We have been walking for an hour when the doors around us all open at the same time. First comes the odor of two-day-old fish going bad in the sun, and then we see the creatures to whom this reek belongs. At first glance, these middle worlders are identical to the fish-scaled man we saw in the old souk in Jbeil, but an unavoidably closer look pronounces the marked difference between them. The middle worlders surrounding us have fish eyes and no noses, just gills in their necks. Their bodies are scaled, but not silver. The scales are a dirty gray, and covered by a thick mucuslike substance.

They surround us, and we in turn surround Taraana, making a wall between him and these middle worlders.

“What do you want from us?” Paheli asks one of the scaled men. His fish lips open and close, but he doesn’t say a word. Well, okay.

A minute into the siege, we hear footsteps. The fishy middle worlders on the right move apart, and we see a human-shaped middle worlder standing at a distance from us. Even with the space between us, we can feel the contempt he has for us. He is tall with broad shoulders and hair liberally sprinkled with gray. His cheeks are heavily scarred, so the beard on his face is uneven and patched. He is wearing a plain black shalwar kameez. Sooty eyelashes ring eyes that are unlike any others we have seen before. Even Taraana’s starry eyes are overshadowed by the strangeness of this middle worlder’s eyes. You see, a river flows in this man’s eyes.

That doesn’t make sense, does it? But that’s exactly what his eyes feel like. Everyone else’s eyes are still pools, but this man’s eyes move like the surface of a river. The malice in his inhuman eyes is practically a scream in the still air. The voices in the Between fade a little, as if the corridor, too, is paying attention.

This, then, is our as-yet-unnamed villain. He looks through us at Taraana, who stumbles as if reacting to the man’s gaze.

The man smiles. It is not a pretty sight. “It has a been a while, boy. Have you enjoyed playing outside?”

His voice is gravelly, and we all never want to hear it again. Alas, we aren’t going to be that lucky. We look at Taraana and find him frozen, as if his ability to talk has suddenly disappeared.

“What, have nothing to say to me? I’m hurt.” The man smiles again, enjoying Taraana’s distress. We bristle, but it is as if we are invisible to the middle worlder.

“Bring them all to the Bhool Bhulaiyaa,” he says to the scaled middle worlders, and turns to go.

“This is the Between.” Paheli speaks before anyone can make a move. “You should leave us alone.” Her voice is the quiet before a storm.