A Spooky Tale - The Murdered Man's Blood

SOME people have this ability to 'feel' things. Supernatural things. On one hand it is a blight because it evokes a sense of alarm and anxiety. On the other hand, it can be viewed as a blessing in disguise simply because it puts oneself on constant alert.

This instinctive inclination towards the unseen is something I have come to accept and live with. It is not something that can be breezily explained in simple terms. It's more like a hunch, an inkling, a sensation.

The earliest I could recall was in the early 1960s when I was in primary school in that iron mining station of Bukit Besi, some 22 miles inland from Dungun. I was probably eight or nine at the time.

There was a wooden bridge spanning a placid river right in the heart of Bukit Besi. Located about 1,000 metres away from my house in Kampung Baru, the bridge was the scene of a 'fight-to-the-death' between two Malay men. I no longer remember who and why.

All I could recall was it happened in the late afternoon, and that my grandfather, who had just returned home from work, hurried to the scene, joining the throng of horrified spectators already gathering there.

No one dared go near to pull apart the combating duo, for both were armed. They grappled and fought like men possessed, and eventually one perished on the spot from multiple stab wounds as Maghrib neared.

I can't remember what happened to the other. He must have been arrested by the police; Bukit Besi then had a minuscule police presence, maybe a two-man team.

As the shocked onlookers cleared the erstwhile battleground, for some strange reason, Grandpa joined some brave (maybe foolish?) souls to scoop up the bloodied earth to take home.

To this day I don't know why. He wasn't a bomoh (shaman) or anything; in fact, he was a very warak (pious), God-fearing man, to whom the nearby surau (mini-mosque) was a second home.

The blood-caked earth was then lodged high up on a shelf in the bathroom, and it was in the wee hours of the morning when I was awakened by an almighty din, crushing the stillness of the night to smithereens.

From the bathroom emitted a series of chilling howls and shrieks and screeches in terrifying crescendo, shaking the house to its foundation. The sounds were guttural and piercing, unearthly shrills enough to wake the dead.

And I was the sole beneficiary of this unwelcome racket, while others slumbered on peacefully. Quaking with fear, hardly able to stand and to contain myself (literally too!), I wobbled over, bawling, to my grandparents' bedroom.

Suffice to say Grandpa had enough sense (and courage) to pluck the packet from its perch and place it outside the house that very same morning.

I don't recall what he did with it eventually. He must have buried it high up in the lush hills somewhere, as they were wont to do with such 'unsavoury' baggage those days.