The Oil Man on Jade Street

I was eleven when my family moved to the dusty outskirts of Barrow Creek, a town that seemed to hold its breath under the weight of the outback sun. Our house was a squat, sun-bleached bungalow with a corrugated iron roof, and next door stood the Marlow place, a two-story Victorian relic that creaked and groaned like an old ship. Mrs. Marlow was expecting her third child, and her belly was a taut, glowing dome that she cradled as she waddled to the clothesline each morning. I was a restless sleeper, and on hot nights, I would slip out the back door to pee against the rusted fence that separated our yards. The air smelled of eucalyptus and dry earth, and the moon, when it was full, turned the world into a silver stage.

One night, around late spring, I woke with a full bladder and the familiar itch of restlessness. The moon was huge and white, so bright it cast sharp shadows of the fence posts across the gravel. I padded barefoot to the back corner, my eyes adjusting to the lunar glare. As I stood there, half-asleep, my gaze drifted to the Marlow’s back window, which faced our yard. The window was barred with old wrought iron, and the room inside was dark. But against the bars, something moved. At first, I thought it was a branch swaying in the breeze, but the air was still, and the motion was too deliberate. It was a figure, a man, clinging to the bars, his body swaying left and right as if he were trying to pull them free. He was naked, but not in a human way. His skin was black, like charcoal, and slick with oil that gleamed under the moon. He was maybe three meters away, close enough that I could see the sheen and the texture of his skin.

I froze, my own stream forgotten. He hadn’t noticed me yet, his head tilted up as if sniffing the air. His hands were long, with fingers that wrapped around the iron like wet leather. And then he turned. His eyes were red, raw, and bulging from their sockets, like boiled eggs with infernal yolks. His mouth was open, a black hole, and saliva dripped from his chin, catching the moonlight. He stared at me, and I stared back, for what felt like minutes but must have been only seconds. Then he hissed, a sound like steam escaping a pipe, and in a fluid motion, he leaped from the window onto the roof above, his limbs bending at impossible angles. I watched as he scrambled up the tiles, and then, from the peak, he spread his arms and something unfolded from his back—wings, dark and tattered, like bat wings but larger, and they beat once, twice, and he was gone, a black shape swallowed by the sky.

I stood there, trembling, the night suddenly cold. I didn’t shout or run back inside; I was too stunned. I finished my business on autopilot and returned to my room, but sleep was impossible. I lay in the dark, replaying the image of those red eyes, that oily skin, those wings. The next morning, I told my parents. They laughed it off, telling me I must have seen a kangaroo or a large bird, that my imagination was running wild. But Mrs. Marlow didn’t come out to hang clothes that day. The curtains in her room were drawn tight. At breakfast, my mother mentioned that Mrs. Marlow had been feeling unwell, maybe the heat. I didn’t believe it.

Over the next week, I kept my eyes on the Marlow house. The figure didn’t return, but the house felt different. The air around it was thick, humming with a low frequency that made my teeth ache. At night, I’d lie in bed and listen for sounds—a hiss, a scraping—but only the wind through the gum trees. Then, on the sixth night, I awoke to a scream. It was high-pitched, animal, coming from next door. I ran to my window. The moon was waning, but still bright, and I saw the Marlows’ front door burst open, and Mr. Marlow stumbled out, his face white as paper. He was shouting something, pointing at the roof. Mrs. Marlow followed, clutching her belly, her nightgown soaked with blood. And behind them, on the roof’s edge, crouched the oil-black man, his wings folded, his red eyes fixed on the couple. He opened his mouth, and a sound came out—not a hiss, but a low, guttural chant, like a song from a throat not meant for speech. The chant twisted the air, and the ground beneath my feet seemed to ripple.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the creature launched itself into the sky and disappeared, leaving only the echo of that chant. The Marlows left that night, packing a few things into their truck and driving off, leaving their house silent and empty. The police came, but they found nothing, and the case was closed as a mysterious miscarriage, a tragic accident. I was the only one who knew the truth, and I told no one again, not even my parents, because I could see in their eyes that they didn’t want to believe me. I was a child, and children are liars.

Years passed, and I grew up, moved away, tried to forget. But the image of that creature, the Oil Man, as I came to call him, never left me. I read every book on cryptids, on folklore, on the monsters that lurk at the edges of human habitation. I learned about the jinn, the rakshasa, the demon that feeds on the unborn. And I began to notice a pattern. These beings are drawn to places of transition—birth, death, and the in-between. They mark their territory, and they wait.

Last month, I received a letter from an old neighbor in Barrow Creek. The Marlow house had been sold to a young couple expecting their first child. The letter said the new wife had been having nightmares, hearing a chant outside her window, feeling watched. The letter was from my mother, and it was filled with the same doubt I’d faced all those years ago, but there was an undercurrent of fear. She asked if I remembered anything from that time, anything that might help.

I didn’t reply. Instead, I booked a flight. I’m writing this from a motel a mile from the old house, the very room I stayed in as a boy. The moon is full tonight, and I’m standing at the back fence, the rusted iron cool against my palm. The house is lit in the upstairs window, and I can see the silhouette of a woman, her belly round, her hands pressed against the glass. And behind her, in the shadow, something moves. Something black and oily, with wings that spread wide. I should run, but I can’t. I made a promise to myself, years ago, that if I ever saw him again, I would stand my ground. I would ask him what he wants. I would not be a child frozen in fear. I would be a man who stares back.

He hisses, and the sound is familiar. My knees buckle, but I hold onto the fence. He tilts his head, and then he speaks, in a voice that cracks like dry mud, ‘You see me now, boy. You are not a boy anymore. Your fear has fed me well. But I am always hungry.’ And he leaps, his wings spreading, the moon eclipsed by his form. And I remember, too late, that in all the folklore, the one rule is never to let them see you run. But I have no choice. I turn, and I run, and I feel his oily fingers brush the back of my neck. And I know, as the scream builds in my throat, that this time, he will not let me go.