Ethereal Chronicles

I was tasked with helping a young woman in distress, tormented with insomnia which she insistently claimed was caused by a demon on her ceiling.

Now I had encountered many strange things in my lifetime, treated many patients, so the news was not alarming to me, and upon her husband’s request, I went to see her without delay.

When I arrived at the house, he greeted me hastily, leading me to the room where she lay. Upon entering, I recoiled almost immediately, retching from the putrid smell of death and disease that assaulted my nostrils.

The husband smiled grimly. Something else that remained a mystery, he said.

I sat carefully on the edge of the bed, moving gently so as not to startle her. She turned her head to look at me, her eyes wide with terror.

“Have you come to help me?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“I have,” I replied gently. “Tell me, child, what troubles you?”

“Something watches me in the night,” she sobbed. “And when I wake, I feel weaker than the night before. I feel that I am dying.”

“And what, or where, is this thing that watches you?” I said.

She raised a thin finger, pointing to the ceiling above her.

“There.” she whispered.

I followed her motion to the spot she indicated, but all I could see was a large, spotted moth resting silently. With a flick of my hand, I disturbed it, sending it fluttering away.

“There’s nothing there,” I said calmly. “Your mind is a powerful thing. I’ve seen cases such as this before.”

But she shook her head violently, her voice rising in desperation. It seemed that her fears had been dismissed often. “No! No, this is different!”

“I will remain here tonight.” I assured her. “If your demon comes, I will see to it for you.”

And so I left her, returning later when the sky had blackened, and the hum of town life had faded into silence. Just as her husband had described, she lay in a state of panic, her wide eyes fixed on the ceiling, her mouth agape in a silent scream. I watched from a distance, behind a crack in the door, and there I waited for some change to occur.

It was about an hour later when I noticed that the moth had returned, fluttering around the room, and her eyes followed it, though she remained unable to speak or move.

Another hour passed, but there was little change. When I grew parched, I left to get a cup of water. But the moment I reached downstairs, a blood curdling scream pierced the air from the room above. I, along with her husband, rushed to her room to see what had happened.

The room reeked more foully than before, and I clenched my lips to prevent myself from vomiting. It appeared as though a struggle had erupted from her torment, though such chaos seemed implausible in the short time that I had left her. Her sheets were soaked in crimson, stained with blood from wounds that from this distance I couldn’t identify – again, strange, for the volume of blood suggested that she should have been severely injured. Swarming flies had clustered across the walls, climbing and writhing in an odd fashion yet refusing to use their wings and fly. Some had plummeted to the ground, dying around her, a phenomenon that left me once more stumped, with no explanation.

When I drew forwards and touched her skin, it was icy cold, as though she had been dead for days and not mere minutes. Her eyes, frozen open, stared into me accusingly, yet still without emotion, as though she were not at all surprised by my ignorance. But what struck me as the strangest of all was that, upon closer inspection of her lifeless form, I noticed the same moth from the ceiling, now latched tightly to her neck.

Her husband exclaimed with disgust, reaching out to swat the thing away. But as he did so, an unsettling, high-pitched sound burst from it, like a scream. It fluttered to the corner of the room, settling itself behind the thickening swarm of flies, which had covered the walls so completely, the entire room gleamed black.

An instant later, the moth erupted from the clustered creatures, scattering them violently across the room. As it did, it morphed into a woman, landing before us with a growl, her sharpened teeth bared and stained with the blood of the dead maiden behind us.

So, the demon was real, after all.

APPEARANCE AND ATTRIBUTES

Childless women made ill with envy, hatred or grief may transform into Shtriga, vampire-like ‘witches’ in Albanian folklore.

Shtriga live in seclusion, only venturing to civilization when hunger strikes, eager to drain the blood of their prey. After feeding, they turn into moths or flies and return to their lairs in the forests.

Shtriga appearances in human form vary. Often, they are middle aged women or old crones with white eyes and large noses. Occasionally, they may seem more beautiful and youthful, though with an unhinged, unhuman quality. The stare of a Shtriga is believed to hold the power of the ‘evil eye’, and so avoidance of eye contact is imperative for survival.

Those who she feeds from are doomed to fall into a state of incurable sickness, which quickly kills them. The Shtriga responsible for the infection can reverse the effects, but this can only be done by spitting into the person’s mouth, and Shtriga are not likely gifted with the capacity to feel remorse or mercy towards their victims.

Shtriga are especially drawn to children, often because they were once unable to bear their own. Beautiful women are also subject to jealousy. As a result, it is common for people meeting one another to invoke the protection of God (especially when giving out compliments) to avoid attracting evil eye from a Shtriga.

There are ways to defend against a Shtriga. Most commonly, a pinch of salt is placed over the mouth, eyes, heart, and stomach before being thrown into flames to ward off her evil. When constructing new homes, people may leave a puppet behind to trap her energy. The power of God is also heavily influential in protecting oneself against a Shtriga, whether by holy water from a Church or incantations from the Qur’an.