Midnight Thesis is a Historical Ghost Story and Existential Horror. I finish one chapter a week and let our writing group give me feedback. Then I publish the chapters here as a serial novel. Here is the seventh installment: A Last Word.
Early 1970s, Griqualand-East/South-Western Natal: Jochem Kok was doing research on a forgotten literary figure, or so everybody thought. Unearthing a tragic past opened up a conduit to an ancient horror that demands a price for being called to the present.
What came before…
A Last Word
When Jochem returned Ariadne led him back into the kitchen. Professor Truter stood as they entered, his face grave, the papers on the table forgotten now.
“Mister Kok,” he said. He spoke with care, making an attempt not to sound officious. “Please, sit down. What I have to tell you—”
Jochem stiffened and hesitated in the doorway. He stepped back, bumped lightly against Ariadne. She nudged him forward.
Prof gestured at the single chair. “You should sit.”
He did not refuse but still there was a brief pause before he moved forward. He pulled the chair out slowly and lowered himself onto it, his hands gripping the edge of the table.
This was it. The moment she’d been dreading since they left campus. Ariadne could not hold her breath because the anticipation had already made her dizzy. She made her best effort to breathe calmly.
Ariadne went to the sideboard and poured water into the tin cup, her fingers clumsy. The water sloshed slightly as she set it in front of Jochem. He didn’t look at it.
Professor Truter cleared his throat. He opened his mouth, closed it again. His hands moved to straighten his tie.
Ariadne wanted to look away. Couldn’t.
“Mister Kok, I’m afraid—” He stopped. Started again. “Doctor Marais is dead.”
The words hung in the stale air like the smell of paraffin.
Jochem didn’t move. He stared at Truter as if the Professor had spoken in a foreign tongue.
She clenched her hands tight. The same tightness pushed into her chest and around her heart. Say something, Jochem. React. Anything?
“He took his own life,” Truter continued, forcing the words out now. “Over the weekend. We’re not certain exactly when. He was found on Tuesday, midday, when he failed to arrive for the weekly staff meeting.”
“No.” Jochem’s voice was flat. “How?”
Truter’s jaw worked. “He shot himself.”
The fly had found its way back to the windowsill. It buzzed against the glass, trapped, frantic. Ariadne pressed her hand against her mouth. The tears came, whether she wanted them or not, hot against her cheeks.
She should have told him outside. Should have warned him somehow. But Professor Truter had been adamant. This kind of news required formality. Witnesses. Everything done properly.
“He left a letter,” said Truter. “For you. Specifically.” He glanced towards Ariadne.
It was in her handbag. With shaking hands she fumbled with the clasp. The envelope caught on the strap and snapped free with the crackle of stiff paper. Doctor Marais’s handwriting was on the front, precise and careful: J.A. Kok. Just that, nothing more. Ariadne crossed to the table and held it out to Jochem. The envelope fluttered, her hand shaking.
“Jochem?”
He looked at it as if it might bite him. Then he took it from her and held it tight with both hands. His lips moved as he read his own name. Then he swallowed and he lifted his eyes, not to look at her, not to look at the Prof. To look at nothing.
Ariadne stepped back, her vision blurred. She couldn’t stop the tears now, didn’t try to. All the way out here, carrying that letter, not knowing what it contained—but so aware of what it represented. A man’s last words. She wiped roughly at her face with the back of her hand.
Jochem sat motionless, the envelope in his hands. He didn’t open it. He simply stared, all the animation that had been there—the agitation, the spark of his old passion—gone. Extinguished.
She leaned forward wanting to embrace Jochem. But Professor Truter was witness. Maybe—is there a word she could say? She didn’t know if she should. Open it. Read it. Maybe it will help.
Then he stood abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the packed dung floor and then it fell over. The sound made Ariadne step back and knock against the sideboard.
“No,” he said again. Just that one word. Final. He placed the letter carefully on the table, as if it were something fragile. Then he walked out the back door.
Ariadne broke free from her place at the sideboard and rushed around the table. “Jochem!”
There was no reply. The only sound was his soles slapping on the stones outside. And then he was gone, swallowed by the harsh sunlight and the empty veldt beyond.
Ariadne and Professor Truter stood in the dim kitchen, the letter between them on the rough table, unopened. The Prof leaned over and brought the chair back to its feet.
She wanted to go after him. Knew she shouldn’t.
Professor Truter sighed. Sat down heavily in the chair Jochem had abandoned. He looked older suddenly. Tired.
“Give him time,” he said.
Ariadne turned to the window. He had time. All the months out here. Time might not be what he needed. But she couldn’t see Jochem, only the veldt stretching away, a grey cloud in the sky, the remoteness of it all.
© 2025 Gerhi Janse van Vuuren
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