Erra lived in an old house by the river. Moss crept over the stones, and no one in the village could remember a time when the house wasn’t there.

Erra used to say one of her great-great-great-grandmothers had built it with her own hands, and the villagers always believed her.

The stranger didn’t. He was a city man, too modern for old tales. He laughed in Erra’s face when she explained that the house stood so close to the water because they served the spirits of the river.

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He laughed even harder when she told him that offerings kept them safe. Then he pulled out his phone, recording her as he made her repeat the story. “Make sure to like and subscribe!” he mocked, but the villagers offered no likes. No one subscribed.

By dawn, the stranger and his phone had vanished.

Later, Erra called Hasan and his sons to help push the stranger’s car into the river. The harvest that year was exceptionally bountiful.