The little girl suspected a baka hid within her rag doll collection, its segmented legs concealed by folds of fabric. Although she couldn’t see the creature, she sensed its presence. The demon was there, watching her, salivating under all those smiling faces.
She was sure of it.
Once again she peered over the lip of her hammock, but the creature withdrew deeper into its hiding place. No, it was only shadows, she told herself - a trick of the candlelight shifting in the night air. Her mind’s just playing games, that’s all.
She hadn’t slept well since her father left two nights ago. Every shadow was a claw. Every smell, a baka’s rotting breath. Even the crickets made her nervous, for this evening they’d fallen deathly quiet.
Her stomach growled in the silence, and that gave her an idea. So she flipped out of her hammock and landed cat-like onto the cold slate. Keeping her eyes on the doll pile, she backed out of her bedroom and hurried into the kitchen. A loaf of bread rested on the table there, left over from dinner. If she laid a slice on the common room floor, maybe the baka would eat that instead of her.
She cut off a chunk and squared it neatly onto a clean plate. The baka would probably like butter, she thought. So she slathered on a generous helping and took a bite. Yes, this would keep her safe. She placed the offering in the common room and shuffled back to her bedroom. Wrestling with her hammock, she settled down under the sheet and listened.
Scratching, from outside.
“Who’s there?” she called out, peering back towards the bread and the front door beyond. No one answered. In fact, there were no sounds at all. Usually the desert winds blew spirals of dust under the doorframe. But something now blocked the sand; something crouched on the front step.
“Father, visitors.” She hoped the tremble in her voice didn’t betray this lie, because right now she was very much alone. Her father wouldn’t return from his expedition for several days, maybe a week. But she’d locked the house just like he’d asked, double-checking the bolt to be sure.
She ducked back under the sheet and wrapped it tightly around her head. The cloth barely muffled the noises, however, and a sound more terrifying than the scratching reached her ears: the sharp metal snap of a lock turning.
The baka has a key.
That was impossible. Baka couldn’t open locks. The door creaked open, nonetheless, and she heard something scurry into the house. The little girl didn’t want to look, afraid of what she might see. But curiosity finally overcame her fear, and she mustered up enough courage for one final peek.
Everything was silent and still. However, the front door now lay ajar, and a square of moonlight washed over the offering she’d left behind. The little girl stifled a gasp.
Her plate held nothing but crumbs.