convinced it was my imagination.

The next morning, I told my mother, but she just laughed and said it was probably a neighbor walking home drunk. But I couldn’t shake the feeling. That afternoon, I went outside to look at the wall where the figure had touched. There, on the bamboo, were three long scratch marks, as if something with sharp nails had gouged the surface.

Years passed, and I tried to forget. But a few months ago, I returned to the village to help my parents renovate the old house. We decided to replace the bamboo walls with wooden planks. As we tore down the old wall, I noticed something tucked between the bamboo strips: a small, faded photograph. It was of a woman with dark eyes, wearing a shawl, standing in front of our house. On the back, in handwriting I didn’t recognize, were the words, ‘You should not have looked.’

I asked my parents about it, but they had never seen it. The woman looked oddly familiar, and then it hit me: she was the figure from that night, but younger, and her eyes were the same. I asked the village elders, but no one knew her. One old woman whispered, ‘That’s the weaver. She lived alone at the edge of the forest. She died a long time ago.’

Since that day, I’ve felt a presence in the house. Sometimes, at night, I hear that rhythmic scraping outside. And when I look through the gaps in the new wooden wall, I see her standing there, staring back at me, her mouth moving silently. She’s waiting for me to look again.