Shrieks and Giggles (Shadows of Nsukka)

A Disappearing Virtual Fiction (Micro)Chapbook

by Anslem Eme

Preface

In southeastern Nigeria, there’s a small town called Nsukka. It’s a place where stories of old are told in hushed voices, and people believe in things that can’t be seen. At the edge of this town stands an old house, abandoned and falling apart. It was once the grand Okeke mansion, built during colonial times. But now, it’s known by a different name, Ulo Ndi Mmụọ, “The House of Spirits.” The people of Nsukka say the house is cursed. They say it holds secrets too dark to speak of.

This is a story about that house. It’s not just about fear or the things that go bump in the night. It’s about the courage to face what we fear most, about the sacrifices we make to protect the people we love, and about the price we sometimes pay to uncover the truth.

Prelude

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to stories of the unknown. Ghost stories, myths, legends, they’ve always fascinated me. But the stories about the mansion in Nsukka were different. They weren’t just tales told to scare children; they felt real, heavy, like they carried the weight of the town’s history.

Nsukka is a quiet town surrounded by green hills and red-earth roads. From afar, it looks peaceful, like a postcard come to life. The people here are proud and hardworking, tied to their land and their traditions. In the market square, you can hear the lively chatter of traders selling fresh yams, colorful fabrics, and smoked fish. But if you listen closely, you’ll notice a strange silence whenever someone mentions the mansion.

The mansion stands on a hill at the edge of town, its shadow stretching far and wide. The walls are cracked, and wild vines have taken over, creeping into every corner. The iron gates, once strong and shiny, now hang loosely, rusted with age. The people don’t like to talk about it. They call it “that place” and warn everyone to stay away.

But I couldn’t. I had to see it for myself.

I had read about the mansion’s history. It was built over a hundred years ago by Obiora Okeke, a rich merchant who traded in palm oil. He wanted the mansion to be the most beautiful house anyone had ever seen. He brought in builders from overseas, used expensive materials, and spared no cost. For a while, it was the pride of Nsukka.

But then the whispers started. They said Okeke had made a deal with Ekwensu, the god of chaos. In exchange for wealth and power, he gave sacrifices, some say human, others say spiritual. The mansion became a place of strange rituals and dark secrets.

When the people of Nsukka grew tired of Okeke’s ways, they rose against him. They burned his fields and destroyed his wealth. But when they reached the mansion, the family was gone. Nobody saw them leave, and nobody knows where they went. All they left behind was the house, and a curse.

Since then, strange things have happened in Nsukka. Crops fail for no reason, children fall sick, and those who get too close to the mansion sometimes never return. The people believe the house feeds on despair, trapping anyone who steps inside. They say you can hear whispers on the wind and see lights in the windows on dark nights.

I wanted to know the truth. Was the mansion really cursed? Or were these just stories passed down through generations? Whatever the answer, I knew one thing for sure: the mansion held secrets, and I was determined to uncover them.

The Arrival

Driving into Nsukka, as the sun dipped below the horizon, felt like stepping into a different world. The sky was painted in deep orange and purple hues, and the red-earth roads glowed faintly under the fading light. Shadows stretched long across the land, creeping over the huts scattered along the edges of town. The rolling hills surrounding Nsukka seemed alive, as though they were breathing with some ancient, silent rhythm.

Nsukka wasn’t like the busy, noisy cities I was used to. It was alive, but not in a loud or bustling way. It felt alive like a forest at night, quiet, watchful, and full of things you couldn’t see but could feel. My car shook as it bumped along the rough road. The static on the radio grew louder, drowning out what I thought was faint drumming in the distance. The sound seemed to hang in the air, growing stronger the closer I got to the town square.

I parked beneath a massive iroko tree that stood in the square like an old guardian. Its roots cracked the ground beneath it, spreading wide like the veins of the earth.

Its thick branches reached toward the darkening sky, their shadows shifting in the fading light. Standing under that tree, the air felt heavy and cool, as though the tree itself was holding something back.

The square was nearly empty. A few people moved quickly, their footsteps hurried, as though they wanted to escape the oncoming night. A man selling kola nuts at a small stall glanced at me, then began packing up his wares in a hurry. His hands moved fast, but his eyes kept darting toward me. When I stopped to look at his stall, he froze, shook his head, and disappeared into the shadows without a word.

The air felt thick with something I couldn’t name. It wasn’t just the silence or the way people avoided my gaze. It was the feeling that this town was hiding something, something it didn’t want me to find. The buildings lining the streets were old and worn, their walls stained by years of rain. Wooden shutters hung loosely, and the rusted tin roofs seemed to sag under their own weight. I noticed children peeking at me from behind torn curtains. Their wide, cautious eyes spoke of fear they couldn’t explain but knew well.

I checked into a small inn on the edge of the square. It was called Akụ N’Eche Ibe, though it looked far from welcoming. The once-white walls were now a patchy grey and the roof had holes that let in the rain. The front porch leaned dangerously, and the smell of damp earth mixed with the sharp tang of kerosene filled the air.

Inside, the inn was dimly lit by flickering lamps. The shadows they cast danced on the cracked walls. The floor creaked loudly under my feet, every step echoing in the silence. Behind a worn counter sat an old man, the innkeeper. His name was Nwafor. He looked frail, his hunched figure bent over a dusty ledger. His milky eyes, clouded with age, seemed to see straight through me.

“You’ve come for the Okeke mansion,” he said suddenly, his voice dry and raspy.

I froze. “How did you know?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pushed a guest register toward me. His gnarled fingers moved slowly, almost deliberately.

“Everyone who comes here does,” he finally said, his tone as casual as if he were talking about the weather. But there was something in his voice, a warning.

I hesitated as I signed the register. “What do you know about the mansion?”

Nwafor let out a low chuckle, a sound that made my skin crawl. “What do you know?” he asked, his cloudy eyes fixed on me.

Before I could respond, he leaned in closer, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Ulo Ndi Mmuo is not just haunted. It is alive. And it is hungry.”

His words hit me like a cold wind. I wanted to dismiss them as mere superstition, but something about the way he spoke made it hard to shake the chill that crept over me.

He handed me an old, rusted key with a wooden tag marked with the number “3.” “Your room,” he said flatly. Then, after a pause, he added, “Be careful where you go tonight.”

The room was as unwelcoming as the rest of the inn. A single bed sat against the wall, covered with a frayed mosquito net. The lone window faced the square, offering a view of the iroko tree, its branches swaying gently in the night breeze. I unpacked my bag quickly, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling that someone, or something, was watching me.

As the night deepened, the square outside fell silent. Then, the drumming began again, louder this time. It wasn’t music; it was something deeper, a steady beat that seemed to come from the hills beyond the town. It echoed in my chest, a sound that refused to be ignored.

I sat on the edge of the bed, replaying Nwafor’s words in my mind. “It is alive. And it is hungry.” Outside, the wind rattled the shutters, and somewhere in the distance, a dog howled. The sound was long and mournful, and it sent shivers down my spine.

Tomorrow, I would go to the mansion. Tonight, all I could do was wait, and listen. The shadows of Nsukka felt closer than ever.

A Town of Secrets

Before making my way to the mansion, I decided to learn more about Nsukka, its people, its stories, and the weight of history that seemed to linger in every corner. The morning sun lit up the streets, but the town felt subdued, as if something unseen hung in the air. Women in bright Ankara fabrics moved with quiet purpose, balancing baskets on their heads. Their faces, though calm, carried a heaviness that spoke of lives lived under some hidden burden. Children played nearby with old tins and sticks, their laughter echoing faintly, but even their joy seemed cautious, like it wasn’t entirely free.

I stopped in front of the town library. It looked old and tired, like it had seen too many years and too many secrets. The bricks were cracked, the roof groaned against the wind, and vines crept along its walls as though nature was slowly trying to reclaim it. A creaky wooden sign above the door swayed gently in the breeze.

Inside, the smell of old books and dampness filled the air. The library felt like a place frozen in time, with shelves stacked high with dusty books, yellowed scrolls, and maps that had faded into obscurity.

Thin beams of light slipped through narrow windows, highlighting the floating dust particles. It was quiet, but not the peaceful kind of quiet, this silence felt watchful, as if the room itself was listening.

Behind the counter sat Ngozi, the librarian. She was a sturdy woman with a colorful scarf tied neatly around her head. Her face was lined, not just with age, but with the kind of watchfulness that comes from knowing too much. She moved deliberately, as though every gesture carried meaning.

When I mentioned the Okeke name, the warmth in her eyes vanished. Her voice dropped, low and firm, as she asked, “Why do you want to know about them?”

I hesitated, unsure if I should share my real reason. But eventually, I told her, “I want to understand what happened, to the family, to the mansion, and to this town.”

She studied me for what felt like an eternity. Finally, with a heavy sigh, she disappeared into the maze of shelves. When she returned, she placed an old manuscript on the counter. Its pages were yellowed and brittle, bound in cracked leather.

“This is The Cursed Hill of Nsukka,” she said, sliding it toward me. “It tells their story, but it is more than history. Read it, and you’ll understand.”

The title alone made my skin crawl. As I opened the manuscript, I pieced together the tale of Obiora Okeke, the man whose ambition had brought both glory and ruin to his family.

Obiora was a clever and determined man, respected by some, feared by many. The manuscript told of how his fortunes changed after he ventured into Ajo Ofia, the "evil forest" that surrounded Nsukka. Deep in the forest, he found an ancient shrine, its altar stained black from countless sacrifices. This was the domain of Ekwensu, the Igbo spirit of chaos and deceit.

The words described how Obiora made a pact with Ekwensu, seeking power and wealth to secure his family’s legacy. In return, he promised unwavering loyalty and regular offerings. The mansion he later built, the grand estate that now loomed over Nsukka from the highest hill, was said to be constructed directly over the shrine, binding his promise to the spirit forever.

For a time, the Okeke family prospered. They became wealthy and influential, their name known far beyond the borders of the town. But the manuscript hinted at the terrible cost of their success. People began to disappear. At first, their absences were explained away with feeble excuses, but soon, whispers of sacrifices grew louder. Fear of the Okekes' power silenced the villagers, even as their suspicions deepened.

Obiora’s sudden and mysterious death marked the beginning of the family’s downfall. Enraged and desperate, the townspeople stormed the mansion. But they were met by Nnenna Okeke, Obiora’s widow.

The manuscript painted a vivid picture of Nnenna standing on the grand staircase, her crimson wrapper swirling around her. In her hand, she held a staff said to carry the power of Ekwensu. Her voice, sharp and commanding, carried through the hills as she cursed the town, tying it to the wrath of the spirit.

From that day forward, misfortune plagued Nsukka. Crops withered, people fell sick, and strange, unexplainable deaths became common. The mansion became a place of fear, its presence casting a long shadow over the town.

Ngozi’s voice broke my concentration. “The spirits in that house,” she said softly, her tone heavy with sorrow, “aren’t just the Okekes. They’re the souls of those sacrificed. Their cries haunt us even now.”

I closed the manuscript, my hands trembling. “Why hasn’t anyone destroyed the mansion?” I asked.

She let out a bitter laugh. “You can’t destroy what doesn’t belong to you. The mansion is Ekwensu’s now. It keeps watch over its treasures.”

As I stepped out of the library, the weight of the story followed me. The streets looked darker, the shadows seemed longer. Even the children’s laughter sounded distant, almost hollow. The rhythmic pounding of a mortar and pestle from a nearby compound echoed like a heartbeat, steady and ominous.

The Okeke mansion loomed large in my mind. It wasn’t just a house; it was a graveyard of secrets, a monument to greed and desperation. I knew I would have to face it. Whatever waited within its walls, I had to know.

As I approached the inn, the air felt heavier, thick with the smell of rain and dust. Somewhere in the hills, I heard the faint sound of drumming again. It wasn’t loud, but it was persistent, steady and relentless, like a warning I was too stubborn to heed.

First Encounter

The mansion sat at the top of the hill, silent and brooding. Its tall, dark outline stood out sharply against the faint light of the moon, like a forgotten relic watching over everything below. It wasn’t just a house; it felt alive in a strange, unsettling way. The cracked windows stared back like empty eyes, and vines crept up its walls like veins feeding something sinister.

As I walked closer, the dry weeds on the path broke beneath my feet, sounding like small brittle bones. The air was damp, carrying the smell of decay, and a faint metallic taste lingered at the back of my throat. It felt like the land itself was warning me to turn back. The trees swayed above, their bare branches making soft creaking sounds, as though whispering secrets to each other.

Then I heard it, a voice, faint and distant, carried by the wind. It was in Igbo, soft and fragmented, like someone murmuring a prayer: “Gaa azu… Ị naghi ahu?” ("Go back… Can’t you see?")

I paused at the rusted iron gate. It groaned loudly as I pushed it open, the sound cutting through the stillness. The air beyond the gate was cold, colder than it should have been, as though I had crossed into a place that didn’t belong to this world. My heart raced, pounding harder with every step toward the mansion.

Inside, the house was dark and suffocating, like stepping into a tomb. My flashlight struggled to cut through the thick darkness, revealing only glimpses of what had once been a grand home. The staircase in the center of the room was large and carved from what looked like fine wood, but now it sagged and creaked under its own weight, a sad reminder of better days. The cobwebs hanging from the ceiling swayed gently, even though there was no breeze.

The smell hit me first. It was heavy and old, a mix of earth and metal, with something faintly sweet lurking beneath. It wasn’t just the smell of a house that had been left to rot; it was something deeper, something that seemed to seep out of the very walls. It clung to my skin, making me shiver.

And then came the whispers.

At first, I thought it was the wind slipping through the broken windows. But as I moved deeper into the house, the whispers became clearer. They weren’t random sounds anymore, they were voices. Many voices, speaking all at once, saying the same thing: “You should not have come.”

Every part of me screamed to leave, but my legs moved forward on their own, driven by a mix of curiosity and fear. In the parlour, my flashlight caught sight of something unusual. Hanging above a crumbling fireplace was an old wooden mask.

It was unlike anything I had seen before. The carving was intricate, the features exaggerated to the point of looking alive. The empty eyes seemed to follow me wherever I moved, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw a faint red glow flicker in them, like dying embers. I couldn’t stop myself. My hand reached out, trembling, and touched the mask. The moment my fingers brushed its surface, the air turned icy cold. Frost began to creep along the edges of the windows, and I could see my breath in the sudden chill.

Before I could pull away, the doors behind me slammed shut with a thunderous crash. The sound echoed through the house, shaking the walls, and then everything went silent.

The silence didn’t last long.

The shadows in the room began to shift. They peeled away from the walls, gathering on the floor like black smoke. Slowly, they took shape, forming figures that flickered and jerked, their movements unnatural, like something caught between two worlds.

One figure stepped forward, its edges constantly shifting, as though it couldn’t fully hold its shape. When it spoke, its voice wasn’t one but many, a chorus of overlapping tones, all filled with pain and anger: “Leave now.”

The words hit me like a physical blow, but I forced myself to stand my ground. My voice shook as I whispered, “Why are you here?”

The figure didn’t answer right away. Its form rippled, disturbed by my question, and then it raised a hand, pointing to the far corner of the parlour.

I followed its gesture, my flashlight revealing a wooden cabinet I hadn’t noticed before. It was oddly shaped, its surface worn and scratched, as though it had been there for ages. The air around it was heavier, and the smell of decay grew stronger, mixed now with the sharp, acrid scent of something burning.

The figures didn’t move. They stood silently, their glowing eyes fixed on me, as though waiting to see what I would do.

Every part of me wanted to run, but something stronger pulled me forward. Each step toward the cabinet felt harder than the last, like an invisible weight was pressing against me. The whispers grew louder, their tone changing. They weren’t warnings anymore, they were mocking, almost laughing.

The floor beneath me creaked with every step, the sound echoing in the heavy silence. My flashlight flickered, its beam growing weaker, as though it, too, was afraid of what lay ahead.

The Crypt Below

The cabinet was old and weak, eaten away by termites. I had to put all my strength into dragging it away from the wall. The wood groaned loudly, sending clouds of dust into the air that made me cough uncontrollably. When I finally moved it, I found a door behind it, small and hidden, as if it was never meant to be found. The wood was cracked and splintered, the rusty handle barely clinging to it. Strange carvings, symbols I’d seen in the old books at the Nsukka library, ran along its edges. They were Nsibidi signs, ancient and mysterious, glowing faintly under my flashlight like they had a life of their own.

The door creaked as I pulled it open, revealing a narrow staircase that plunged into darkness. The steps were steep, the walls closing in tightly around me, damp and cold to the touch. The air was thick and heavy, filled with the smell of wet earth and something metallic that made my stomach twist. My breathing became shallow, each inhale bringing a bitter taste of mold and iron.

As I moved down, the carvings on the walls became more detailed. They showed figures, people dancing in strange, eerie poses, their arms raised toward something unseen. Other carvings showed sharp objects that looked like weapons or tools of sacrifice. It felt as if the walls were warning me to turn back. The deeper I went, the colder it got. By the time I reached the bottom, I could see my breath in the flashlight’s beam.

At the bottom was a massive room, far larger than I expected given the size of the house above. It felt like stepping into another world. The walls were cracked, and the cracks seemed to pulse faintly, like veins feeding something alive. The floor was wet, and my shoes squished with every step, though I wasn’t sure if it was water or something worse.

In the center of the room stood an altar made of smooth, black stone. It gleamed faintly, as if polished by years of use. Strange symbols covered its surface, glowing softly with a green light that seemed to come from nowhere. Surrounding the altar were rows of old jars. Their glass was cloudy with age, but when my flashlight passed over them, my heart stopped.

Inside the jars were bones, human bones. Skulls, leg bones, pieces of ribs. Each jar had a label written in faded ink. I squinted to read the names and dates. These weren’t relics of some ancient burial ceremony. These were trophies. Each jar held the remains of a life stolen, carefully cataloged and preserved.

At the top of the altar stood an idol. It was small, only about two feet tall, but it dominated the room with its presence. Carved from dark wood, its figure was twisted, with unnaturally long limbs and a wide, open mouth frozen in a scream. Its cowrie-shell eyes glinted in the flashlight beam, and I felt like they were watching me, following my every move.

I wanted to step closer, but something deep inside me screamed not to. It wasn’t just fear, it was the knowledge that crossing the space around the altar would be a step I could never undo.

Then, I heard footsteps.

They were soft, hesitant, but unmistakable. I spun around, my flashlight shaking in my hand. Standing at the edge of the light was a boy, no older than ten.

He was thin, his skin pale and sickly, and his clothes were ragged and stained. He looked like he didn’t belong, not just in that room, but in that time.

“Help us,” he whispered, his voice trembling. His dark eyes looked into mine, not with anger, but with a sorrow so deep it made my chest tighten.

“Who are you?” I asked, barely able to find my voice.

He didn’t reply. Instead, he raised his thin arm and pointed at the jars lining the walls. “We are here,” he said softly, his voice cracking.

The words hit me like a blow. I turned back to the jars, suddenly understanding. They weren’t just bones, they were people. Fathers, mothers, children. Each jar held a soul trapped, sacrificed for whatever dark ritual had taken place here.

When I looked back to the boy, he was gone. I could still hear the faint sound of his footsteps fading into the silence. My hands trembled as I turned my flashlight back toward the altar. The idol’s cowrie eyes seemed brighter now, glowing with a light that burned into me.

The room grew heavier, the air pressing down on me like a weight. A low hum rose from the walls, growing louder until it became a chorus of whispers. The words were unclear, but the meaning was obvious: I didn’t belong here.

The jars began to rattle. The bones inside clinked together, a horrible sound that echoed in the cold air. The green light from the altar pulsed faster, brighter, as though it was alive. My legs felt rooted to the spot, held by an invisible force that gripped my shoulders. The idol seemed to grow taller, its twisted limbs stretching, its mouth opening wider as though it was ready to scream.

And then, silence.

The jars stopped shaking. The green light dimmed. For a moment, I thought it was over. But from the shadows behind the altar, a deep, cold voice spoke.

“You have seen what should remain hidden,” it said, each word heavy with malice. “Now, you belong to us.”

The jars shattered all at once, their fragments scattering across the floor. Bones spilled out, moving on their own, crawling toward the altar as if summoned.

The idol’s eyes burned brighter, and the shadows in the room began to close in, swirling like a storm around the altar.

I finally broke free from whatever was holding me. The stairs were ahead, but they felt miles away. As I ran, the boy’s voice echoed behind me one last time, faint and full of sorrow.

“Help us…”

I didn’t turn back.

The Binding Ritual

The room was quiet and dim, the faint yellow glow of the kerosene lamp barely pushing back the shadows creeping from every corner. The air was heavy, pressing down on me like a damp cloth, as though the walls were closing in. My notes lay scattered across the small table, scraps of paper filled with hurried scribbles and clumsy drawings of the strange symbols I’d seen in the mansion’s basement. I tried to make sense of them, but my thoughts felt tangled, weighed down by the memory of what I’d encountered.

A sharp knock at the door startled me. My heart leapt into my throat. I hesitated, staring at the wooden frame as though it might open on its own. Finally, I got up and unlatched it. It was Nwafor, the old innkeeper. His thin frame seemed even frailer in the dim light of the hallway, but his cloudy eyes looked sharper now, like they could see things I couldn’t.

Without waiting for me to speak, he stepped inside, holding a bundle wrapped in faded cloth. It looked awkward, its shape uneven and strange. He placed it on the table, his movements slow but deliberate. For a moment, the room felt lighter, as though his presence had pushed back the oppressive weight. Then he began unwrapping the cloth, peeling it back layer by layer.

Inside was a knife. But not like any knife I’d ever seen. Its blade was made of dark iron, dull and heavy, with strange markings carved along its length. The hilt was simple, wrapped in worn leather, but it carried an air of purpose, as though it was meant for something far more serious than cutting bread or skinning game.

“This is mma agha chi,” Nwafor said, his voice low and steady. “The ancestors blessed it. It can cut the tie between the living and the spirits.”

I leaned closer, my eyes fixed on the strange symbols on the blade. They were like the ones in the mansion but different, alive, almost, glowing faintly in the weak lamplight. I reached out to touch it but stopped, my hand trembling.

“Why are you giving this to me?” My voice barely came out.

Nwafor’s face darkened. His gaze seemed far away, as though he were staring at something I couldn’t see. “Because you’ve stirred what should’ve stayed buried. The spirits are awake now, and they won’t rest until they are freed. This knife is the only way.”

“And if I free them?” I asked, my chest tightening with dread.

“The spirits will leave,” Nwafor said. “But so will Ekwensu.”

I froze at the name. Ekwensu, the spirit of chaos and destruction. I had read about it in dusty books and heard its name whispered in fear. The thought of unleashing such a force into the world made my stomach churn.

“What if I fail?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer.

For a long moment, Nwafor said nothing. He looked down at his hands, old and trembling, before finally speaking. “If you fail, you won’t live to regret it. The mansion will take you, as it has taken so many others. And Ekwensu will grow stronger.”

The room seemed colder now, and I couldn’t stop the shiver that ran through me. I looked at the knife again, its strange glow steady and unyielding. “How do I use it?” I asked, desperate to anchor myself with something practical.

“You must go back to the mansion,” Nwafor said. His voice was firm, but there was something heavy in his tone, a sadness he couldn’t hide. “To the altar where the pact was made. The knife must pierce the idol’s heart. That is the only way to sever its connection to this world.”

“But won’t the spirits fight back?”

“They will,” Nwafor said, his eyes meeting mine. “The mansion binds them. It uses them. They will protect it because they know nothing else. But you must not let that stop you.”

I swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling over me like a storm cloud. I had come to Nsukka for answers, but now it felt like the answers were dragging me into something far more dangerous than I had bargained for. The mansion wasn’t just a haunted house; it was a trap, a prison, and maybe even something worse.

“I don’t think I can do this,” I admitted, my voice shaking.

“You must,” Nwafor said, placing a hand on my shoulder. His grip was firmer than I expected. “The spirits chose you. They see something in you. And if you let fear take over, the mansion will win.”

When he left, the room felt emptier than before. I stared at the knife on the table, its faint glow casting strange, shifting patterns on the walls. The fear in my chest hadn’t gone away, but somewhere beneath it, I felt a flicker of something else. Resolve, maybe. Or desperation.

I didn’t know if I would succeed. But I knew I couldn’t turn back. The spirits had waited long enough, and if freeing them meant facing the horrors of the mansion, and Ekwensu. then so be it.

I sat down, pulled the knife closer, and began to prepare.

The Ritual’s Dark Bargain

The morning came slowly, with a heavy fog blanketing Nsukka like a shroud. The green hills, usually so alive and vibrant, looked pale and muted, swallowed by the mist. The entire town seemed quieter, as if it knew something terrible was about to happen. My grip tightened on the knife in my hand, the mma agha chi. Its cold iron blade bit into my palm as I made my way back to the mansion. Every step felt heavier than the last, like invisible hands were trying to drag me back.

The mansion loomed ahead, the same way it had before: dark and unwelcoming. Its cracked windows stared out like blind eyes, and the ivy crawling up its walls twisted unnaturally, as if alive. Even the trees around it leaned inward, their branches reaching for the sky like desperate fingers.

As I neared the building, the wind stopped altogether. The eerie silence made my footsteps on the overgrown path seem deafening.

Inside, the air was colder than I remembered, thick with the stench of decay and something bitter, like burned earth. The Nsibidi symbols on the walls seemed to shift when I wasn’t looking, their meanings just out of reach. My flashlight cast a weak glow as I descended the staircase into the basement, its beam bouncing off the carved symbols along the steps.

At the center of the crypt, the black-stone altar waited. Its surface gleamed unnaturally, not reflecting light but swallowing it. The jars I had seen earlier were still there, their faded labels now glowing faintly. On the altar stood the idol, its cowrie-shell eyes glinting with malice.

Then I saw her.

Nnenna Okeke emerged from the shadows as if she had been part of them. She was beautiful in a way that made my skin crawl. Her long crimson gown shimmered, catching the dim light like liquid fire, and her face was calm but powerful.

She moved with grace, yet there was something deeply unsettling about her, something that made my heart race. Her dark eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

“You’ve come to end it,” she said, her voice smooth but echoing, as though it came from the walls themselves.

I nodded, my grip tightening on the knife. “The people of this town have suffered enough,” I said, my voice trembling but steady. “I’m here to stop it.”

Her laughter was sharp and cold, cutting through the air like a blade. “Stop it? Do you even understand what you’re doing? Do you think it’s that simple?”

“I don’t care about the risks,” I said, my voice firmer this time. “It has to end.”

She tilted her head, her expression unreadable, was it pity, anger, or amusement? Slowly, she stepped closer, her gown trailing behind her like a river of blood.

“Ekwensu cannot be destroyed,” she said, her tone almost gentle. “Only contained. The seal you plan to break is the only thing keeping chaos at bay. If you destroy it, you will unleash him.”

Her words sent a chill down my spine. I had come here to free the spirits and end their suffering, but now I wasn’t sure. Could I risk unleashing something far worse just to save them?

Before I could speak, the air grew colder, and a chorus of whispers filled the room. Shadows swirled around us, taking shape. Faces emerged, twisted, anguished faces, their mouths open in silent screams.

“Help us!” they cried, their voices blending into one desperate plea.

I staggered back, overwhelmed by their pain. Their hollow eyes bore into me, and I felt their suffering as if it were my own. My mind raced, trying to make sense of the chaos.

Nnenna’s voice cut through the noise, calm but commanding. “These spirits are bound to this place. Their torment feeds Ekwensu’s strength. Do you think breaking the seal will free them? Or will it doom them to something even worse?”

Her words hit me like a slap. The spirits weren’t just victims, they were fuel. Their pain kept Ekwensu tethered to this world. Breaking the seal wouldn’t just free them; it would give him unimaginable power.

I turned to her, my voice shaking. “Then how do I stop this? How do I free them without releasing him?”

She smiled faintly, a sadness in her eyes. “There is no freedom without sacrifice. To sever their ties, you must give them something stronger than their pain. Something to hold on to.”

I didn’t understand at first, but as her words sank in, the meaning became clear. It wasn’t just about the spirits. It was the mansion itself, this cursed place had to be freed. But the cost would be great.

The shadows surged closer, faces and hands becoming clearer. Their eyes burned with desperation, and their voices grew louder, drowning out my thoughts.

Nnenna’s voice softened. “Whatever you decide, the mansion will demand its price. And it always collects.”

My hands trembled as I gripped the knife, the Nsibidi symbols glowing faintly on the blade. The spirits’ cries filled every corner of the room, their agony wrapping around me like chains. I stepped closer to the altar, my heart pounding.

The idol’s cowrie-shell eyes seemed to mock me, daring me to act. The air grew heavier with each passing second. As I raised the knife, I knew I was at a crossroads. Would I break the seal and risk everything, or leave the spirits trapped, bound to their torment?

The mansion seemed to hold its breath, waiting for my choice, the choice that would decide its fate, and mine.

Final Confrontation

The room was hot and strange, like the air was alive and pushing down on me. The altar in the center glowed brighter and brighter, its black stone surface now swirling like liquid fire. My hands shook as I held the knife, a weapon said to carry the power of the gods. It felt alive in my hand, pulsing like it had its own heartbeat, eager for what was coming.

I raised the knife high and brought it down hard onto the altar. The moment the blade touched it, a powerful wave of force knocked me to the ground. The floor shook as if the earth was angry, and a loud, terrible roar filled the room. The idol on top of the altar cracked and shattered into pieces, each fragment glowing before disappearing into nothing. The walls groaned and shifted like the house was alive and in pain.

At first, there was silence, deep and complete. Then, golden beams of light burst from the broken altar, and the spirits of the people who had been trapped appeared. They no longer looked scared or in pain. Instead, they seemed calm, at peace.

The heavy chains that held them started to fall apart, link by link, vanishing into the floor. One by one, the spirits rose, smiling softly as they disappeared into the light.

But not all was peaceful. As the spirits left, the shadows in the room grew darker and heavier, gathering in one place. They became a swirling black cloud, spinning faster and faster until they formed a tall, terrifying figure. It was so dark that it seemed to suck in all the light around it.

This was Ekwensu, the god of chaos.

Its presence was crushing, like a giant weight pressing on my chest. It was hard to breathe. The creature’s shape was constantly changing, horns curling, its eyes glowing like burning coals. When it spoke, its voice was deep and rough, like rocks grinding against each other.

“You dare defy me?” it boomed.

The voice shook the room, cracking the walls and splitting the floor. I crawled backward, clutching the knife tightly even though my hands trembled. But Ekwensu laughed, a cold, mocking sound that sent chills down my spine.

“That little knife cannot harm me,” it growled.

The weapon, which had felt so powerful a moment ago, now seemed useless. My heart sank as I realized what I had done. I had freed the spirits, but I had also unleashed something much worse.

Suddenly, Nnenna Okeke appeared. She didn’t look like the woman I had seen before. She was glowing with a light that came from deep within her.

The red dress she once wore had turned into a white robe, shining with golden threads at the edges. She stood tall and calm, her eyes full of strength as they locked onto Ekwensu.

“I made this deal,” she said firmly. “And I will end it.”

Ekwensu turned its burning eyes to her, amused. “Nnenna Okeke,” it said, its voice dripping with mockery. “You think you can fight me? You belong to me.”

But Nnenna smiled, a quiet, fearless smile. “Not anymore.”

She lifted her hands, and a blinding light burst from her palms. The symbols on the walls, Nsibidi marks of old, flared to life, glowing and shifting. The light from her hands met the dark cloud of Ekwensu, and the two forces collided with a loud crash, shaking the entire room.

The house groaned like it was going to fall apart. Pieces of the ceiling dropped as the battle between light and darkness raged on. Nnenna glowed brighter and brighter, her strength seeming to grow with each passing second. It was as if the spirits of her ancestors were with her, giving her the power to fight.

Ekwensu screamed, its form growing and shrinking, lashing out with dark, shadowy tentacles. But every time they reached for Nnenna, her light destroyed them.

“Nnenna!” I shouted, struggling to stand amidst the chaos. “What are you doing?”

She turned to me, her face calm despite the destruction around her. “This is the only way,” she said quietly. “I must break the pact myself.”

Before I could stop her, she thrust her hands into the heart of Ekwensu’s dark form. The god let out a terrible scream, its voice filled with both anger and pain.

Light and darkness clashed in a brilliant explosion, and for a moment, I couldn’t see anything.

When the light faded, Nnenna was gone. The shadows that had filled the room were gone, too. The heavy, dark feeling that had haunted the mansion was no more. But the house itself was breaking apart.

The walls cracked, and the floors caved in as I ran up the stairs. The ground shook beneath me, and the air was thick with dust and the smell of burning wood. I barely made it out before the entire house collapsed behind me, sinking into the earth as if it had never been there.

I stood outside, covered in dust, breathing hard as I stared at the empty space where the mansion once stood. The land was quiet now. Nsukka was free for the first time in generations. But it had come at a price.

Nnenna Okeke had given her life to end the curse. Ekwensu was gone, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t gone forever. As I looked out over the hills of Nsukka, now glowing softly in the morning sun, I knew one thing: this wasn’t the end. Not for Nsukka, and not for me.

The Aftermath

When I opened my eyes, everything felt different. The heavy, dark feeling that had covered Nsukka like a thick fog was gone. The air was light, fresh, and easy to breathe. I took a deep breath, feeling like I could breathe freely for the first time in my life.

The sky above was soft with colours, light purple and golden yellow, the sun just starting to rise. I sat up slowly. My whole body ached, like I had been fighting for days. And, in a way, I had.

In front of me, the Okeke mansion was no more. What used to be a big, frightening house was now a pile of broken stones and wood. Smoke curled up gently from the ruins, disappearing into the morning sky. The house that had scared people for so long, the house that had cursed Nsukka, was now just a memory.

I stood up carefully, still holding the knife in my hand. It felt heavy and lifeless now, its power gone. My clothes were torn, my skin covered in dust, and I could taste a faint metallic flavour in my mouth, blood. But I was alive.

I started walking toward the town square. The silence was strange, almost unnatural. For a moment, I was afraid I had failed. What if the curse had destroyed everything, including the town? But as I reached the top of the hill and looked down at Nsukka, I saw them, the people.

They were gathered in the square, standing close together. Their faces were turned toward the sky, their eyes full of wonder. Some were whispering prayers. Others held their children tightly, like they couldn’t believe they were safe.

For the first time, I saw the people of Nsukka without fear. They stood tall, no longer bent under the invisible weight of the curse that had haunted them for generations.

An old woman noticed me and started walking toward me. She was small and frail, her face full of wrinkles that told a story of pain and strength. She moved quickly, her hands stretched out as if to touch me.

“You did it,” she said, her voice shaking. “The curse is broken.”

I wanted to believe her, but something in me felt uneasy. I could still hear Ekwensu’s laughter in my head, still see its terrible form. The memory was too fresh, too real. But I nodded and let her take my hand. Her grip was strong, steady, and full of gratitude.

The crowd parted as she led me into the square. People stared at me with awe, their faces filled with thanks. A little boy, no older than ten, came forward. He held out a small wreath made of palm leaves.

“Thank you,” he said softly, placing the wreath in my hands.

I didn’t know what to say. What could I say after everything that had happened? I looked back up at the hill where the mansion had stood. The ruins glimmered faintly in the morning light.

And then I saw it.

A crow.

It was sitting on the highest part of the rubble, perfectly still. Its feathers were black and shiny, glistening like oil under the sunlight. It tilted its head to the side, watching me. Its eyes were sharp, cold, and unblinking, like it knew something I didn’t.

The townspeople didn’t notice it. They were too busy celebrating the end of the curse. But I couldn’t stop staring at the crow. It felt wrong, like a bad omen.

The people began to leave, going back to their homes, their homes that, for the first time in years, didn’t feel cursed. I turned and walked to my car. The knife sat on the seat next to me, dull and quiet now, but still heavy with meaning. I started the engine and drove away.

The road out of Nsukka was quiet, winding through soft, rolling hills. The land looked so beautiful in the morning light, trees standing tall, the grass swaying in the breeze. It all seemed so peaceful, like the earth itself was sighing with relief.

But I couldn’t forget the crow.

As I drove, I looked back in the rearview mirror. The ruins of the mansion were far behind me now, but the crow was still there, perched on the rubble, watching. It didn’t move, not even as the wind picked up and scattered the dust around it.

I turned my eyes back to the road, but the uneasy feeling stayed with me. The people of Nsukka were free. The curse had been lifted. The spirits trapped in the mansion had found peace. But in freeing them, I had released something else, something worse.

Ekwensu.

The name echoed in my mind, heavy and haunting. The god of chaos had been bound to that house for centuries, feeding on pain and fear. When I broke the altar, I thought I had defeated it. But the crow… the crow made me think otherwise.

The hills faded into flatlands as I drove farther away. The knife lay beside me, its strange inscriptions faintly catching the sunlight. It was meant to end the connection between this world and the next, but now it felt like a reminder—a warning that this wasn’t truly over.

Nsukka was free. But the rest of the world?

The rest of the world might not be ready for the darkness I had unleashed.

  The End

*SHRIEKS AND GIGGLES is a haunting anthology of Mystery and Horror short stories, and the 2nd edition is out titled SHRIEKS AND GIGGLES (Sins Of The Father: Echoes Of Umuagu). The book is available in ebook and paperback formats.

BIO: Anselm Eme is a distinguished banker, seasoned independent financial consultant, poet, and accomplished author whose literary voice resonates with insight, depth, and creative elegance. With a growing portfolio of SEVEN published works available on Amazon, Anselm effortlessly bridges the worlds of finance and literature, offering readers a unique blend of intellectual stimulation and emotional engagement.

His acclaimed titles include the evocative poems in the "WHISKERS" series, the introspective social commentary "OUR KIDS AND US: A PARADOX OF OUR TAINTED INNOCENCE", the awakening call to empowerment "AWAKE AFRICA! WAKE-UP AFRICANS", the culturally enriching "SAGES IN PURSUIT", and the hauntingly imaginative anthology "SHRIEKS AND GIGGLES".

Anselm's writing is marked by compelling narratives, poetic sensitivity, and a passion for truth. Through his books, he explores themes of identity, societal transformation, myth, memory, and human resilience, inviting readers from all walks of life into reflective and transformative journeys.

A global voice rooted in African consciousness, Anselm Eme continues to captivate readers around the world, inspiring minds and touching hearts. Whether in prose or verse, his works promise not just stories, but experiences that linger. Dive in, and discover the power of words reimagined.