The Beckoning Light

In 1932, deep in the heart of the Belgian Congo, where the jungle pressed against the village like a living wall, my grandfather, Marcel, was a young man of nineteen. He and his cousin, Gabriel, were tasked with guarding the family’s manioc fields from wild boar and leopards. They would set up a small shelter at the edge of the clearing, build a fire, and take turns keeping watch through the night, their only light a kerosene lantern that threw long, dancing shadows.

That particular night was colder than any they had known, the air thick with a damp chill that seeped into their bones. They huddled close to the fire, but it seemed to give no warmth. Their teeth chattered, and they wrapped themselves in rough blankets that did little to stave off the cold. Gabriel, shivering violently, suggested they walk around to warm up, but Marcel, feeling an inexplicable dread, urged caution. Just then, from the dense jungle beyond the field, a faint, flickering light appeared. It was small, like a firefly, but steady, moving slowly along the edge of the trees.

Curiosity and desperation for warmth drove them. They decided to follow the light, thinking it might be a lost traveler with a lamp, or perhaps a villager from a neighboring settlement. They left their shelter, stepping into the wet grass, and made their way toward the glow. As they drew closer, the light seemed to retreat, always staying just ahead of them. It led them through a narrow gap in the trees into a part of the jungle they had never seen before, where the canopy blotted out the stars and the air grew still and heavy.

The light stopped near a massive, gnarled tree. Its trunk was split, revealing a hollow within. Inside the hollow, they saw a man, or what they thought was a man, but his skin was like bark, and his eyes glowed like embers. He beckoned them closer with a long, bony finger. Marcel felt a wave of fear, but it was as if his legs moved on their own. Gabriel let out a strangled cry and tried to run, but the tree’s roots snaked out from the ground, wrapping around his ankles, pulling him down. Marcel froze, watching in horror as the roots dragged Gabriel toward the hollow, where the creature opened its mouth impossibly wide, and Gabriel’s screams were swallowed.

Marcel fought against the invisible force, digging his heels into the earth, but he was no match. He felt himself being drawn in, the roots slithering up his legs. In a final, desperate act, he pulled out his machete and slashed at the roots, severing them for a moment. He turned and ran, the light now chasing him, a menacing glow that seemed to laugh as it sped past him. He burst through the jungle, back to his field, where the fire had burned low. He collapsed by the fire, shaking, and did not sleep for the rest of the night. When dawn came, he made his way back to the village, and the elders saw the terror in his eyes. They asked what had happened, but he could only stammer that Gabriel had been taken by the spirits of the forest.

They mounted a search, but they never found Gabriel. Only a few days later, Marcel began to suffer from seizures, violent fits that would strike him without warning. The village shaman said he had been touched by the thing in the tree, and that a part of it now lived inside him, waiting. Marcel spent the rest of his life in fear, never returning to the fields at night, and always keeping a knife by his bed. He told me this story once, his eyes wide with terror, as he clutched his head during a seizure, and I saw the image of that glowing creature burned into his mind. To this day, I cannot look at a tree at night without thinking of the hollow in its trunk, and the light that beckons from the dark.