Chapter 776

The aroma, usually a source of comfort, was off. It tickled the nostrils of Evangeline in a way that suggested something was not quite right with the evening meal simmering on the stove. She lowered the flame under the pot.

The rhythmic bubbling of rice and coconut milk momentarily subdued, replaced by a low hiss that seemed to emanate from the grains themselves. Sixty-two years had taught her to trust her senses, honed by decades in the bustling markets and tranquil rice paddies of Suriname.

This was not the fragrant steam of properly cooked rice.

She lifted the lid, peering into the pot. The rice appeared normal, pearly white and swollen with liquid. But as she stirred with a wooden spoon, a strange viscosity became apparent. It wasn't the creamy texture of coconut rice; this was different, almost…mucilaginous.

A thread of unease began to weave its way into her evening routine.

"Something smells funny," Evangeline murmured to herself, more a statement of fact than a question. Her small wooden house, nestled on the outskirts of Paramaribo, usually filled with the warm, inviting scents of spices and cooking plantain, now held this unsettling aroma. She opened the back door, letting in the humid evening draft, hoping to dissipate the strange smell.

Outside, the cicadas chirped their relentless song, a constant backdrop to life in Suriname. But tonight, their sound seemed louder, almost frantic, mirroring the growing unease within her. She glanced at her small garden. The vibrant green of the callaloo and okra usually soothing, now appeared somehow muted under the fading sunlight.

Evangeline returned to the pot, scooping a small portion of rice onto a plate. She examined it closely. The grains clung together in an unnatural way.

Under the dim kitchen light, she noticed a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer on their surface, like powdered glass. It couldn't be glass. It was rice, simple rice she had bought from her regular vendor at the market.

Hesitantly, she brought the plate to her nose again, inhaling deeply. The smell was subtle, yet undeniably present: a faint metallic tang mixed with something vaguely sweet, cloying, and unnatural. It was the sweetness that bothered her most, an artificial note that didn't belong in rice. She poked at the rice with her spoon; it stretched slightly, like cheese.

"This is wrong," she declared aloud, her voice firm, cutting through the cicada song. Decades of cooking had instilled in her an innate understanding of food, a knowledge passed down through generations of Surinamese women. This rice was not right.

She considered discarding it, starting again, but a nagging feeling, a prickle of unease, held her back. Something beyond mere spoilage was at play here.

Instead of throwing it away, Evangeline took the plate to the small table by the window. The last rays of the setting sun cast long shadows across the room, making the already dim kitchen even darker. She sat, the plate of suspect rice in front of her, and observed it. The shimmer seemed to intensify in the fading light, the grains almost glowing faintly.

Time moved slowly. Evangeline watched the rice, her mind racing. Had she somehow contaminated it herself? Perhaps the pot was not clean? But she was meticulous in her kitchen, her tools and utensils kept spotless. This was not about cleanliness. This was something else.

A fly, attracted by the smell, buzzed around the plate. Evangeline watched as it landed on the rice, its delicate legs touching the glistening grains. The fly remained there for a moment, then abruptly, clumsily, fell onto its back, legs twitching erratically. It lay still.

Evangeline gasped, pushing back her chair with a scrape against the wooden floor. Her heart pounded against her ribs. This was no ordinary rice. This was dangerous. The fly, a creature usually resilient and quick, had been instantly incapacitated. What would it do to a human?

Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through her initial unease. She backed away from the table, her eyes fixed on the plate of rice, now a source of dread instead of nourishment. The shimmer seemed to pulse gently, and the unnatural sweetness in the aroma became more pronounced, almost sickeningly so.

She needed to get rid of it, but simply throwing it in the trash seemed inadequate. What if animals got into it? What if it contaminated the ground? Her mind wrestled with the implications. This wasn't just bad food; it was something…other.

Evangeline retrieved a heavy ceramic pot from under the sink. With a long-handled spoon, carefully, she scraped the rice from the plate into the ceramic pot. She avoided touching it directly, a primal instinct warning her against contact. The rice felt strangely heavy, denser than normal cooked rice.

Once all the rice was in the pot, she carried it outside, away from her house, towards the edge of her small property where the overgrown vegetation began. The cicadas still sang, oblivious to the silent horror unfolding in her kitchen garden. The night air was thick and humid, but a slight breeze rustled the leaves of the mango tree at the edge of her yard.

Evangeline dug a deep hole in the earth with a small shovel she kept for gardening. Her hands trembled slightly as she worked, the fear tightening its grip. She poured the rice into the hole, then quickly covered it with soil, stamping it down firmly with her foot. She wanted it buried deep, contained, away from everything.

Satisfied, she washed her hands thoroughly with soap and water, scrubbing them raw. She rinsed the plate and spoon, even though she planned to discard them. Every touch, every contact with the rice felt like a violation, a contamination. She needed to cleanse herself, her house, of its presence.

Back inside, she lit a bundle of sage, letting the smoke fill the kitchen, a traditional cleansing ritual passed down from her ancestors. The fragrant smoke swirled around her, a comforting, familiar scent that momentarily calmed her racing heart. She walked through her house, letting the smoke permeate every corner, every room, banishing the lingering sense of unease.

Despite the cleansing ritual, a knot of anxiety remained in her stomach. She couldn't shake the image of the dead fly, the unnatural texture of the rice, the strange, sickly sweet aroma. This was more than just bad rice. This felt…wrong, fundamentally wrong.

Sleep evaded her that night. Evangeline lay in her bed, listening to the sounds of the night: the cicadas, the rustling leaves, the distant barking of dogs. But beneath these familiar sounds, she felt a new, unsettling quietness, a void where normalcy used to be. She kept thinking about the rice, buried in her garden, and what it might be, what it might do.

The next morning, Evangeline woke with a heavy feeling. The sun streamed through her window, illuminating dust dancing in the rays, but the usual warmth of the morning felt muted, dimmed by the events of the previous night. She went to her kitchen, expecting the lingering strange aroma, but the air was clear, the sage smoke having done its work.

Yet, the dread remained. She decided to visit her rice vendor at the market, a stout, jovial man named Simeon whom she had known for years. Perhaps he would have some explanation, some insight into the strange rice.

The market was bustling, a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds. Vendors called out their wares, the scent of spices and fruits filled the air, and people jostled through the narrow aisles. But even amidst the vibrant activity, Evangeline felt a sense of detachment, a lingering unease that colored her perception of everything.

She found Simeon behind his stall, arranging sacks of rice, his usual cheerful demeanor in place. She approached hesitantly, unsure how to broach the subject of the contaminated rice without sounding foolish.

"Simeon, good morning," she greeted him, forcing a smile.

"Evangeline! Good morning to you! What can I get for you today? More of that fine white rice, eh?" he boomed, his voice jovial as always.

"Actually, Simeon," she began, her voice low, "I wanted to ask you about the rice I bought yesterday."

Simeon paused in his arranging, his smile faltering slightly. "The rice? Is something wrong? It was a fresh batch, the best quality."

"It smelled…strange," Evangeline said, searching for the right words. "And it cooked…differently. It was…sticky, almost like glue."

Simeon frowned, his brow furrowing. "Sticky? That's not right. Our rice is never sticky like that." He reached into a nearby sack, scooping a handful of grains. "Here, look. See? Perfect grains, dry, separate." He held out his hand for her to examine.

The rice in his hand looked normal, ordinary. Evangeline hesitated, feeling foolish, as if she were imagining things. "Maybe…maybe it was just my cooking," she mumbled, doubting her own senses.

"Nonsense, Evangeline," Simeon chuckled, patting her hand. "You're the best cook in Paramaribo! Maybe you just had a…funny batch. It happens sometimes. Tell you what, take this sack," he gestured to a fresh-looking sack of rice, "on the house. Forget about that other stuff. This one is guaranteed perfect."

Evangeline accepted the sack, feeling a mix of relief and lingering doubt. Simeon's reassurances were comforting, but the memory of the dead fly and the unnatural rice was still vivid. She thanked him and left the market, the sack of rice feeling heavy in her hands, heavier than it should have been.

Back home, she examined the new rice Simeon had given her. It looked normal, smelled normal. She cooked a small pot of it, carefully observing it at every stage. This rice cooked properly, fluffy and fragrant, without any strange shimmer or aroma. Relief washed over her. Perhaps it had just been a bad batch, a fluke.

But the unease returned that evening. As dusk settled, and the cicadas began their evening chorus, Evangeline noticed something odd in her garden. Near the spot where she had buried the contaminated rice, the earth seemed…disturbed. Small mounds of soil were pushed up, as if something had been moving beneath the surface.

She approached cautiously, a tremor of fear running through her. The mounds of soil shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly, but enough to confirm her suspicions. Something was under there, moving. And it was moving towards her house.

Evangeline retreated inside, locking the doors and windows. The gentle shimmer she had seen on the rice returned to her mind, amplified by the image of the disturbed earth. It wasn't just contaminated; it was alive. The rice was alive.

The scratching started later that night, faint at first, almost imagined. But it grew steadily louder, more insistent, emanating from beneath the floorboards, from within the walls. A chorus of tiny scratchings, multiplied, amplified, filling her small house with an unsettling, creeping sound.

Evangeline huddled in the center of her room, her heart pounding, listening to the escalating scratching. It was no longer just beneath the floor; it was everywhere, surrounding her, closing in. She could feel vibrations through the floorboards, a subtle tremor that resonated deep within her bones.

Then, the smell returned, stronger now, overpowering the scent of sage. The sickly sweet, metallic aroma of the rice, but intensified, putrid, filling her nostrils, making her gag. It was coming from everywhere, permeating the house, seeping from the walls, rising from the floor.

The scratching intensified, turning into a frantic, tearing sound. The floorboards began to bulge, the walls to crack. Something was pushing, forcing its way out. The sweet, putrid smell became unbearable, thick and cloying, coating her tongue, stinging her eyes.

Suddenly, the floorboards in front of her burst open with a splintering crack. A mass of white, glistening grains erupted, pushing upwards, a surging tide of rice, not separate grains anymore, but fused together, moving as one, pulsating with a strange, internal light.

The rice poured out of the floor, filling the room, rising rapidly, engulfing furniture, climbing the walls. Evangeline screamed, a choked, terrified sound lost in the rush of rice. She tried to move, to escape, but her legs were trapped, held fast by the rising tide.

The rice engulfed her, cool and slick at first, then tightening, constricting, the individual grains pressing into her skin, melding together, becoming solid, heavy, suffocating. The sweet, metallic aroma filled her lungs as the rice climbed higher, covering her face, her eyes, her mouth.

The last thing Evangeline saw was the pulsing shimmer within the rice, a million tiny lights, cold and alien. The last thing she felt was the crushing weight, the suffocating pressure, the rice becoming one with her, inside and out.

The cicadas continued their song, oblivious to the silence that had fallen over Evangeline's small house. The rice continued to rise, filling the house to the rafters, a silent, glistening monument in the humid Surinamese night.

The new sack of rice Simeon had given her sat unopened on the kitchen counter, untouched, perfectly normal, waiting to be cooked. It was, after all, a fresh batch, the best quality.