Noćnik

Great War Island, at the confluence of the Danube and Sava rivers, was so named because of its strategic importance in both the defense and siege of Belgrade. Officially, it was uninhabited, but there were a few of us who summered there in shanties--tending our gardens in solitude just a few hundred meters outside of the old city. Hidden behind a dense woodland, it might as well have been miles away. It had been a mistake to come here in early spring when the night air was still bitterly cold and there would be no one near to hear my screams. 

My heart was racing and sweat beaded up across my brow. It was time, and I was frantic. I knew that, at any moment, it would come for me--just like it had late at night when I was a child. 

Belgrade itself was no stranger to recurring nightmares. Countless times, the city had been raided and leveled by marauders, violated and passed about from Celts to Romans to Byzantines and Franks, juggled between Austrians and Turks. For ravenous, warmongering men, she was an object to be conquered and ravaged. 

Over the centuries, the walls were fortified and held for a time. But while they were keeping out Ottoman invaders, they also kept in pestilence and famine. 

In the cabin, the curtains, like swollen bubos, inflated into the candle-lit room with the brisk outdoor breeze. I pushed them aside and rushed to close the shutters, which I slammed and bolted in place. I ran to the door and, after fumbling for several seconds with my skeleton key, managed to lock it. I slid a chair toward it, screeching across the bare wooden floor, and propped it under the knob. 

At my bed I made the sign of the cross on my pillow before turning it over. This was the Serbian ritual for keeping the demon or mora away passed down over generations. I remembered how my mother taught it to me one sleepless night when I was a small child. The thought gave me some momentary comfort. But then the candle suddenly went out. 

I dove under the covers, shaking violently. It was dark and silent except for the chattering of my teeth. Then I saw it. A green light came in through the keyhole. It flowed in like a vapor at first and then began to take the shape of a luminescent moth. It approached the bed slowly growing and transforming into a large hairy beast. 

All the while, there was a weight building on my chest, and I began to struggle for each breath. Gnarly limbs grew up from the floor and tied my wrists back against the bedpost as I writhed with terror and began to sob. 

Suddenly, I could hear a woman's voice. It seemed to be coming from inside of me, reverberating through me. 

"You can change how it ends, Danijela," it said. "You MUST change how it ends." 

The mora hovered over me, approaching my face with breath like burning sulfur. It hissed and snarled and bore stiletto-like teeth. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. This isn't real, I thought to myself. I have the power to end this. No sooner had I thought it than a knife appeared in my hand, and with a single thrust, I broke my arm free and plunged the blade into the beast. It shrieked and shattered into gravel and dust. The viny limb binding my left arm loosened and fell as it turned to yarn. 

The voice returned. 

"Now, on the count of three you will awaken from your trance." 

"1... 2... 3." 

***** 

The room was bright. It took some time to adjust my eyes and acclimate myself to my new surroundings. I was lying on a rust-colored teak sofa, and there was a table by my feet holding an antique stained-glass lamp and a box of tissues. From somewhere, on a clock radio perhaps, Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 was playing faintly. 

"You were very brave today, Danijela." 

Dr. Obrenovic's voice was soft and soothing, but as I looked down at my still trembling hands, I could not ignore the bruised and swollen wrists that met them. They were reminders that the horrors of the past could not easily be overcome.