Comfort Woman by Nora Okja Keller

when I could not sleep at night, I would hear the murmurings of the people who shared the building with us, or the shrieks of the cars in the street, and I would think, I would know, that it was Saja feeding on the dead. At those times I would squeeze closer to my mother, who continued to sleep, and listen for the true sounds of the night.
    When I heard Sweet Mary come home from her shift at the Lollipop Lounge, the clicking of the lock next door and the gurgling of the pipes as she drew a bath became Saja cracking his jaws and slurping rivers of blood. And the pacing of the old man who lived above us—about whom the only thing I remember now is the way he smelled, like piss and fingernail polish, and the way his pants wedged into his crack as he shuffled through the halls, calling out “Three o‘clock!” no matter what time it was—became Saja emerging from the walls to hunt.

    I must have woken my mother on one of those sleepless nights, or maybe we had just turned off the alarm clock and lay in bed, drowsing in an early-morning dark still heavy with sleep. I have a memory of the two of us wrapped in the covers, my head tucked into her armpit, listening to the old man creak across his floor, waiting for him to shout “Three o‘clock!”
    When he did, my mother giggled, but I clutched at her arm. “It’s Saja the Death Messenger,” I blubbered. “I heard him come into our apartment. He looked through our kitchen and opened our refrigerator. He got a drink of water. And now he’s coming for me.”
    â€œAre you dreaming?” my mother asked.
    â€œIt’s Saja, Mommy,” I whispered. “I can smell him.”
    â€œWake up, Beccah!” My mother grabbed my shoulders and shook. “Wake up from your dream!”
    â€œHe stinks, Mommy, with his bubbling skin, black and green, fermenting with pus!” I wanted her to know that I saw him, as clearly as she ever did, and that I knew he was real.
    My mother untangled herself from the sheets and ran into the kitchen. I heard the suction of the refrigerator door opening, and then she came rushing back into the room. Held aloft in her hands, swinging by its legs, was a raw chicken.
    â€œSit up,” she said. “Quickly.” My mother waved the chicken at me, and its liver and gizzard plopped onto the sheets.
    â€œAigu!” my mother swore as she stuffed the innards back into the bird. Without looking up, she told me, “Take off your nightgown.”
    â€œWhy?” I asked, but when she started pulling the material over my head with her bloody fingers, I wriggled out of it myself. She grabbed my shift, rolled the chicken in it, swung the bundle around my head, and, singing, ran back out of the room.
    â€œMommy?” Wrapping my arms around my bony chest, I followed her into the living room-kitchen area, praying that I had not pushed her into one of her trances.
    With the chicken tucked under her arm, my mother fumbled with the locks on the front door. After wrestling the door open, she charged to the railing and flung the chicken out into the street. The arms of my nightgown flapped loose, as if trying to fly away from the body that dragged it down. “Goodbye, Beccah’s ghost,” my mother called after it.
    She turned back toward our apartment slowly, humming what I think was the river song, the only song my mother ever taught me. I waited, watching as she refastened the locks on the door, her greasy fingers slipping over the brass. She wiped her hands on her nightgown, said, “Well, that’s that,” and then I knew that she was still in this world, still with me.
    â€œIf that was Saja bothering you,” she said, “though I don’t think it was, he should have been fooled into thinking that was you I sacrificed to him.” My mother walked into the kitchen, closed the refrigerator door, turned on the water faucet. As she washed her hands, she explained,