'Don't let the bed bugs bite,' Mom said. Then she fly-kissed her, turned off the lights and left, shutting the door behind her and leaving her daughter in utter dark.

It was a while before Radha slept. Quite a while, in fact. For she couldn't help but think of whether Daddy would be sleeping in the hospital or not. Probably not. He must be thinking of her and Mom, just as they were thinking of him.

Even before her eyes opened, the beautifully haunting sound penetrated her ears. With no sight, therefore, she absorbed the hum-and-whistle startlingly well, such that she was certain that the source of the tune was within the room itself. That alarmed her to some extent, but she was still sleepy as it was; might be hallucinating or dreaming. The music was almost surreal, like something right out of the pages of a fairytale. It took her a moment to take in the verity that the melody was very real. And yes, the musician was in the same room as her. The aura of another presence was unmistakable, even for a young princess like her. An unfamiliar aura.

That hit hard, and fear began to settle in.

Slowly heaving herself into an upright position on the bed, eyes still shut tight, Radha felt the hair on her arms stand in attention. She also experienced a strange tingle at the back of her neck. She knew if she dared to open her eyes, she'd see the one emancipating the hypnotic melody.

Meanwhile, the music picked pace, grew louder. It filled her blind world. Someone was snapping their fingers too now, synchronizing with each beat, each whistle. Someone very near her. Someone who's humming and whistling and snapping had such power, such conviction, that it was pragmatically controlling Radha.

Beckoning to her.

Urging her.

Maybe it was a whole gang. A gang of crazy adults who ate youngsters alive, like in that movie Swati had been talking about in school. It had seemed silly, then, in a classroom, with friends by his side. It hardly seemed ludicrous now. She would die to have Daddy here with her; he always made her feel safe. She was suddenly so scared, and gruesome images kept popping up in her mind, that she thought she'd piss herself. She wanted to scream, oh yes, she wanted to scream so bad. But the music had ahold of her. It had blocked her, immobilized her, all the while cradling her in its arms.

Abruptly, the music stopped. Silence treaded its footsteps, and this particular silence was even more eerie. Radha's heart started pounding harder than ever. She was convinced it was a child-killer gang like the one from the movie Swati had told them about, and now that the music had stopped, they'd complete the real job they were here to do.

Radha desperately wanted to open her eyes, yet in the end, she was but a scared girl.

'Open your eyes,' a voice susurrated just then, reading his thoughts. 'I'm not here to hurt you.'

The voice sounded so good-natured, so serene, so soothing, so deep, that Radha simply couldn't disobey, even though it was not even a command. Couldn't child-killers have smooth voices? If anything, it probably only helped with their job. But there was a special quality to this guy's baritone, a - kindness, maybe? A politeness? Earnest sincerity?

'Open your eyes, Radha,' the voice insisted.

Involuntarily, she did. It was impossible to resist that voice. It was as hypnotic as the music had been. This was definitely the same guy who's humming and whistling had woke him up.

Darkness engulfed her immediately as her eyes creaked open. True darkness. Asleep, she hadn't been able to register the dark. Awake, she did.

A minimal amount of moonlight flirted in through the little window by his bedside. It granted some clarity of vision, at least.

There was some movement. There, by the opposite rightmost corner of the room.

The killer was sitting beside her doll, Miss Dodgy. Moonlight made him scantly visible.

His legs were very, very long and were crossed in front of him. He was wearing gigantic, black-dyed boots that would legitimately be fit for Bigfoot. The peculiar part of it was, that he had no socks on. So a very tiny region between the ends of his black pants and his black boots was quite visible - now, perhaps if was the moonlight, perhaps not, but that exposed terrain of his leg was smooth, hairless, emaciated, pale as a bone. In fact, it looked just like one. Thin, quite thin, with seemingly no flesh. And white, in stark contrast with the rest of his attire. There was his shirt too, it seemed to be pastel-colored as well, edging towards pure white, but Radha couldn't be sure in the darkness. There was a dark-colored tie, that she was sure of. It must be black, was his thought, or the man didn't have a sense of fashion. He wore something over the shirt, probably a waistcoat or a jacket of some kind. His face, though, was completed shrouded in black. Radha also saw an uncertain delineate of a hat. And the man's right hand, yes - not his palm or anything, but his knuckles, gaunt and scruffy even from a distance. The first knuckle was undoubtedly raised several inches above the rest.

Just visualizing what the visage of the man would look like gave her all sorts of chills.

If the man was indeed a killer, he surely didn't know how go dress like one.

It was that man from before again. The man who called himself a friend of her father's. Bhoo.

Beside him, the clocked digits glowed: 2 a.m.

Radha gulped. Her heartbeat ratcheted up markedly.

'Why - why do you trouble me?'

'Trouble you?' The man who called himself Bhoo laughed. And it was a gentlemanly laugh at that - not derogatory, not assertive. Just an affable, cordial laugh, the kind that makes you want to laugh along. Only this was no chortling moment. Not for Radha. 'Why, I have been watching over you your whole life, my friend.'

Friend? Oh, I hate this guy more and more.

'Let it out, Radha,' said the man. 'Whatever you are feeling. Your father always did.'

'I told him about you,' she blurted out.

'And?'

'And he never admitted to you being his friend.'

She couldn't really make the man's face out, but she was certain he was grinning. 'He never will,' he simply said, as if that explained everything.

Why do I feel like he's teasing me?

'I am not teasing you, Radha.'

Did I just say that out loud? Idiot!

'You did not say that aloud, my friend,' the man told her, reading her thoughts again. 'But you cannot conceal anything from me.'

Radha was dubious of the man's character. Very.

'You are at liberty to ask me anything you want,' imbued the man.

Radha stammered, unsure. 'What - sorry, who - are you?'

The man took a deep breath. 'Your father asked me the same thing once. Everyone does.'

Everyone? Does he expect me to actually understand?

'Well?'

'I am me. I am you. I am what you need me to be.'

What. Did. He. Just. Say.

Radha almost patted herself on the back, for she had just thought up of a more viable question to throw at his "Daddy's friend". 'How'd you get in here?'

Radha could pretty much hear his smile. 'Like this.'

And the man simply smoked away. That was, a puff of thick, black smoke exploded where the man had just been, making rivulets around Miss Dodgy. And the man himself was gone.

Before Radha could stabilize her shock, another paroxysm of the same type of smoke occurred right by her bedside, and the smoke started swirling beside her, swirling and rising and taking shape until at last, it was the man himself and no smoke that stood there. Smirking devilishly.

The face was quite unremarkable, so to say, unless you looked at it for long enough - which Radha did - and started noticing the little subtleties that can go unnoticed on first sight. The countless wrinkles, the innumerable ridges, the cobwebby-thin skin stretched over a canvas of facial bones.

The most atrocious part about the man's face were his eyes. One of them, the left one, was halfway shut, with an old scar running over the closed eye and all the way up to the chipped brow. The other eye, though, was wide ajar, piercing Radha through and through. The eyeball seemed to have been painted over by a stony, moss-green color, which glowed bizarrely in the dark. Like an actual eyeball had been replaced by an antique coin ridden with seaweed, just dangling there in the socket, amidst a network of fiery red capillaries running through the negligible white in his eyes.

One thing was certain: this was no human face.

It didn't scare her in this least, though; this was nothing compared to seeing her father in that rag-doll stage in the hospital, absolutely nothing, a joke.

Still, this was wicked. This was magic and - and -

'What . . .' she gasped, unable to formulate actual, fully-fledged words.

'You will get used to it,' said the man. Not once breaking his dreadful smirk.

'What if I chose not to?' Radha rebuked.

What right does he have to chastise me?

Don't be foolish! He's not even real! Come on! You're eleven! Eleven!

'You think this is all happening inside your head?' the man inquired. 'While that would not, authentically, be false, I suppose I shall do something to prove myself to you.'

There was an awkward pause. Radha thought she could hear crickets stridulating, only she didn't think there were any crickets around here.

'All right, then,' the man said. 'I will tell you something. Should I turn out to be right - will you trust me then?'

Radha nodded confidently, knowing if this was a dream it didn't matter anyway. 'And if you're wrong?'

'Then I never "trouble" you again.'

'Sounds like a fair deal to me. So, predict away.'

The epilogue coming up will tie-in with the prologue on the beginning, just as this chapter tied-in with the first one.

Oh, the cycle. The non-linear stroke of your soul on the canvas of life.

I feel good. Good and sad. I hope you feel the same way.

Thank you. Very much.

This hasn't been a plot-driven book. It wasn't ever meant to be. The characters - the very real characters, like me, like you - they make this story what it is.

But it isn't unnecessarily scary either. No monster is scarier than life.

If you ever decide to re-read this book, I promise you'll find a million tiny details that hopefully make you go "Oh! I see!"

(don't spoil things for others in the comment section, though)

I also sincerely hope you liked how this book is written. I wanted the prose to be simple yet elegant, for it to suit the overall theme - or should I say, themes - of this story.

The first part of the book deals with Avish as a kid.

The second part deals with him as a teen, a budding man.

The third part is . . . well, if I explain this book to you, then I probably shouldn't have written it.

I haven't used full names for the main characters because it seems more authentic to me that way. Avish's story could me my story, or yours, or all of our stories. Pay attention and you'll find so many tidbits in this book that I've tried to hide.

This book makes you live a character's life.

I didn't want to be showy or write a page-turner. I personally have no problem with the trend of books going on these days, but I do believe they are lacking substance, language and contemplation. Sure, they have plot and entertainment value, but no REAL value.

"BUGS BITE" is my book. It's also yours (hey! doesn't mean you can steal it!).

I feel like this book fulfilled its purpose, just as the man in black served his.

Thank you. For embarking with me on this journey. I love you for giving this book a chance.

(Hey, don't forget the epilogue! It's really important!)