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Surviving the Shadows: A Harrowing Tale of Fear and Resilience in Phnom Penh · Shallow Nights: Scary Bedtime Stories

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Cambodia was not a place I had been before, nor was it a place
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I had ever planned to go. This whole disastrous expedition
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started when a friend of mine pitched it as a solution to my
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looming monetary woes. It offered me a cheap cost of
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living, many times lower than I could have found back in the
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States, a way to continue to work for myself as a copywriter
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without having to seek some part time work.
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It's some soul crushing depression factory in the
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service industry. Perhaps more importantly though,
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she saw it as a way to force me out of my shell into more
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regular interactions with the world around me.
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Though I have never been prodded and probed for any traditional
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diagnosis, I'm an excessively reserved person with a
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disruptive distaste for interaction with new people and
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places that has long dictated the ebb and flow of my days.
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I would not describe the way I interact with the world is
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fearful, but rather disinterested.
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I find great comfort in stewing alone among my thoughts for long
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periods, undisturbed by the intrusion of anything.
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I don't grant permission to intrude.
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The king of my own keep in a sense, with the drawbridge
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firmly fastened against all but the most familial and vital
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company. Having seen me forced into a
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semi regular schedule of public outings and social gatherings in
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college, my longtime friend thought this trip abroad could
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solve the dread of a nine to five job and my penchant for
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self isolation and one fell swoop.
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Allowing me fiscal security and independence on my own terms
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while also forcing me to do a bit of learning and exploring to
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find my way in a new place. Ever the schemer, she had sold
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the idea with a salespersons gusto that made her hard to
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rebuff and the initial plan had been for us to go together, for
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she too was in search of greener and significantly cheaper
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pastures. The passing of her mother and
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the subsequent stress this placed on her family prevented
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this though, and a departure together turned into a sort of
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delayed entry plan, with me deciding to keep my booked
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flight and go ahead and her promising to follow in five or
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six months time when things at home allowed her to operate for
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herself again. The first week or so went
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smoothly enough. I picked up the social lubricant
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words, hello, please, thank you, that sort of thing.
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I made myself get out and see some of the museums in Phnom
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Penh. It was uncomfortable, the heat
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and my desire for quiet scratching at the back of my
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skull, but I was busy and entertained enough exploring
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temples and seeing sights to ignore it.
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That all changed once a week or two had passed and I'd gotten
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settled in, stripped of the excitable tourists, fresh eyes
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and forgiving demeanour. The city became a different
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animal as experience stripped away the veneer of charm and I
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laid eyes upon the true face behind the mask.
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The filth. And Phnom Penh is omnipresent,
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it's trash heaps ever looming and spilling into the streets
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while dogs run over weeks ago burst with maggots in the heat
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upon streets mouldering after decades of neglect.
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The canals murky Stew pots filled with sewage and the rain
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sodding garbage knocked down from the streets stink under the
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heat of the sun as it rises through the day, making certain
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sectors of the concrete forest almost intolerable.
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Rats the size of a man's forearm and roaches longer than my thumb
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flourished in the tropical heat amidst the murk, bold enough to
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leap over shoes and scuttle under foot as pedestrians walk
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after dark. Wat Panam, a well aged jewel of
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a temple the better part of 1000 years old, is stalked by as many
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prostitutes as trinket vendors, its beauty lost in the sea of
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social decay. My rearing in southeastern
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Kentucky. It taught me of poverty, but it
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was the utter dissolution of shame and restraint that truly
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took me. One reading this might think
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this is an indictment of Cambodia's capital, but it isn't
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uniquely A Cambodian problem. Cities in my home country, from
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New York to San Francisco to Atlanta, exhibit the same kind
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of disarray and filth, even if a better urban organizational
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structure keeps the visual horror in check.
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Human beings packed in a top one another in numbers beyond tally
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lose grasp of what life was like outside the towers of stone and
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lose grasp on the niceties and boundaries that made existence
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tolerable before such terrible numbers were brought to bear.
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Even as the residents of such urban strongholds as Chicago or
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London proclaim their cultured produce of theater or art, they
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live existences that would make the founders of civilization
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weep. If whatever priest kings raised
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to merriest cities in the cradle of civilization could have
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witnessed the Phnom Penh today, they would burn their creations
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to the ground to spare future generations such torment.
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The mouse Utopia experiment comes to mind.
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I should have expected such things, for I had seen cities of
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scale whose occupants numbered in the 1,000,000 before.
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But the starry eyed hope of the tourist, combined with the sense
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of adventure and challenge promised by a new and
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uncomfortable environment blinded me to the weight of the
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Stygian nightmare that is metropolitan life until I was
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already set up in my apartment with a six month lease to my
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name. The apartment, however, was
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comfortable, my landlady hospitable and my rent
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spectacularly low. I resolved as those first few
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weeks came to an end, that I would keep my head down, avoid
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discouragement, and get as much work done as possible while I
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rode out the inexpensive rent and mitigated my exposure to the
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outside world as much as possible.
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In half a year, with 10 or 12 months of work under my belt in
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half the time, I could return to the States, either bolstered by
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more steady clients or stabilized by enough stored cash
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to keep me secure while I sought other ways to buoy my income.
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My friend, should she still aim to follow me then, could have
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the urban sprawl I had seen more than enough already.
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My existence was one of nearly monastic solitude, scheduled
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around outings which were planned with great care to
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ensure the least friction possible.
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I left my room just once every week to walk about 8 blocks to a
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24 hour grocery on a street not far from mine.
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During the first of these trips each month I would stop by an
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ATM down a side street along the way and withdraw around $400.00
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for renting groceries, and on the way back I would drop the
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$200 owed for the month's rent through the slot on my
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landlady's door. The trips initially were plotted
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out to avoid the heat of the day, starting around 9:00 at
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night, but after being accosted by a trio of toothless lady boys
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astride a motorcycle looking for clients during one of these
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trips, I moved the schedule past midnight to around 2:00 in the
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morning. At this hour, the residential
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streets were entirely empty save the occasional honking passage
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of a cab or motorbike, and offered me as Placid an
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atmosphere to navigate the trash warns as was possible.
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My safety from the city's occasional knife crime ensured
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by the fact that I was nearly a foot taller than the tallest
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Cambodian man I had seen since landing in the country.
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I was left alone with the rats and the stray dogs to operate
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like clockwork, counting the paces from block to block,
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knowing that it would take me 9 minutes out and 9 minutes back
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to complete my grocery run. Between these walks in the
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solitude of my apartment, only the occasional gecko scurrying
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in under the balcony door of the 4th floor room to escape the
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heat by camping on the cool interior wall troubled my
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doorstep and I didn't mind the silent intrusion.
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I ate, worked out, scanned e-mail and job posting boards
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for writing contracts, and typed.
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My focus was so complete that I could forget the days of the
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week, the hour of the day, and the posturing of the world
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beyond, the heavily curtained windows of my room keeping the
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dreadful humid sun of the equator at Bay.
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There are many who would balk at that sparse a schedule, but with
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the occasional call to a friend or sibling back home keeping me
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connected, I had all the contact I needed.
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I thrive in a space on my own, on my own, and with nothing save
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a concrete howl beyond my door to distract me.
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My work flourished in the months I spent holed up in Phnom Penh,
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right up until I took my second to last walk as the day of my
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escape closed in on me. I had just over 5 weeks to go
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before April 22nd, my planned departure day.
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I began my walk aiming for the familiar store down the street
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and following my route without a single hiccup, mulling over a
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braggadocios biography I was working on for an Indian
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businessman's personal website, my mind staying as far away from
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the squalor of the street as was possible.
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The road was unusually vacant, with only one or two loud bikes
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sputtering past during my initial trip.
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My shopping was done with mechanical skill, the same 12
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items bought with the same three bills.
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A thank you to the now familiar night cashier.
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And away I went, tossing a few cashew nuts to a friendly and
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legendarily mangy mutt that haunted the corner a block down
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from the shop when he approached to greet me.
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As was tradition, things only went S near the end of the trip
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when I reached one of the canals on the way back.
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The canal, perhaps 15 feet deep with a Stew of stagnant liquid
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haunting its innards, ran off to both sides, visible in either
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direction for a block or so, before another concrete bridge
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similar to the one I crossed blocked my view.
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It abutted the road which intersected my own, and as I
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look down the way to ensure no speeding rickshaws or bikes were
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headed my direction, a burst of motion on the bridge to my left
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caught my eye. My initial thought was that a
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mugging was underway, but as I slowed and took in the scene on
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the quiet streets of the sleeping quarter of the city, I
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quickly dismissed that possibility.
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An older man who I can remember spotting on prior walks, leaning
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against the canal rail as he dragged on cigarettes, had been
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seized from behind a large figure, nearly enveloping him as
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they struggled on the far bridge.
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This figure, a man at first glance, was overstretched and
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disproportioned, its skin the greenish Gray color of mold in
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its nude form, tapering from a man's wiry torso into arriving
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lower body that looked almost like a snake's.
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This tail, if that's the word to describe it, was affixed to a
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rusted metal beam beneath the bridge, the willowy creature
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having clambered up over the rail to cease its target
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underwear. Its massive hands enveloped the
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old man's head, whatever protest or screaming might have been
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done muffled before it could begin.
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When he fell, perhaps four or five seconds after I first
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spotted this baffling struggle, the creature let him fall.
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A fleshy tongue latched to its prey, following the man's throat
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as he went down. It stayed there, perched on the
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rail for a few more seconds as it finished its work.
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Then the tongue came free with an audible pop, a spike at its
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end making me think of hypodermic needles or a
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mosquito's proboscis. This tongue withdrew with
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lightning speed like a frog's before.
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In one fluid motion, the creature swung back under the
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bridge and dropped with a muted splash into the thick soup below
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in the canal, the ripples of its impact invisible in the shadows
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cast by the street lights above. An approaching truck, perhaps
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the source of its departure, rumbled past on the road along
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the canal, jolting me back to awareness after a glance back up
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at the man on the bridge now laying lifeless on the pavement.
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The gleam up of the trucks lights brought my eyes back down
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to the water of the canal, where two glimmering pools of
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yellowish light gazed at me from the obscuring shadow.
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I didn't need any more motivation than that.
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I sprinted across the next street and up the following four
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blocks, almost to my buildings, locked door in an alley off the
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road and fumbling with the keys in my pocket before I risked a
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glance back down the road towards the canal.
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The street was empty, despite the pursuit I imagined was
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underway, but that didn't stop me from shouldering through the
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entrance the second the key was turned and tossing my bagged
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groceries to the floor without mind for the noise, spinning to
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bar the metal door at my back the second I was safely inside,
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I gathered them up, stormed up the steep steps, winding their
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way through the haphazard building, and hastily unlocked
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my own door, suddenly painfully aware of how close my top floor
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apartment sits to the open exit onto the covered roof where the
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laundry machines sit just up the stairs.
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Once my own door was bolted behind me, I could catch my
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breath, dwell on the insanity of what had just occurred, and
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weigh my options fast. Deciding there was no way a
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report to the local police could end well, I opted to stay silent
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for the moment and tell my story in a slightly edited form should
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I ever be questioned. With the seemingly inexplicable
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nature of the attacker evaded as best was possible, I settled
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into my usual routine as faithfully as I could, but
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vexation about what had occurred kept me from being the paragon
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of focus that was the norm. My work suffered and my sleep
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suffered more, my already nocturnal schedule now a godsend
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as paranoia made me dread the thought of slumber in a darkened
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room. There was little rational drive
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to fear when I was locked away in my sturdy old apartment, but
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the feeling of fear haunted me all the same.
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It was perhaps this heightened sense of paranoia that ballooned
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my awareness enough to allow me to perceive the odd sounds which
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infiltrated the neighborhood in the days following my sighting.
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In the dead of night, hours after the early rising city had
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closed its doors and dimmed its lights, a kind of cackling
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screech could occasionally be heard echoing down the alleys
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and through the streets. A far cry from the cat screams
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in the dog barks native to the area, which themselves seem to
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have been erased from the Knights ambience.
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The best I can do to describe it is to indicate the more
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otherworldly vocalizations of foxes, but these calls were of a
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much deeper pitch and carried a far greater distance around the
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rotten city they stalked. My isolated mind invested these
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noises with the shape of that thing from the canal bringing
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its corpse like flesh to my imagination as a companion to
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every scream through sleeping Phnom Pen.
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This persisted throughout the next week, growing more
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pronounced as the due date for my rent in the dwindling food in
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my small kitchen March closer by the day.
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When the 22nd of March came, I had formulated a plan 1 I felt
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sure would both appease my paranoia and keep me safe and
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secure until my departure in a month's time.
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I would depart the building braving the crowds, hookers and
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curious children of the early evening to feel more secured
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against things that go bump in the night, admits to busier
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streets and hit the ATM, retrieving my final rent payment
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and the money for the months groceries.
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Then I would buy everything I could carry at the store,
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cautious to ration it once I got it back to my building,
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eliminating the need for any more shopping excursions during
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my stay in Cambodia. Finally, I would slip my rent
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through my landlady's door, finalizing my fortified
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existence until April 22nd finally released me from myself,
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imposed prison, all while safe from the twisted phantoms I now
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imagined behind every corner on the streets outside.
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The walk was uneventful but continuously slowed by my
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jittery scans of the world around me, each clatter of rats
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in the trash heaps or street stalls closing up shop for the
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night making my heart leap at the sound.
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I diverted from my Rd. toward the ATM one block down from
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where I usually walk to the southerly St. not wishing to
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walk alongside the canal where I had seen that inexplicable site
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a week prior. I still had to cross the bridge
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on the way over though, a process made only slightly
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easier by the passage of a loud band of drunken Australian
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expats on their way back from a bar, the raucous laughter making
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it seem less treacherous. Without incident I rounded a
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corner and came within sight of the ATM, glad on one level that
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there were no people around this little St. to witness a
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foreigner withdrawing cash, but equally perturbed by the silence
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that seemed to rule this little stretch of roadway.
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The hum of the Khmer Rouge era streetlights overhead seemed to
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strangle the honks and engine growls of neighboring streets,
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my footfall sounding catastrophically loud to me in a
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way that I knew was imagined. I ignored my nerves, impressed
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into the little booth, focusing on the task at hand, flying
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through the process of the withdrawal with practiced ease,
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urged on by the oppressive memory of the canal just up the
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road from where I stood. I emerged with money stowed
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safely away less than a minute later.
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I thought I noticed, during my paranoid scan of the roadway
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upon exiting the booth, a flurry of motion in the direction of
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the heated canal. But there were several
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gargantuan rats running here and there upon the roadway, so it
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was easy to shrug this off as a peripheral misinterpretation.
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Still, I made with speed for the store, going about my business
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with the same level of calculated efficiency as I had
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in the ATM. Outside, I was momentarily
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distracted by the absence of the familiar dog that haunted the
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street corner, but even after shaking the tin of cashews I'd
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bought, he didn't surface and I resolved to move on.
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By the time I passed the canal, balancing 3 dangerously
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overfilled plastic bags on each side of me like some surf
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hauling grain, I estimated that I made better time on this final
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outing than on any other walk I'd made in the country thus
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far. Glances to either side of me
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showed nothing but the stinking cauldron of refuse below, and
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the omnipresent thrum of engines and voices guided me safely past
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the water and into the home stretch of this expedition, into
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the urban unknown. It was only in the last
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harrowing minutes of the trip the things truly went.
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SI arrived at my building's door about 1/3 of the way down an
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alley which led to a little courtyard of dumpsters between
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the adjacent buildings, and set my bags on the ground to get the
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door unlocked, keys fast springing to hand.
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It was only after I had the door open and bent to grab the bags
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one more that I thought I spied A silhouette as a jerked back
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around the corner. My impression was of a head and
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shoulders rapidly withdrawn, but as I stood there in the bluish
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glow of the street light, staring after movement I wasn't
20:44
certain was real, nothing resurfaced and I forced myself
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to move into the door and bar it behind me.
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My fortress now closer than ever, my rent dropped off.
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In typical fashion I brushed past and up the steep stairs,
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turning on and off lights at each floor to show me the way
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through the dark. Mindful not to crush gecko
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spending the night in the cool stairway, I rounded one corner,
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then the next, finally reaching the top floor apartment and once
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more setting down my bags to undo the padlock and enter my
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hold fast, safe from the world outside.
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I glanced at the rooftop doorway, thankful to see no
21:27
trace of movement, and brought my bags inside, setting them
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right against the fridge and doubling back to lean out my
21:34
door and turn off the light on the stairway.
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It was then that I saw it. With the light clicked off, I
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turned, hand on the sturdy metal door handle, to close my
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apartment behind me, in my eyes, past the moonlit canvas, through
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the rooftop exit, up the little stairway next to my door.
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I froze. Hanging from above the top of
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the doorway, which had been empty just a moment before, long
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fingers gripping the top of the door frame like a window sill,
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was a noseless slack jawed face with great reddish eyes not
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dissimilar to those of a frog, blessedly obscured by the newly
22:16
fallen darkness in the stairway. Beneath the wavering flap of
22:21
skin making up its fleshy jaw, a tapering worm of pinkish sinew
22:26
weaved back and forth like a snake charmers charge, its
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needle like tip glinting with noxious spittle that drift in
22:35
mouldering pools upon the tile of the stairs.
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The seconds hesitation felt long halted, as if played out at half
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speed, but as it moved to swing itself into the stairway I slam
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shut the door in one fluid motion, the bolt being jammed
22:54
into place with another. The door, forged of heavy metal
22:59
and built to deter burglars, shouldn't budget, but I backed
23:03
away nonetheless, expecting some terrible clatter as the thing
23:07
pounded against the gatehouse of its escaped prey.
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Instead, silence fell and I was left standing in my front room
23:16
between the sink and the fridge, groceries forgotten for 1/2 hour
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as I listened for noises from the stairway, which never came.
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Once I finally made myself move, I crept up to the metal door and
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listened. A minute stretched on, and still
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no sound came. Relenting after nearly an hour
23:36
on watch by the door, I backed away at a loss as to how I
23:40
should interpret what had just happened.
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All I could do in that moment was to ensure the padlock
23:46
holding the bolt in place and the door was fastened and the
23:49
locks set into the handle was turned, put the groceries away
23:53
and dimmed the lights. There were just three rooms in
23:57
the apartment, with the kitchen and an adjoining bathroom up
24:00
front and the bedroom in the back, and it was here that I
24:04
hold up for the night. The balcony door of the same
24:08
metal make as the front door was kept permanently locked, and the
24:12
bars upon the window were well positioned and close together,
24:16
giving me more than enough security to feel at least mildly
24:19
safe. The night passed in silence, my
24:23
mind on. Nothing saved the rooftop
24:26
doorway and that thing from the canal until at long last the sun
24:31
rose and the noises of the streets swelled outside,
24:34
allowing me enough ease to finally find sleep.
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Waking that afternoon from dreams stalked by rot bathed
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wraiths and skittering rats, I immediately checked and double
24:45
checked that my rationing plan was in order and that my stored
24:49
food can last me through the next 4 weeks.
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Then, stealing myself for the weight and trying my best to
24:55
focus on work, I sat before my computer and packed away at its
25:00
keys, finding myself absently staring at the curtained window
25:04
and pondering the streets beyond much more frequently than I'm
25:08
comfortable admitting. When the sunset stripping the
25:13
thin lines of light from the edges of the curtains, I allowed
25:16
my paranoia to creep back in, silencing the music I had been
25:20
playing and killing the loud fan in my room despite the heat.
25:25
Working in silence over my laptop with my ear honed for
25:28
anything amiss, the first night passed peacefully, my greatest
25:33
disturbance being that those fox like screeches had rather
25:37
conspicuously disappeared from the streets outside, leaving the
25:41
world beyond my curtained window and occasionally motorbike
25:44
desecrated churchyard of hushed anticipation.
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I planned my meals so that I did all my cooking in the front room
25:52
kitchen near the stairs before the night had fallen, so the
25:57
relative safety of my backroom aided me in feeling at ease
26:01
while I replayed in my mind the image of the slinking Wretch
26:05
from the canal hanging from the roof.
26:09
I made an effort to sleep better the following day, settling in
26:13
earlier in the morning and rising later in the afternoon,
26:16
but that didn't stop me from feeling haggard and worn by
26:19
nightfall, the days of fretting starting to catch up to me.
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The second night would not go so smoothly.
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It was 2 hours past midnight when I noticed a sniffing, not
26:31
dissimilar from a dog's, but pitched low like that of the
26:35
black bears back home, emanating from the bottom of my balcony
26:39
door. It sounded once, drawing my eyes
26:43
to the door in the dark, the blackness of the balcony beyond
26:47
preventing me from making out any shadows cast on the small
26:51
space between the door and the tiled floor.
26:54
I froze and made as little sound as I could manage, ear straining
26:58
for more sound. None came for 15 or 20 agonized
27:03
minutes, the air itself seeming cooler under the icy Press of
27:07
this terrified atmosphere. Then a tendril of a glistening
27:12
flesh crept in beneath the door, snaking along the tiles like a
27:18
serpent, it's dark, wet form easily visible in the darkened
27:23
bedroom against the pale linoleum of the ground.
27:27
The stink of the canals after a day's boiling in the sun slunk
27:31
in with it, permeating the room almost as soon as I spotted the
27:36
intrusion. At its tip the familiar pointed
27:40
Stinger or needle gleamed, leading its exploration of the
27:45
room from where I sat upon my bed, situated in the opposite
27:51
corner of the room from the door, I inched back upon the
27:54
mattress into the furthest corner, still endeavoring to
27:58
make as little noise as possible.
28:00
The thing on the balcony seemed to sense this, though, and the
28:04
seeking tongue made its way for the bed, bringing the worst
28:08
sorts of fear conjured images to mind.
28:11
Fortunately for me, the length of the vile protrusion fell
28:15
short, and after several moments of straining there against the
28:20
door in vain, it was withdrawn, disappearing back out into the
28:25
night from whence it came and leaving a sort of slick snail
28:28
trail in its wake. The tongue's owner did not
28:32
depart, though, occasionally sniffing at the crevice over the
28:35
next hour or so, seeing if it's quarry would attempt to move.
28:41
When dawn began to approach, the noises died away as the thing
28:45
returned to whatever safe hideaway it kept during the
28:48
sun's waking hours, and I fell into a nightmare addled sleep,
28:54
continuously waking to check the balcony door and sleeping with
28:57
my closed eyes honed on the entryway, ready to snap open at
29:01
the faintest sound. That afternoon, still at a loss
29:07
as to how I would report such an invasion without being accused
29:11
of lunacy, I took my defense into my own hands.
29:15
I went about fortifying my position against this new
29:17
threat, setting my suitcase against the door to obscure the
29:21
crevice at the base and weighing it down with filled water
29:24
bottles and Tupperware to add bulk.
29:26
Covering these with shoes, clothes, spare cutlery, and
29:30
anything else I could find that I felt would hinder the
29:33
interloper. With perhaps 70 lbs crammed into
29:37
the suitcase, my mind can sit a little easier.
29:41
The next few nights the thing continued its visits, but with
29:45
its tongue rebuffed by the suitcase it's probing was
29:48
limited to sniffing at the door. By the end of the first week the
29:53
stalker from the canal seemed to have moved on with those
29:56
familiar fox like noises I had begun to attach to its jawless
30:00
visage, resuming their serenade out on the streets of the city
30:05
echoing to my ears. Now and then the days return to
30:08
normal, my paranoia gradually receding as first one week and
30:13
then another was passed in relative peace.
30:16
It was not to last though, and during my final week in the
30:19
apartment my nocturnal collar would pay me one last unexpected
30:23
visit, though my nights had become less dreadful and that
30:28
did not mean I had grown careless.
30:31
Always, I endeavoured to have my lights dimmed and my apartment
30:34
silenced by sunset, to have any food or water I plan to consume
30:38
during the night squirreled away next to my bed, and to get any
30:42
necessary trips to the bathroom out of the way while the
30:45
sunlight still shone on the roof above.
30:49
That evening I had decided to shower before the night confined
30:53
me to my backroom beginning around six.
30:56
While the sunset had yet to deepen the hues of the horizon
31:00
beyond my walls, with nights being passed without air
31:04
conditioning to better acquaint my ears with the world outside
31:07
the window, I valued going into what I knew would be an
31:11
uncomfortably humid night, clean and relaxed.
31:15
I had only been in the bathroom for 3 or 4 minutes, eyes closed
31:19
against the water, when the fan mounted on the wall of the
31:22
little space halted, its sudden silence oddly deafening with
31:29
power outages common in the Phnom Pen.
31:32
I fast shook away the water and backed out of the stream from
31:35
the inexpensive wall mounted water heating system on the
31:37
wall, expecting my eyes to find the bathroom dark and
31:41
anticipating a drop in water temperature after the loss of
31:45
electricity. The cramped space, to my
31:47
surprise, was still lit. The building was old and I'm
31:53
fortunate that in the moment I didn't just ignore the halted
31:56
fan and go about my business. Perhaps even if I didn't
32:01
consciously associate the stairs with the fan at that moment, I
32:05
reflexively recalled on some deeper level how close that fan
32:10
set into the wall was on the stairwell walls outside to the
32:13
rooftop doorway where just one month ago some unknown Wretch
32:18
had writhed in search of a new feast.
32:21
My real salvation, however, was that wretched stink from the
32:24
canals reaching my nose and putting my heart into a ragged
32:28
Sprint. I look to my right eyes finding
32:32
the small dust choked fan in the wall and when I saw there sent
32:37
me stumbling out of the bathroom door and slamming it behind me
32:40
with the water still running. It would stay that way for
32:44
nearly two days, only being switched off when my landlady
32:48
walked upstairs 1 morning to complain about how much water I
32:51
must be using. Hanging there, twitching and
32:55
thrashing in an attempt to force its way through the small
32:58
opening between the plastic fan blades, was the familiar Sheen
33:02
of that needle. Like probosis, it's a bulk,
33:05
having stopped the fan cold while its owner hung latch to
33:09
the wall of the stairway outside like some twisted vampiric tree
33:13
frog, invisible to me save for that insectile, otherworldly
33:17
tongue. Eventually my departure date
33:21
arrived, and I had long worried that I would exit my apartment
33:24
with suitcase and wallet in hand for my final walk down the
33:28
precarious stairs to collect my security deposit and make for
33:32
the airport, only to find my unwanted visitor clinging to the
33:35
stairway roof and protest to the sunlight outside, ready to
33:40
finish the job. No such terrors came to pass.
33:44
I arrived home about 24 hours after walking out the door for
33:47
the final time, staying with friends until I could secure my
33:51
own place. Having survived that
33:53
otherworldly visitor on the stairway, I have never in
33:57
several years spent pondering the event since being able to
34:01
piece together what that thing I saw beside the canal could have
34:05
been, or why it had such a fascination with me after my
34:09
chance encounter with it on the rat stalked streets of Phnom
34:13
Penh. No major news, official or
34:16
unofficial, out of the Cambodian capital has commented on any
34:20
strange disappearances or sightings, save A blog post.
34:24
I stumbled on one day by an animal shelter in the city
34:27
celebrating the sudden drop in the stray population in Phnom
34:31
Penh, which I couldn't help but lay at the feet, or tail as the
34:37
case may be, of a much more sinister presence than increased
34:42
civic awareness. Perhaps it was several entities,
34:47
the stocking being not a symptom of singular awareness but rather
34:51
of a hungry and growing population.
34:54
I find this hard to believe, though, for the number of
34:56
missing and sanguinated vagrants and night workers would be
35:00
monumental. Equally hard to believe is the
35:02
explanation of hallucinatory paranoia.
35:05
For as comfortable as it would be for me to sit here, safe in
35:08
the knowledge that no threat had ever been posed by the sniffing
35:12
at my door and the snaking tongue worming its way through
35:15
the fan, I have never in any period of stress or isolation
35:20
since had any analogous experience, whether waking or
35:24
sleeping. Rather, I've been forced to
35:27
accept the possibility that, heavy as it weighs on my mind
35:31
and disastrous as it is to my world view, there is something
35:35
monstrous stocking the canals, alleys and rooftops of nocturnal
35:40
Phnom Pan. Mostly, perhaps, it feasts on
35:44
dogs, rats, cats and chickens as it claws its way through trash
35:50
and across deserted streets. But occasionally, as I
35:54
obsessively scroll through news feeds and blog entries made from
35:58
Phnom Penh in the dark of particularly solitary nights, I
36:02
stumble across the story about declining homelessness
36:05
populations in Cambodia's capital, praising the uplifting
36:10
grace of this or that government or non profit initiative.
36:14
And I am inclined to wonder how often someone lying drunk or
36:19
battered on the roads to sleep is dragged down into the waters
36:23
of the canals, never to surface again.
36:31
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36:32
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