The babysitter excitedly fidgeted in bed. It was an unrealistic and dreadful nightmare, which abruptly ended with that phone call. The room was dim and chilly, and she couldn’t find the phone. It continued ringing and she wasn’t able to place it, nor the socks she clearly retraced lying next to the bed. It was really annoying. Somehow still inside the bugaboo she thought he may be a foot fetish, twisted and obsessed over her, stealing and sniffing them all day. That creepy sock-puppet lover disguised as a clown … she didn’t really want to know. She was nervous now. The phone stopped ringing.
After awhile it ringed again. She recollected something written with blood on that closing wall that prevented her from escaping the dream: “Aren’t you glad you didn’t turn on the lights?” But she wanted it now, irrationally terrified of posing her delicate feet on shattered glass, or because that terrible freak was hidden now under her bed, waiting with his gelid hands to hold her by the ankles… She felt a chill up her spine, as someone walking on his own grave. She couldn’t move from the bed. The phone stopped ringing again.
She stuck her hand out by the bed groping on the floor around looking for the socks, or crystals… now aghast under the bed … the icy phalanges of the nightmare… and found nothing, so she move her hand out … to feel a cold and gritty lick on it. Her heart nearly exploded while removing the arm as a lightning to the improbable security under the covers. She was terrified now.
The mortal silence blew up with the shocking ring of the phone making her jump on the bed, her chest twice in the two last seconds about to bust, and then she dig herself deep in the bedding so her breathing became difficult. It continued ringing as she started feeling as someone buried alive. She needed to get out, the sheets now as heavy as a slab making her sweat profusely. The phone didn’t stop, and hysterically trying to scratch her way out of the embalming coffin she got out, and guided in the dark by its sound finally found the device and answered … but she heard no one on the other end … just silence, then whoever it was hanged up. She slammed the phone down, terrified … and almost immediately it ringed again. “Leave me alone!” she screamed while slamming it again.
After a few more minutes the phone ringed again. She answered, and this time there was a man on the line who said in a chilling voice,
“Have you checked the boy?”
“Humm! The boy? she mumbled, “The boy? … No… yes… the boy!”
“I see you were sound asleep“, the voice said, “Please check on him”
“Yes, sorry… I’m checking now, sorry sir” … then he hanged up.
She run to the switch and the light flooded the room. In one corner the cat playing with one of her socks. She quickly went to the bathroom as she had something urgent to verify. “Still dark brown”, she cried with joy smiling at the thought that her hair had turned white, as her mother used to say that happens to people after being terrified.
Calmed now she went upstairs to check the boy, and there, written in blood on the wall, were the words, “Aren’t you glad you didn’t turn on the light?” The boy was lying on his bed, as sleeping … if not for the blood. Murdered.
In the “Diula” language in Mali, the term « dugutigui » (chief of the village), literally translated, means: «owner of the village»; «dugu» means village and «tigui», owner. Probably the term is the result of the contraction of «dugu kuntigui» (literally: chief of the village).