The Weeping Jar

My grandmother on my mother’s side, a wizened woman from the highlands of Papua New Guinea, taught me the old ways. She warned me about the ‘Muri’, spirits that linger in the shadows of the rainforest, attracted to the scent of fear and the echoes of unfinished business. She told me never to leave a jar of water open at night, for it was an invitation for a weary spirit to drink, and once they drank, they would follow you, bound by gratitude. And she warned me to never, ever look directly into the eyes of a visitor who came at the stroke of midnight, for they might not be of this world.

I moved to the mainland for college, leaving the lush green mountains and the salty spray of the Pacific behind. I settled in a dusty, forgotten town in the high desert of Arizona, where the sun bleached everything to a pale, lifeless yellow. The apartment I rented was an old converted motel, with thin walls and a window that faced a vast, empty expanse of scrub and rock. The locals kept to themselves, and the only sounds at night were the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional cry of a coyote in the distance.

One evening, after a long day of classes, I came home exhausted. As I dragged myself through the door, my eyes fell on the kitchen counter, where a glass jar filled with water sat, its lid left off. The sight sent a chill down my spine. My grandmother’s voice echoed in my mind. I quickly screwed the lid on and placed it in the fridge, trying to dismiss the unease that settled in my stomach. I told myself it was just a silly superstition, a relic of a childhood in a world of magic and myth.

That night, I tossed and turned, unable to shake a feeling of being watched. The air conditioner rattled, and the shadows in the corners seemed deeper than they should be. I finally fell into a restless sleep. At some point, I woke with a start. The room was pitch black, and the air was still and cold. I could feel a presence, a heavy weight pressing down on me. I struggled to open my eyes, and when I did, I saw a figure standing at the foot of my bed. It was tall and gaunt, its skin the color of dried clay, and its eyes were two pits of darkness, shimmering with a faint, oily sheen. It made no sound, but I felt its gaze boring into me, and in that moment, I remembered my grandmother’s warning about the midnight visitor.

I snapped my eyes shut and squeezed them tight, willing the thing to dissolve into the night. My heart pounded in my ears, and I was drenched in cold sweat. I whispered a prayer to the old spirits, asking them to protect me. After an eternity, I felt the pressure lift, and the sound of the air conditioner returned. I slowly opened my eyes, and the figure was gone. I lay there, trembling, until the first gray light of dawn crept through the window.

The next night, I made sure to keep every lid on every container, and I set a bowl of salt by the door, a trick my grandmother had taught me to repel evil. But as I lay in bed, I felt the same presence. This time, I kept my eyes firmly shut, refusing to look. I could feel it moving closer, its cold breath on my face. And then, I heard a sound, faint and pathetic—the sound of someone drinking. It was a sloppy, greedy sound, like a parched animal at a waterhole. The sound seemed to come from the kitchen, from the direction of the fridge.

I forced myself out of bed, my legs like jelly. I crept into the kitchen, and there, in the dim light of the moon, I saw the jar from the previous night sitting on the counter. The lid was off, and the water was nearly gone. The air was heavy with the scent of dust and something else, something like old, dried blood. I stood frozen, staring at the jar, and then I noticed a set of wet footprints leading from the counter to the door, and then back to the foot of my bed. I had a sickening realization: the spirit had accepted my offering, and now it was bound to me, following me wherever I would go.

From that night on, the spirit was a constant companion. It never hurt me, but it was always there, just at the edge of my vision. I would catch a glimpse of its gaunt form in the reflection of a window, or feel its cold presence sitting next to me on the bus. My grades began to slip, and I felt a constant, draining exhaustion. The locals would give me strange looks, and even the stray dogs would whine and avoid me. I knew I had to find a way to break the bond, to send it back to the other side.

I called my grandmother, the only one who might understand. She listened in silence as I recounted what had happened, and when I was done, she let out a long, weary sigh. ‘You have done a forbidden thing,’ she said. ‘You gave it a drink, and now it belongs to you. To send it away, you must give it what it truly desires: a life for a life. You must find a new vessel, a living vessel, to bind it to, or you must offer it a piece of your own soul.’

I hung up the phone, my mind racing. I couldn’t give it another person’s life, and the thought of sacrificing a piece of myself was terrifying. But I knew I couldn’t live like this. I searched through my grandmother’s old teachings, hoping for a loophole. And then I remembered a story she told me once, about a hunter who trapped a spirit in a bottle of rum and threw it into the sea. Maybe I could do something similar, trap the spirit in a jar and bury it deep where it couldn’t find its way back.

I decided to try. I found a heavy ceramic urn with a tight-fitting lid, and I filled it with salt and dried herbs that my grandmother had sent me—sage, rosemary, and something that looked like dried mushrooms. I waited for the next full moon, and at midnight, I called out to the spirit. I could feel it stirring, its cold breath on my neck. I commanded it to enter the urn, saying the old words my grandmother had taught me, words that tasted like smoke and earth. The air in the room swirled, and I felt a violent resistance, but I pressed on, my voice growing stronger. Finally, with a sound like a gasp, the pressure vanished, and I slammed the lid on the urn, sealing it with wax.

I dug a hole in the backyard, beneath a dead, gnarled tree, and I buried the urn deep. As I patted down the last shovelful of dirt, I felt a profound sense of peace. For the first time in weeks, I was alone in my own skin. I went back inside, took a long, hot shower, and slept through the night for the first time since this nightmare began.

The next morning, I woke to a bright, clear day. I felt light, almost giddy, as if a great weight had been lifted. I went to the kitchen to make coffee, and there, on the counter, sat a small, dusty jar, its lid off. The jar was filled with water, and there was a single, deep crack running down its side. My blood ran cold. I knew, with a sickening certainty, that the spirit had not been trapped. It had merely found a new home, and it was waiting for me to make a mistake. I heard a faint, gurgling sound, like a man drinking, and I turned around to see the figure standing in the doorway, its eyes as dark and empty as the night I first saw it. It raised a long, dry hand, and pointed a finger at me, and then it spoke, its voice like the rustle of dead leaves: ‘You cannot bury me. I am part of you now.’

I fled the apartment that day, leaving everything behind. I moved to a new city, a new state, trying to outrun the spirit. But no matter where I go, I always check the water jars, I always keep the lids on tight, and I never, ever drink from a cup that’s been left uncovered overnight. Because I know that somewhere, in my shadow, there is a lonely spirit, waiting for me to quench its insatiable thirst. And when I die, I will become one with it, and we will wander the earth together, forever seeking the comfort of a drink that will never satisfy.