Mr dele moved into the old house on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. My parents called it "a fresh start" after Dad lost his job in the city. To me, it felt more like a punishment—dark halls, creaky floors, and silence that echoed louder than noise.
My room was the smallest, tucked in the far corner of the upstairs hallway. It had a large wooden wardrobe and faded pink wallpaper peeling at the corners. But it wasn’t the room’s appearance that bothered me. It was how cold it felt—even when the sun was shining.
The first night, I heard it.
A soft, muffled cry.
At first, I thought it was my little brother, Ebuka. But when I tiptoed past his door, I saw him fast asleep, snoring quietly under his Spider-Man blanket.
The crying was coming from my room.
I stood in the hallway, frozen. It was faint, like someone sobbing from a far-off corner of a cave. I stepped back into my room. The moment I entered, the crying stopped.
I searched under the bed. Nothing. Opened the wardrobe. Just dusty old clothes the previous owner had left behind.
I climbed into bed, wrapping the blanket tightly around me. Maybe I was just tired. Maybe the long trip and the gloomy weather had messed with my head.
But just as I was about to close my eyes...
The crying started again.
This time, it was louder.
And it was right next to me.
The next morning, I woke with a jolt. My blanket had slipped to the floor, and my lamp, which I had left on out of fear, was turned off. I sat up slowly, brushing the hair from my face.
That’s when I saw them.
Scratches.
Long, thin, jagged lines ran across the wall beside my bed—like something had clawed its way toward me in the night. They were fresh. The paint had peeled, and the wood beneath was exposed.
I touched the marks with trembling fingers. They were real. Too real.
“Ada!” my mom called from downstairs.
I ran to her, trying to explain what I had seen. She frowned, then followed me upstairs. But when we entered my room, her expression changed from concern to irritation.
“There’s nothing here,” she said flatly.
The scratches were gone.
I blinked in disbelief. “But… they were right here!”
Mom sighed. “You need to stop scaring yourself. This house is old. No more scary movies before bed, okay?”
I didn’t argue. What was the point? She couldn’t see them. But I knew they had been there. I had felt them.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat upright in bed, hugging my knees to my chest, staring at the wall where the scratches had been.
Just after midnight, the crying returned.
This time, it was louder… desperate. Almost angry.
I switched on the lamp.
For a second, the room flickered. The light dimmed… and then something moved.
A shadow.
It darted across the wall — crawling — like it was trying to hide from the light.
I jumped from my bed and backed into the corner.
Then the wardrobe creaked open.
No wind. No shaking. Just a slow, deliberate groan… like someone — or something — was inside.
I didn’t sleep that night.
I sat awake, eyes wide open, waiting for the morning light to chase away the crying shadows.
To be continued... Blissblossom
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