The Mud Man of Veldt Street

I live in a small town called Karoo’s End, tucked into the dry heart of South Africa. Our house is a squat, red-brick bungalow with a tin roof that creaks all day under the sun. Inside, it’s cool and dim, with a long passage that bends like an elbow. At the bend, there’s a wooden door that leads to the pantry, and beyond that, the kitchen. The kitchen has a single window that looks out onto the yard, where a dying acacia tree throws twisted shadows in the afternoon. My grandmother’s room is at the front, facing the street, and my brother and I share a room at the back, next to the bathroom. The bathroom window is frosted glass, always slightly ajar, and it rattles when the wind blows from the west.

It was a Tuesday, just after Easter. I was at the kitchen sink, scrubbing potatoes for supper, while my mother sat at the table, shelling peas. The radio played soft Afrikaans music, and the smell of lamb stew hung in the air. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shape pass the pantry door—a tall, thin figure, moving slowly toward the bathroom. I turned fully, but the passage was empty. My blood went cold, not because I believed in ghosts, but because the figure had been so clear: a man in a long coat, with a hunched shoulder, like he was carrying something heavy. I asked my mother if she saw anyone. She laughed and said it was probably the neighbour’s dog squeezing under the fence. But I knew what I saw.

The next day, I found muddy footprints in the passage—not the usual dust, but wet, dark mud, as if someone had walked through the dried riverbed behind our house. The footprints led from the pantry to the bathroom, then stopped. There were no prints going back. My brother, Johan, said I was seeing things, but he also avoided the bathroom that evening. That night, I lay in bed listening to the wind rattle the bathroom window. Around midnight, I heard a soft, squelching sound, like something being pressed against the wall. I pulled the blanket over my head and whispered a prayer.

By the third day, the house began to feel wrong. The air grew thick, even with the windows open. The kettle boiled slower. The radio hissed with static. And the smell—it started in the passage, a damp, earthy smell, like wet clay and rust. My mother tried to find the source, checking under the house and in the roof, but found nothing. That evening, I saw the figure again. I was walking to my room when I passed the bathroom. The door was ajar, and in the darkness, I saw a man kneeling on the floor, his back to me. He was wearing a brown suit, caked with mud. He was rhythmically pressing something into the floor—like he was shaping clay. I backed away, heart hammering, and locked myself in my room.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I heard the squelching continue for hours, moving through the walls, into the kitchen, into the pantry. By morning, the house was silent, but the floor of the bathroom was caked in dried mud. The footprints were gone, replaced by a single set of bare feet, small, like a child’s, leading from the bath to the shower. My mother called the pastor. He came, sprinkled holy water, and said it was a trick of the light. But as he left, I saw him shake his head and whisper to my mother, ‘Get the house blessed by a sangoma.’

That evening, I decided to stay up and see what came. I sat in the passage, in the dark, waiting. Around midnight, the pantry door creaked open. A figure emerged—tall, thin, with mud oozing from its skin. It walked toward the bathroom, dragging a wet sound with each step. As it passed me, I saw its face: not a face, but a smooth, featureless mound of clay, with a single, dark crack where a mouth might be. It stopped at the bathroom door, paused, and turned towards me. The crack widened, and a low, bubbling sound came out—like mud slurping. Then it entered the bathroom and closed the door. I ran to my room, grabbed my brother, and we fled to my grandmother’s room. We locked the door and didn’t sleep.

The next morning, we all left the house and drove to my aunt’s place in town. When we returned, days later, the house was empty, clean, and dry. The mud was gone, and no figure ever appeared again. But sometimes, at night, when the wind blows from the west, I hear a squelching sound from the bathroom, and the frosted glass rattles. And I know that the mud man is still there, waiting patiently, shaping something in the dark.