Children of the Nareepol Tree

We linked arms around the house. Hung amulets on all three floors. Duct-taped every door back. Lined our floor trimmings with protective thread from the temple. Secured and fastened each lock on every window in all five bedrooms. Joined our palms and pled all versions of namo tassa—Oh, exalted One, let us seek refuge in your light—by our pillows. Within minutes of laying down, we crashed: Diamond stirred from under my limbs, and Riches expelled gentle snores lulling me to dream.

The stench of burnt pork woke us up.

Coughing, I turned left to the source, caught shadows reaching over our windowsills, and screamed.

Moonlight haloed their pear-shaped silhouettes squished against the glass. A fence of heads growing out of fledgling bodies looked in; their limbs budded unevenly in contorted angles; their faces, black voids. Some waved for us to go over.

My brothers joined in yelling. Our knees and elbows hit the hardwood floors first. We didn’t stop hollering until our grandmother barged in; light switch flipped. “Calm! They can’t come inside with everything locked.”

We slowly unclasped ourselves. Only the trees swayed outside now, dry leaves rustling in the breeze. Diamond stood up to help Ama straighten our sheets and fluff our covers, both muttering incantations to ward our visitors away. Riches remained curled and peered over his knees.

“Are we really going to sleep here after that?” I whispered.

“What’s the worst they could do, come back?” Diamond shot back, conveniently forgetting he was cowered between us a few minutes ago.

“Do you get excited knowing you’re being watched?”

“No one is coming back,” Ama said. After tying monk-blessed strings on our window handles, she tottered over and pulled us in.

“You three, listen,” she said. “Spirits cannot be banished; they must leave on their own accord. We can either drag our feet through this, or sail through one day at a time.”

________

We had barely unpacked the next day when soldiers from the U.S. embassy dropped by. Flanked by two new haughty-nosed grunts, Colonel Harris asked to speak to our father again, replaying this exact scene from last month. “We said what we said,” we heard Ama tell her, “Come back on Monday!” Door closed. Bolts clicked. Papa yelled for one of us to let them in, so we rock-paper-scissored whose turn it was—Diamond’s. Riches and I saluted as they sauntered up our winding stairs, waited until their footsteps disappeared, then clambered behind.

The adults conferred in dulcet tones, huddled in the sitting room, aware that we were spying from opposite glass pocket doors. Diamond nudged his ear into the gap, reciting Papa’s words like, “tragedy,” “no news,” and “no clue,” while Riches and I raked our brains of the past January putty-knifing spackle, knocking down closets, and mopping our hallways with Ama. Then Colonel Harris asked if she could “Speak to your children,” and the doors flung open, knocking us back.

“Boys; take the gentlemen into the kitchen, and Sapphire, you’ll stay here this time,” Papa said, reticent. “Don’t worry, I’ll be checking in on all of you.”

Colonel Harris motioned for me to take a seat and I noticed all of their teacups were untouched. I didn’t blame them. Our white stucco-walls covered in canvas and tarp-ready for the painters gave the room a bleached-sterile tint—no one inhaled comfortably here. We had hauled a few pieces of furniture inside to table our supplies, paint brushes and buckets Colonel Harris had slid aside to set up a tape recorder. I waited out of respect until she sank into Papa’s office-chair, then sprung onto Mama’s drop-clothed settee.

“I promise everything you say today will be kept private. We’re simply here to rule out that there was no foul play concerning Christopher Sandler’s death,” she said.

I sank back more, wary of the reeling static and jiggled my legs, crinkling the paper shield beneath me. Colonel Harris’ persistence didn’t waver; her skin was...