Not a sound came from the house. I moved on tiptoe, silent as a ghost. I assumed my mother was asleep, but a nagging doubt—the fear that she might actually be listening quietly—sat heavy in my chest. When I opened my bedroom door, it creaked; I slipped inside at once, desperate not to be caught. Just then, my mother called, "Son, are you home? I left your dinner on the table. Eat it." Her voice held its usual warmth, but inside me a storm was raging.
"Okay, Mom, I will," I said, forcing my voice steady and trying to hide the tremor. When I switched on the light and saw myself in the mirror, a chill ran through me. I looked like a soldier fresh from battle: clothes torn, soaked in blood. My body still trembled; the adrenaline was beginning to ebb into shock. The wound on my arm was far worse than a simple bite—it looked like I'd fought a pack of dogs. Every muscle ached, every joint throbbed. As the shock wore off, the pain grew sharper.
I needed to shower, tend to my wounds, and get rid of the clothes. I grabbed my pajamas, a towel, disinfectant, and cotton from the closet and cracked the door. The hallway was empty, but my heart raced at the thought that my mother could appear any second. I hurried into the bathroom. While the water warmed, I stripped off my clothes. The bloodstains were horrific. How could I get rid of them? Hide them and my mother would find out eventually; throw them away and the trash collectors might notice. Best to tackle the stains immediately.
When the water ran warm, I poured it over my head. Fire lanced through my wounds; the heat was unbearable. I clenched my teeth to stop myself from crying out, but a small groan escaped. "Are you okay, son? Did you fall?" my mother called from the doorway. Her concern only tightened the knot in my chest. Every bone in my body felt broken—the pain was relentless.
"I'm fine, Mom, I just slipped," I lied, swallowing the tremor. Pouring the water a second time made the pain flare again. When I lathered shampoo, I was too afraid to close both eyes; even as the soap stung my eyes, I kept one open, terrified the darkness would bring that creature back. Hands shaking, I scrubbed the blood and grime from my skin, each motion frantic and mechanical.
Then came the clothes. I poured shampoo over them and scrubbed until my arms shook, but the stains clung stubbornly. My resolve began to fray; hot tears blurred my vision. "Why won't it come out? Why? God, please help me—I don't want to go to prison," I whispered, hands cold and numb from fear.
I spotted the detergent and poured it over the fabric, stomping with my feet, rubbing with what strength remained. Finally, after one last rinse, the blood surrendered, and the stains washed away. I could throw the clothes out. Before leaving the bathroom, I carefully cleaned all my wounds again and returned to my room.
My stomach growled, but I had no appetite. On the plate was my favorite—içli köfte, bulgur dumplings stuffed with minced meat and fried. But the thought of the filling made me nauseous; the creature's flesh and blood surged in my mind. That night, I vomited repeatedly. Sleep tugged at me, but every time I closed my eyes, that thing returned. Fear kept my eyelids open. I went to the window and stared at the stars. They were distant and silent; their calm offered a sliver of comfort. Maybe, I thought, they could hold my secret.
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