The Hut Tale

The tale goes that a mysterious man would every night cross the Ethiopian border into a neighbouring town in Somalia. Armed with a knife, he would murder the little boys of the village. My father added more logs to the burning fire and stared absently into the flame as it created shadows on his face.
“I will never forget that day I saw him, how he walked coolly into the night.” My father said, his eyes not moving an inch, still focused on the fire.
I had never seen so much disbelief on my fathers face. It was as if telling the tale he was somehow summoning the mysterious man.
“What did he look like?” I asked, moving closer to the fire. Warming my hands. My father closed his eyes then twitched as he opened them. Desperately trying to remember.
“He was wearing a long black trench coat, and his knife was dripping with blood as he walked.”
Listening to the words, I realised that I had never seen anyone in my village wearing a trench coat. Even though my father was sixteen years of age the last time that he had seen the man. I somewhat felt drawn to ask. “How would I recognise him, father?”
I studied my father’s white loose-fitted clothing as he smiled and handed me some popcorn that he was warming on the fire. “Do not worry, son. You will recognise him. I remember his eyes were red as the blood.” Handing me some more popcorn he continued. “A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine told me that the man had been caught by the Ethiopian border control.”
Thank god.
I was pleased to hear that and by my father’s yawning, I knew that it was time to set up the hut. I gathered up the sticks and covered it with cows’ skin. I looked back and noticed that my father was already asleep. He awoke from his quick sleep, shuddering as I patted him. “Is the hut ready?” he asked.
No, no. This can’t be.
I feel back as I stared into his eyes. “Father, your eyes are red!”