The Duppy in the Caboose

A slightly spooky Caymanian Halloween tale

The old caboose sat behind the house.

It had been there for as long as anyone could remember, quietly minding its own business,
collecting dust and occasionally providing accommodation for the odd lizard.

But there was something about October evenings that made the old wooden kitchen behave rather strangely.

It started with the noises.

Bumps. Bangs. The occasional crash.

Normally, these things had perfectly reasonable explanations.
Someone walking into a wall.
Someone knocking over a chair.
Someone pretending they hadn’t just broken something expensive.

But these noises were coming from the old caboose.

And nobody had cooked in there for years.

Then came the smoke.

Not the unpleasant sort that makes you wonder whether you should call the fire brigade.

No. This was sweet, delicious-smelling smoke that curled through the wooden slats and drifted across the yard.

The sort of smell that made you hungry even after you’d already eaten dinner.

Which was suspicious.

Very suspicious.

By the third evening, the caboose was actually glowing.

I considered investigating.

So I grabbed my flashlight, slipped through the back door and crept towards the caboose.

The closer I got, the louder the noises became.

Clanging pots. Rattling pans. Something that sounded suspiciously like a wooden spoon being used as a weapon.

Then, without warning, a voice thundered from inside.

I froze.

Not because I was frightened, obviously.

I was simply giving my heart a moment to return to its proper position.

I looked back towards the main house.

Dark. Quiet. Everyone asleep.

Well…That was inconvenient.

The voice had sounded so ordinary, so thoroughly irritated, that I convinced myself someone was playing a joke.

I marched straight into the caboose.

And stopped.

In the middle of the room sat an enormous bubbling pot. A wooden spoon was slowly stirring its contents.

All by itself.

Round and round it went. Not a person in sight.

Not even a hand.

Just a spoon, casually getting on with its evening.

And the smell!

Cassava cake.

Not just any cassava cake, either. The sort that makes you close your eyes and reconsider every other dessert you’ve ever eaten.

Whoever was cooking knew exactly what they were doing.

Apart from, apparently, keeping track of the nutmeg.

I took one step closer.

The spoon stopped.

I stopped.

For a moment, we simply stared at each other.

Well, I stared at the spoon.

I have no idea what the spoon was doing.

Then it gave one sharp CLANG against the side of the pot.

I screamed.

A very dignified scream, I might add.

And ran.

Who was making the cassava cake?

I should have gone to bed.

Any sensible person would have gone to bed.

Instead, I dragged a chair to the window, made myself comfortable and began watching the caboose.

For a while, nothing happened.

Then came a faint flicker of light.

A shadow moved across the yard.

Something white floated past the window.

And I could have sworn I heard laughter.

Not ordinary laughter, either.

The sort of laughter that suggests someone is having an exceptionally good time doing something they absolutely should not be doing.

Before long, the yard seemed to be hosting some sort of gathering.

There were shapes moving through the darkness.

Something bobbed above the pumpkins.

And from the caboose came another almighty shout.

“YOU CAN’T SERVE CASSAVA CAKE WITHOUT NUTMEG!”

There was a pause.

Then a second voice answered.

“Well, Winston, perhaps if you’d put it somewhere sensible!”

Winston?

Who the hell was Winston?

And then the entire caboose came alive.

Lights flashed through the wooden slats.

Colours danced across the yard.

Something that looked suspiciously like fireworks burst into the night sky.

There was music.

There was laughter.

And there was Winston, still arguing about the nutmeg.

I sat at the window, completely astonished.

How was nobody else hearing this?

Had the entire household suddenly gone deaf?

I told myself I would stay awake until I discovered exactly what was happening.

Unfortunately, my eyelids had other plans.

When I opened my eyes, morning sunlight was creeping across the yard.

The caboose stood exactly where it always had.

No smoke.

No lights.

No floating spoons.

Not so much as a stray firework.

Had I dreamt the whole thing?

Surely not.

I could still smell cassava cake.

In the reassuring light of morning, I decided to investigate one last time.

The caboose looked perfectly ordinary.

The wooden walls were weathered. The roof was old. A little dust had settled along the doorway.

Inside, the cooking pot was empty.

The spoon lay quietly beside it.

Very quietly.

Suspiciously quietly.

And on the table sat a folded piece of paper.

I opened it.

In the most dreadful, scribbly handwriting I had ever seen were the words:

“Same time next year. And for heaven’s sake, buy more nutmeg.

— Winston”

Beneath the note was an itemised bill for catering assistance.

Apparently, even the dead don’t work for free.

And as for Winston?

Well, I never saw him.

But every October, I make sure there’s a fresh tin of nutmeg waiting in the caboose.

Because whatever else you might say about a duppy…

You do not want to disappoint the chef.

Especially when he knows where you live.

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A little Caymanian history behind the story

In traditional Caymanian culture, a caboose was a separate outdoor kitchen, often built a short distance from the main family home. These wooden cooking structures helped keep the heat, smoke and fire risk of cooking away from the living quarters. They were an important part of everyday life in the Cayman Islands, particularly before modern indoor kitchens became commonplace.

And Winston?

Well, he’s a fictional character inspired by the Caribbean tradition of duppy stories.

Duppies are spirits or ghosts found throughout Caribbean folklore, including Caymanian storytelling. Tales of mysterious figures, strange nighttime happenings and unexplained noises were passed down through generations.

Some were frightening.

Some were cautionary.

And some, I suspect, were told simply to make sure the children stayed inside after dark.

Winston, of course, has rather different priorities.

Mostly cassava cake.

And nutmeg.

Happy Halloween from the slightly haunted corners of By Kristi Annette! 🎃