TOKOLOSHE

The Thing That Drinks Water

South Africa – 1998

It started with the scratching.

Lerato first heard it on a cold June night, just as she was drifting off to sleep. A faint, irregular scuffling, like tiny claws against the wooden floorboards beneath her bed. At first, she thought it was a rat. She pulled her blankets tighter, told herself it was nothing, and closed her eyes.

Then, the whispering began.

It was faint, almost playful at first. A low, guttural voice giggling from the dark corners of her room. She couldn't make out the words, only the rhythm—soft, slow, like a lullaby sung in reverse.

"Leraaaatoooo…"

Her breath caught in her throat. She turned sharply, her eyes darting to the bedroom door. It was shut. The window? Locked. The only thing in the room with her was the dim glow of the bedside lamp.

And yet… something was here. Watching. Waiting.

The next morning, she woke up cold. Her blankets were on the floor. The bed had been moved—dragged at least half a meter from its original position. The air smelled damp, wrong, like something had been breathing too close to her face.

Her mother, a deeply traditional woman, took one look at the room and clicked her tongue in warning.

"You didn't leave water out last night."

Lerato frowned. "What?"

Her mother was already fetching a small bowl from the kitchen. "Tokoloshe," she said simply, placing the water at the foot of the bed. "If you leave water out, it drinks and leaves you alone."

Lerato laughed. "Come on, Mama. That's just an old story."

Her mother didn't laugh back.

That night, she put out the bowl of water anyway. Just in case.

The Night Strangler

At 3:07 AM, Lerato woke up with a start. Something heavy was sitting on her chest.

She gasped, tried to move, but her body was frozen. It felt like ice had crawled into her veins. Her lungs burned as she struggled to breathe, but the pressure wouldn't let up.

And then, in the dim light, she saw it.

A small, hunched figure crouched at the foot of her bed. It had thin, leathery skin, stretched too tightly over its bones. Its fingers were long and twisted, the nails cracked and sharp. Its head was too large for its body, tilted unnaturally as it watched her struggle.

And the eyes. Glowing red. Unblinking. Hungry.

Lerato screamed, the sound finally breaking through as the pressure lifted. The thing skittered back, its movements too fast, too unnatural.

When her mother rushed in, the creature was gone.

Only the empty water bowl remained.

The Vanishing Child

The next morning, Lerato didn't go to school. She sat at the kitchen table, silent, playing with her food.

She had heard the stories before. Whispers in her village about children who disappeared, taken in the night after hearing a small man whispering their names.

It always started with the whispering.

And then came the night visits.

And then… they were gone.

Her mother placed a firm hand on hers. "It will leave you alone," she promised. "As long as you follow the rules."

Lerato swallowed. "What if it doesn't?"

Her mother didn't answer.

That night, she placed the water down again. Two bowls this time.

And waited.

The Knock at the Window

At 3:07 AM, the sound returned. The slurping, the desperate gurgling. But this time… it didn't stop.

Lerato's eyes darted toward the bowl.

It was still full.

The noise wasn't coming from the floor.

It was coming from under her bed.

Something was drinking. Something was moving. Something was breathing.

The bed shook violently, the mattress lifted slightly, and a low, hideous giggle echoed from beneath.

"You didn't leave enough water."

Lerato bolted.

She didn't make it to the door.

Something cold clamped around her ankle.

She fell, hitting the wooden floor with a dull crack. Her fingers clawed at the boards as she was dragged backward, her screams muffled by the sound of her mother banging on the door from the other side.

It wouldn't open.

The last thing Lerato saw was the empty space beneath the bed, swallowing her whole.

The last thing her mother heard was laughter.

And then, silence.

Two Weeks Later

The neighbors found her mother rocking back and forth in the living room, whispering the same phrase over and over again.

"She's under the bed."

Lerato was never found.

The only thing the police discovered in her room was an overturned water bowl… and deep, clawed scratch marks running along the underside of the bed.

And so, the villagers whispered once more.

"It's back."

They raised their beds on bricks.

And left out the water.

Because if you don't… the Tokoloshe might come for you next