Ama chose the worst possible moment to die, just when Mrs. Wattanawang began her speech.
The Wattanawangs gathered around the dining table.
Maids and servants moved in and out of the room, placing whole roasted pigs and chickens, steamed buns, soups, rice bowls, and turtle-shaped sweet cakes onto the round table. Behind
where Mrs. Wattanawang sat, a Chinese lunar calendar hung on the wall, a red
mark circled the fifteenth day of the
seventh lunar month. The words “Hell Gate
Opening Day” were scribbled in red ink in Thai.
Mrs.
Wattanawang was joined by six more members: her husband, a Wattanawang by
marriage; her eldest daughter, Dao; her youngest daughter, Jan; her only son,
Win; her nephew, Lek; and her mother, Ama. All were adults.
The
seven Wattanawangs sat meekly, eyes lowered to the food, occasionally darting
toward the adjacent room.
Mrs.
Wattanawang raised her rice liquor and said, “Today,
the gates of Hell open. Let the celebration begin.”
Only
after Mrs. Wattanawang took the first bite did the others eat. They shoved food
into their
throats too quickly, desperate to finish everything on the table.
The new
young servant gasped
and shuffled back two steps, sweat dripping from his forehead as he whispered
to the guard beside him, “They’re
eating the offerings? Isn’t it meant
for the dead?”
The
guard shushed him sharply.
Throughout
the ordeal, Mrs. Wattanawang rambled on, about her shopping sprees, her
election to the Thai Women’s Committee, her feature in Verité
Thailand Magazine, donations to the less fortunate, and the need for a new lady’s maid.
“When
you’re too generous with them, they exploit your kindness,” Mrs. Wattanawang
said irritably. “When you’re strict, they speak ill of you. Filthy rats.”
She cast
a sideways glance at Sri, the maid pouring her wine. Sri, already trembling,
kept her eyes on the floor, her body folding inward as tears dripped onto the tiles.
Turning
to her husband, Mrs. Wattanawang demanded, “You’d better get me a new lady’s
m—”
Before
she could finish, a noise came from the other end of the table. A wheezing
sound escaped her mother’s throat.
“Ama!”
Dao screamed, pushing her chair back, about to stand.
“Sit
down,” Mrs. Wattanawang growled.
The room
fell silent, everyone except Ama, who
gagged on a
chicken leg. Her eyes watered. She twisted in her chair before collapsing onto
the floor, flat on her back. She beat the floor with her hands and feet,
desperate for air.
Mrs.
Wattanawang frowned in annoyance, “What
timing.”
Her
husband and the children, aside from Dao,
remained composed, waiting for Mrs. Wattanawang’s signal to continue eating.
Once
permission was granted, they
resumed.
Mrs.
Wattanawang shifted
her attention to the new servant.
“You’re Thai-Chinese too, huh?” Before the guard could answer, she asked
another question. “How do your folks celebrate today?”
Still
sweating, his attention fixed on the choking Ama, he replied, “My
family visits the Sheng Tek Beo Shrine in the afternoon, Madam. We place offerings at the shrine, similar to
the food on Madam’s
table.” Sensing her judging gaze, he added quickly, “Of course, less elaborate.
In the evening we…”
“Do you
eat from it?” Mrs. Wattanawang asked.
“No, madam,” he hesitated. “We feed it to our ancestors, and… hungry spirits.”
All six
members burst out laughing.
Meanwhile,
Ama’s eyes bulged, hands clawing at her throat. Gasps grew weaker. Her face
shifted from red to blue. A silent gag followed. Her mouth hung open,
soundless. Her eyes rolled back. Hands collapsed to floor. Legs stiffened and
went slack.
Mrs.
Wattanawang asked impatiently, “Is it
over?”
Lek
glanced at the body. “Looks like it.”
“Finally.”
Mrs. Wattanawang waved her hand in irritation.
The
servants rushed forward, lifted Ama’s body,
and dragged it out of the room.
The butler entered, bent close, and whispered,
“Where should we dispose of the ashes?”
“Ashes?”
Mrs. Wattanawang snapped. “Don’t burn her. Are you insane? It’s Hell Gate
Opening Day.”
“That’s
ominous,” her husband muttered.
“Obviously.
Just bury her somewhere in the woods.”
“We
wasted so much time,” Jan complained, cheeks puffed with food. Win and Lek
nodded in agreement, eyes drifting toward the adjacent room.
“What a
hindrance. Go on,” Mrs. Wattanawang motioned.
“There
are only six of us now. We need seven Wattanawangs,” her husband said.
“Right.
Bring A-Wang.”
Minutes
later, a servant wheeled in an unconscious elderly man, tubes running into his
nose.
By the
time the Wattanawangs finished the
final bite, each held a bone from the roasted pig.
Mrs.
Wattanawang motioned for them to follow her.
The
seven entered a dark
room, servants barred from entry. They knelt on their heels, spines rigid. Dao
and the grandchildren helped A-Wang sit on
the floor, still unconscious.
Their
bodies formed a tight circle, no gaps visible—a perfect orbit. They placed a bowl of rice before them, forming a
ring at the center. They
planted three incense sticks into their bowls. Mrs. Wattanawang rubbed her thumb into the incense
ash and pressed an ash thumbprint mark onto every pig bone, scattering them
into the spaces between.
They
closed their eyes as Mrs. Wattanawang lit all the incense. The room glowed
dimly, shining on the paper dolls standing behind each member, forming another
circle of protection.
Mrs.
Wattanawang broke the circle and reached the altar. She lit seven incense
sticks in the the talons of the dark, winged idol, her fingers tracing the
cold, porous stone. The altar stood barren. No food, no offerings, not even Hell money.
She
returned to the circle. All eyes closed.
They
chanted in unison, a mixture of Thai and Chinese:
“Master
of the Darkened Path,
We offer the essence of our ancient dead.
Let their souls be yours, their spirits your prey,
In exchange for riches bestowed this day.
We sacrifice the spirits of our deceased,
And when our breath falters and our time is done,
We sign our own souls as tribute to you.
We crave long life and wealth for the living,
Wealth for the bold.”
A bright
orange light flickered. Their eyes were forced open.
Where
the altar once stood, a gate appeared. It creaked open slowly as the
Wattanawangs surged forward, competing for the front.
They covered their ears. A-Wang lay motionless behind them.
Inside, cries pierced through their palms, echoing from
everywhere, the floor, the walls, and the
endless staircase.
Jan
immediately stomped her foot, grinning. “Take that, you scum.” With every stomp, the screaming intensified.
Beneath
her feet, a young man’s face protruded from the floor. His body was stretched into a monstrous,
elongated shape, his limbs twisted and spiraling like a snail shell. He was not
alone. Everywhere she looked, the architecture of the room was replaced by human anatomy. Limbs linked with
others to form loops of human bodies.
The
walls, ceiling, and the staircase were composed of heads pressed into the
ground, with long
legs, necks and torsos fused. Spines and ribs bowed unnaturally. Every limp overlapped in a single, continuous chain, knotted together so tightly
that separating one from the other was impossible. They formed a entangled, human coil, their skin glowing reddish-orange,
as if burning alive.
The
Wattanawangs ascended the human staircase.
With each step, the wails sharpened into needle-thin metallic shrieks,
vibrating against their skulls.
Jan
stomped harder, delighting in the pain beneath her. She recognized some faces;
others she had to ask her mother about.
Great-grandparents.
Great-great-grandparents. Uncles. Aunts. Distant cousins. All were deceased Wattanawangs.
Her
amusement was interrupted by Dao’s sobs, who crouched on the sixty-fifth step, gently
touching Ama’s face.
“She was
supposed to be here with us,” Dao cried.
“Why so
dramatic?” Jan sneered. “You might join her soon.”
She
turned to Mrs. Wattanawang. “Right, Ma? You and Pa are in your fifties. Aren’t
you afraid of eventually joining them?”
Mrs.
Wattanawang slapped her.
“I have
a long life ahead of me. At least four more decades. Death is far away, you sly
snake.”
Jan
fixed her hair and continued leaping forward, landing
on each living step with
deliberate force.
They
climbed for what felt like hours, their legs burning through a thousand steps.
The air grew searing, hot as an oven, yet the sight that awaited them made
every grueling moment worth the toll.
They
each rushed hungrily toward their newly acquired dreams; even Dao completely
forgot about Ama. In the vast room were replicas of the rarest and most
expensive goods, all made of paper: cars,
designer goods, mansions, checks, jewelry, gold, red gold, cases of money,
penthouses, amulets, timepieces, jets, yachts.
They
spun in the heat, peals of ecstatic laughter drowning the wails of the stairs.
They pounded the lava
floor, crushing the faces of the ancestors fused below. They embraced, rolling
through the soot in a frenzy of wild worship. From the furnace of the sky,
embers rained onto the paper offerings. As each luxury charred and vanished,
its real counterpart took shape in the living world.
The days following the Hell Gate Opening Day, Mrs.
Wattanawang lived in anguish. Her daughter Jan’s words tormented her. She
stared into the full-length mirror for half an hour, fastidiously examining
wrinkles, fine lines, and excess weight along her midsection and arms.
Her
schedule became overbooked,
leaving no time for business meetings or public appearances. Seeking youth and
longevity, her days were strictly
regimented with cosmetic consultations, clandestine treatments, illicit
rejuvenation procedures, black-market elixirs, experimental therapies, occult
charms, and blood rites.
She
endured silver needles piercing her cheeks, injecting forbidden elixirs of
crushed temple bones and cemetery ash into her veins, desperate to avoid
becoming another screaming step in the staircase.
Within
weeks, Mrs. Wattanawang was showered with compliments and endless “What’s your
secret?” questions. Her vitality, however, withered with every pound she lost
and every injection that punctured her skin.
She grew
increasingly breathless and frail. One evening, she stepped unsteadily in silk
slippers onto the balcony of her master bedroom. Leaning forward to speak to a
servant tending the garden below,
dizziness swept over
her. She lost her balance and fell.
Her head
struck the marble courtyard floor with a crack. Paralyzed, blood oozing from
her skull, she could move nothing but her eyes. Servants’ faces leaned over
her, their voices
overlapping. Thoughts raced through her mind. She wanted to scream for help, to
scold them for standing there uselessly.
She saw
Jan peering down from the second-floor window, mildly bothered by the
commotion. Jan gave her a playful fluttering wave, bidding her a last farewell,
before slipping on her headphones and disappearing into the room.
Slowly,
the family gathered. Lek tilted
his head toward the sky, drew from his vape, and released a cloud of vapor. He
peered at her, his grin sharp with ridicule. Dao blew a bubble of chewing gum.
Her husband kicked her twice, testing for signs of life. Win, her precious son,
haggled with his father over the ownership of her super-yacht.
Her
vision blackened. The voices dissolved into murmurs, before fading into
absolute silence.
The
courtyard ceiling vanished. Another ceiling hung above her. All attempts to
move or stand proved futile. A sudden sharp, ripping pain came over her. Still
pinned to the ground, her legs and arms began stretching to unnatural extremes.
They twisted and curved around other heads. Her
neck craned at an impossible angle, entangling with another person’s neck,
wrinkled with age. A boiling sensation surged through her. It felt like a
furnace. A thin,
screeching sound tearing from her throat, joining hundreds of screaming voices.
To her
right came a cursing voice. Ama’s flat head
spat at her, hurling insults. Others
joined in, their voices piling on.
“I’m in
the staircase!” she yelled. The heads around her laughed.
A year
later, the gates of Hell opened again. On the 65th step, the
living Wattanawangs stopped. They stood
above Mrs. Wattanawang, taking turns grinding their shoe soles against her head
while her husband struck her neck.
Getting bored, they
continued ascending the stairs, leaving her planted
on the step, screaming with the other sacrificed Wattanawangs.
Bio:
Chaimae
Belahrache is a PhD candidate and a member of the LLCIS Research Lab at
Abdelmalek Essaadi University, Morocco. She holds a Master’s degree and a
Bachelor’s degree in English Literature. Her academic research focuses on
contemporary postcolonial Sephardic women’s writing, with a particular emphasis
on North African Jewish literature.
