By: Zack Green
I have been going to the Caribbean island of Mustique for seventeen years now. It is comprised of malevolently twisting dirt roads, two restaurants, one general store, one hotel, three beaches, and a border of rocky cliffs. Interestingly this accrue of harsh cliff faces holds a bat cave, which separates the island from the translucent blue sea that creeps up upon it, as if threatening to swallow the three mile parcel of land whole but never following through.
Two years ago and approximately one week before my family and I arrived for our vacation, a man died. He had a heart attack at a cocktail party. A rumor was spreading that he had been poisoned, but I doubt that to be true. Although I did not witness it or know the individual, it was considered a rare tragedy. The death was far removed from my mind, and it did not yet pervade my thoughts.
Soon after disembarking I decided to attend a cocktail party. In fact, it was the exact same event that had been hosted the previous week, as this particular hotel put on parties in meticulous and redundant fashion. It was—albeit–still a consistently lovely time.
I drove to the Pink House (the hotel that hosts the party) and the evening commenced. I sipped my drink, enjoyed the appetizers, and mingled with adults who were feigning the same amount of interest in me as I had in them.
In a quick aside, I believe there is a gene in my family that is passed on through the men. This gene carries a unique proficiency for easily getting lost. I say the men because my mother and two sisters are actually quite fantastic with directional abilities. Combining that with the unnamed dirt roads that Mustique offers, it adds up to an unholy cocktail of time wasted being lost and simply being consequently frustrated at once again finding myself lost.
After the party concluded my father, my brother, a local man named Bowlen, and I headed back home. I exited left, took another left, and within minutes was completely disoriented. As I drove down the dirt road, trying to will my way back home through sheer luck, I made sure to go rather slowly so that I would not flip the mule or make a wrong turn. I decided to make a slow right and that’s when I felt the impact.
Something had rammed directly into the side of the mule. It was dark, but I could swear that what I was looking at was a creature from beyond this realm. I am not one to believe in the supernatural, but this was certainly not an animal of Earth. It had a head and legs like a Kangaroo and extremities that resembled talons. However its torso was truly strange. Its core did not seem to be composed of any solid flesh, but rather what seemed to be a dark, whirring matter, like black socks in a washer. The animal sprinted off into the darkness, leaving my company and I dazed and bemused.
The police began questioning my family at around 11:00 a.m. It turns out that the previous night there had been numerous “Jumbee” sightings. A Jumbee is a mythical creature in West Indian folklore that stalks a land after a recent death. Typically this death is one that happened all too soon, as opposed to someone passing away peacefully. Bowlen had gone to the police and told them about the encounter, and while we were not guilty of anything, I was still questioned. I shook off this incident of individuals being too superstitious, as a variety of different religious objects were being hung from doors to scare off this fictional beast. However, later that night I ran into a local man I know named Bumpa. We began talking and soon enough the topic of the Jumbee came up. At this he became very stiff and stern. I asked him if he had seen it before and he merely nodded.
I asked him what he saw and he simply said: “Kangaroo, no body.”