Short Story: Mysterious Disappearance

(this short story was published in the Malawi News)

Pastor Samson was one of the numerous people who had received the chain letters. It was a one-paged letter that explained that it originated from The Silent Island. Radio stations across the length and breadth of the earth were broadcasting news about these mysterious letters.

The place itself did not exist on the most detailed world map but most people believed the letters through the conviction that no one would know every place in the world or that the place might have just acquired a new name.

The letters had no detailed addresses of origin. Promises, once the recipient fulfilled the task as directed, ranged from air tickets to desired destinations to millions of dollars. The task appeared to be very simple: just writing twenty copies of the original letter and sending them to twenty of one’s friends.

Pastor Samson spread the letter on his bed.

“This letter originates from The Silent Island…. As long as you write twenty copies of this letter to twenty of your friends, you stand a chance of winning millions of dollars,” went on the letter. “This is the whole procedure: stick no posting stamp of the envelope – luck doesn’t have a price. Put nothing else in the envelope apart from the copy. The letter should be a perfect replica. Include not your name in the letter.”

Who was Pastor Samson to ignore the letter? He thought. That night, he hunched over his reading desk in his study and began to write the letters. Although he didn’t really understand what the letters meant, he made the copies anyway. What mattered was that he should receive the money. After all, he had founded his church because of want of money and here was a grand opportunity he could not pass over.

It was four days later and Pastor Samson had received 10 million kwacha the previous day. Having received the money, he found everything to be literally useless. His church was trivial; his flock was useless and everyone was but nothing. In his phantasms, he could see himself being elevated to the level of the most prominent figures in the country.

The night was cold and still. That January was just like in the heart of the month of June. Everyone, except those baying for the blood of their fellow mankind, was already in bed. Occasionally, low noises could be heard from the chirping of crickets and hooting of owls, pronouncing their nocturnal freedom.

Curled in a thick duvet, the pastor’s wife was peering at her husband who was in deep slumber. It was as though she was trying to see where his nightmares were coming from. He had had terrible nightmares the past two nights. One night, in a nightmare, his clothes had been soaked in his own blood after he had been struck with a double-edged rapier by an imaginary figure.

Then the other night, someone with blood drawings of dragons on his body had cut the pastor’s head off. Then the pastor’s eyes had seen his own trunk being draped with a black piece of cloth and blood had been slowly dribbling from his neck.

The pastor’s wife’s eyes were wide open. It appeared she would not afford a nap until she saw where her hubby’s bad dreams were emanating from. She was tired of his alarming screams, but did she really expect to see the origin of a dream?

The bedside lamps were switched on and she went on to switch the main lights as well.

All of a sudden, the pastor began to twist and whimper. His other half glanced at the wall clock – it had started around the same time the other two nights, but time did not matter now. She swung away her thick duvet and peered at him. His face was gleaming with perspiration. Her heart lurched.

“This is becoming too much for me. How do I have to deal with it? He is going to dream himself to death.” It was a nightmare scenario to her. She shook him vigorously but he did not wake up. Horrific. Enigmatic. Energy streamed out of her body as she watched his face bathe in more and more sweat and his body twist like a dying snake. She picked her phone and in less than 20 seconds, the pastor’s closest friend was on the line. She told him to come quickly.

“But this is midnight,” he said through the mouthpiece.

“I know, but come quickly,” she responded tremulously. She ended the call even before the pastor’s friend finished talking.

Meanwhile, she was shaking with fear and she swayed onto her bed. Like in the previous dreams, the pastor had now rested to the hilt and his wife was staring at him bleakly. Her heart was freezing. She walked towards the main door and stood in front of it, waiting for the pastor’s friend. He came and she led him into their bedroom where her husband was. At first, he was reluctant but when he saw his friend lying on his bed silently, with his hands and legs slanted loosely, he hastened into the room and stopped by his bed. He seemed to be producing no breath.

“What happened?” the pastor’s friend asked.

“He can’t answer me.” She was sobbing. “He was twisting and whining. I think it was a very bad dream. He was doing that for the third time.”

The pastor’s friend touched the pastor’s sweating countenance. It was hot. He had never seen a person with such a body temperature. The pastor’s situation was strange. As he tried to roll him, a flash of light blinded him and the pastor’s wife and it was followed by a deafening sound like a thunderclap. Then the whole room was filled with pitch darkness. The switches had not been flicked but all the bulbs gave no light. It was just like an earthquake but in the annals of seismology no earthquake had ever come with a light flash.

In absolute horror, the two dashed out of the house for dear life. Within a short time, they were outside a house that was a few metres from the pastor’s. The pastor’s friend knocked at the door with his trembling fist.

A hulking man, in a night attire, answered the door. The pastor’s wife almost jumped into the house.

“What is wrong?” the man asked, trying his utmost to focus on those two people standing in front of him. The security bulb was clearly showing their horrified

“You mean nothing happened here?” the pastor’s friend asked in response. “A blinding flash of light struck in the pastor’s house followed by a deafening sound.”

“It’s news to me as you can see. It might be lightning,” he said drowsily. “Where is the man of God himself?”

“He might be dead,” the pastor’s wife said instantaneously.

“Let’s go there,” the man said, loathing wasting time.

After some resistance, the pastor’s wife and the friend finally budged, but there was a terrible degree of horror in them. What had happened was strange but the pastor’s wife was able to connect it with the chain letters.

The other man, other than the pastor’s friend, entered first into the pastor’s house. Then the two who were frightened like grasshoppers followed. In the bedroom, the lights were on and the pastor had disappeared. But lo and behold! On his bed was a paper bearing: he is where he belongs. He had a desire for money so he has to be where there is money.