The Serenade of the Frangipani Tree

In the sweltering heat of a small coastal town in Kerala, my family and I moved into a weathered bungalow that had stood empty for years. The house was surrounded by a dense grove of frangipani trees, their flowers pale as bone and fragrant with a sweetness that seemed to cling to the air. The locals avoided the property, muttering about the trees being home to a yakshi—a spirit who lured travelers with her haunting songs and led them into the wilderness, never to return. I was sixteen then, too old to believe such tales, but too young to dismiss them entirely.

From the first night, I noticed something strange: my sleep would break at precisely 1:03 AM, and I would hear a woman’s voice, soft and mellifluous, as if she sang from just beyond my window. The melody was mournful, yet beautifully hypnotic, and it seemed to dissolve my anxieties, carrying me back into a dreamless, restful slumber. I had suffered from night terrors since childhood, but with this lullaby, they vanished. I began to look forward to the nightly vigil, even if a chill ran down my spine each time I woke.

One evening, when my parents were away visiting relatives and I was left alone, a fierce monsoon storm swept in from the Arabian Sea. The sky turned an ugly green, and rain lashed against the windows like fists. I sat in my room, headphones on, playing a video game to drown out the thunder, when the power cut—pitch black, save for the occasional lightning flash. The house groaned, and then, as if in response, the front door began to hammer violently, as though something massive wanted to break in. I hid under my desk, heart pounding, and tried to call my parents, but the phone line was dead. In that moment of terror, I heard the woman’s song rise above the storm, but this time it was different—it was urgent, commanding, like a warning.

The banging stopped as suddenly as it had begun. A silence settled, broken only by dripping water and the distant rumble of thunder. I peered out from under the desk, and through the window, I saw a figure standing beneath the largest frangipani tree—a woman in a white sari, her face obscured by the rain, her hair streaming like black ink. She was pointing at the front door. When our eyes met, despite the darkness, I felt a wave of calm wash over me. She raised a hand, and I saw what looked like a small, shriveled creature clinging to her shoulder. It hissed, baring needle-thin teeth, and she shushed it gently, as one would a child. Then she turned and vanished into the grove.

The storm passed, and the next morning, I found three deep scratches on the floor near the front door, as if made by giant claws. My parents dismissed it as damage from the storm, but I knew better. I sought out the local imam, who had blessed the house shortly after we moved in. He listened with a grave expression, then said, ‘The yakshi is not malevolent, boy. She is a guardian of this land. The creature you saw with her—that was a kuberan, a mischief spirit, attracted by the anger and fear in this house. She kept it at bay.’ He advised me to leave a bowl of milk and jasmine flowers beneath the frangipani tree each night.

I did as he said, and every night, the milk and flowers were gone by morning. The serenade continued, but now it felt less like a lullaby and more like a secret shared between two friends. However, I noticed that on nights when I skipped the offering, the banging would return, and I would wake up with nightmares more vivid than ever. I grew dependent on the ritual, and on the voice that kept my demons away.

It was on the night before we were to move out—my father had been transferred—that I had my final encounter. I went to place the offering, but the frangipani tree was gone. A branch had fallen, and the main trunk looked rotted. In its place, a single, unearthly pale flower lay on the ground. I bent to pick it up, and I heard the woman’s voice, closer than ever, whispering in my ear, ‘Do not forget me. The night will call you back.’ I turned, but there was no one. When my family drove away the next day, I looked back and saw, among the teeming green, a flash of white. I have never admitted it to anyone, but I carry that frangipani flower in a locket, and sometimes, when I lay it on my pillow, I hear the song again—and I sleep without fear.