The House of Drought

By Dennis Mombauer

2023 World Fantasy Finalist.

A HAUNTED HOUSE FOR THE CLIMATE CHANGE ERA.

On the island of Sri Lanka, at a colonial mansion between the forest and the paddy fields, a caretaker arrives with four children in tow after pledging to keep them safe. When violent thugs storm the house demanding that Ushu repay his debt, young Ja

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stelliform Press
• Release date: Jul 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781777091798

Book preview

Bernhard Zimmerkrug wiped sweat from his forehead and flung it into the paddy fields. The heat’s worse here, isn’t it? he said to no one in particular. Heat drained the irrigation canals and turned the rice stalks into yellow husks. He had taken many trips to Sri Lanka, and each one felt hotter than the last.

What’s that, over there? he asked, squinting through the haze.

It used to be a mansion. The old farmer nodded in the direction of the building, seemingly immune to the heat. Her curly hair sat like a nest on her scalp, and Bernhard imagined birds laying eggs in it. A lawyer used to live there, but he moved away. That was many years ago. The house sits abandoned ever since.

Mmmh. Bernhard shielded his eyes with one hand while he watched the paddies. His cinematographer knelt beneath a tree and panned her camera across the horizon. Let’s get footage from this house later, Julia. It’s at the edge of the fields, at the edge of the forest. Maybe we can get landscape shots from the upper floor.

He turned back to the farmer. Can we go there? Is it allowed?

Yea. No one lives in the house. No one has been inside in a decade, that’s why. Just be careful about the floors and ceilings. They might collapse, no?

Ja. Julia, are you getting the fields? Take a few low shots from the canals.

Bernhard watched his colleague climb down into one of the empty irrigation canals while the farmer crumbled a rice stalk between her fingers. He was breathing hard, body covered in sweat, shirt sticking to his back. Was this really worth it? He could be writing this story from a hotel room in Colombo. There was no need to go into the fields again.

No harvest since last year. Not enough rain to plant anything, especially in this area. But it’s the same in other villages. You’ve been there, yea? We tried to plant different crops, but they all died. Too little water for peanuts, too little even for our gardens.

I know. Bernhard nodded eagerly. That’s why we’re doing the documentary, to give you more attention. This is an issue for the whole country, not just your village. Climate change was big, lives on the ground were small. Bernhard had to connect them. He needed an angle. He’d already spoken to the farmers in the surrounding villages and their stories were all the same. He’d been hoping for something different from this one—a woman—but his hopes were evaporating in the blistering Anathakandu sun.

All our men have gone to the cities. My husband goes to Colombo and comes home three times a year. He grew up working the paddies, but over there, he drives a three-wheeler. He doesn’t even know the streets, no? Last year he got into a bad accident, almost lost his leg. The whole vehicle was smashed.

Mmmh. There was no cover from the sun, and Bernhard’s pale skin was already burnt. He had heard a lot more stories than this, and worse: of kidney disease from muddy water and small children with endless surgeries to address it, of farmers committing suicide, of elephants attacking villages in search of water. But he’d also heard of the farmers’ efforts to adapt, of their new practices, the advisory from the government, the drought-tolerant seeds and plant varieties.

Footage of the dry fields was plentiful, but he couldn’t fill a feature-length documentary with them. He needed a human story, a vehicle to load the images and facts into like a salesman loaded his lanterns into a trishaw the week before Vesak.

That mansion, how old is it? British colonial? Or older? Would anyone in Anathakandu know its history?

Nah. Not more than I told you, I don’t think. The colonizers built it, then they left and it stood empty. A lawyer moved in and out again. After that, it was abandoned. The farmer adjusted the scarf on her shoulders. There is a story about some kids who vanished there during the war.

Bernhard couldn’t help but smile. The house had it all: colonial history, civil war, a family story. Just shooting the rooms might be worth it, and doing some interviews with the older folks in town. Julia, how’s it going? You have all the paddies we need?

Julia’s hand appeared from the barren irrigation canal, almost obscured by long grasses, and gave him the thumbs up. Almost done. By the way, it’s a wonderful hole full of dust, thanks for asking.

Sorry. Bernhard almost envied her, more so with every project they worked together. Wherever they went, she made herself at home while Bernhard stayed a stranger; she made friends with the locals while he remained a visitor. For Julia, this was a straightforward assignment. She didn’t have to worry about the bigger picture—in the end, an image was an image, it showed what was there.

Not that she didn't work hard or didn't care for the ethics, far from it. When people cried in an interview, she turned off the camera and spoke to them. But making a story out of this, bringing it all together, that was an entirely different undertaking. Nobody understood what Bernhard was trying to do. Listen, Julia, what do you think about a trip to that mansion? I want to scout the location, see what can be done with it.

Right now?

If you’re up for it? Plenty of daylight left.

All right. Julia surfaced from the canal imitating the bobbing local headshake. Let’s go.

Beyond the fields, Bernhard could almost see the house wavering in the haze: an old, weary shape that towered over the grass. He shook his head and dispersed the image on the horizon, floating without any water.

Act I

Uncle Ushu! Jasmit ran down the stairs to the southern entrance hall. Her feet almost slipped on the hardwood steps, and she clutched the railing. Uncle Ushu!

The mansion at the edge of the jungle trembled. Bone china clinked in the cupboards, cockroaches scurried across the bathroom tiles. A lorry rolled over the dirt road from Anathakandu, and its trail of dust rose along the treeline.

They found me. Uncle Ushu closed the door and secured the bolt. Someone told them.

Jasmit raised herself on tiptoes to look out the window. It was evening, and the tropical night fell quickly into darkness. Twilight flooded through the trees and around the house, but no shadow foraged in its lighted halls.

Narun and the twins huddled around Jasmit, their eyes wide and bright with concern.

Jasmit, akka, who are they? Who is coming?

Uncle Ushu rushed to the other side of the room to rummage through the drawers of a cabinet, his balding head glistening with sweat. Above them, a fan turned slowly, and its hum merged with the engine noises roaring outside.

They’re thugs, Narun said, seemingly proud that he knew the word. That’s what uncle Ushu said. Thugs. They’re here for his money.

The twins shook their heads as one, nervously shifting from one foot to another. They were almost the same age as Jasmit and Narun’s twelve years,  but the twins—both the girl and the boy—were smaller, more delicate, with spindly arms and legs. Uncle Ushu doesn’t have money, one of the twins said. And why should he give to them?

He owes them. He told me he had a farm in his village, he took a lot of loans. That means he owes them money, doesn’t it?

But why? I don’t get it. If he had a farm, why did he need money?

He lost the harvest. He— Narun fell silent as uncle Ushu walked past them with heavy steps, his frame almost as tall as the doorway.

What do we do? What if they just want to ask questions? The twins stared at Jasmit and Narun, but Jasmit had no answer. She was only one year older than them but they looked to her like an elder sister or even an adult. She frowned at them until they cast their eyes to the floor.

The forest, Narun said, taking Jasmit’s hand and dragging her toward the hallway. The mansion was big enough to have entrances on its southern and eastern side, and the hallways connected them across both floors. The Sap Mother will protect us.

I told you— Jasmit broke away, and they all stood panting at the edge of the hall. In twenty minutes, the forest would be pitch black and it was already hard to see through the thick foliage. The Sap Mother doesn’t exist. If you go into the forest, they will find you. Or a leopard will kill you, or a snake, I don’t know. But you won’t survive.

She exists. Narun curled his lips. I’ve seen her many times. If you won’t come with me, I'll go alone.

Don’t be a fool, Jasmit said, turning away from him. She liked Narun, she really did, but he was the most stubborn boy she had ever met.

The steady shine of the mansion’s lamps brimmed the long corridors. Outside the windows, darkness washed over the grounds and through the high grass, fleeing the lorry’s headlights. Car doors slammed shut, and bootsteps clattered over the verandah.

Children, listen to me. The glinting chandelier animated uncle Ushu’s cheeks as he paced toward them. You have to hide upstairs, you understand? Go to the master bathroom and don’t make a noise. Whatever happens, stay until I get you. I will be there soon. Go!

Jasmit exchanged looks with Narun and the twins. "What