Chapter 4: What the dead left behind
1073 Words
Amahle died on a Thursday.
Villagers said everything was quiet. Way too quiet for a woman who had spent her life fighting something that didn't exist.
They found her in bed early in the morning; she was staring blankly at the ceiling with her mouth open wide. It was not an expression of pain but rather an expression of recognition. At that moment, it seemed to him that she had finally seen all the things that had been waiting for her.
When Sipho got the call, he didn't shed any tears.
He was standing alone in a room he rented far from home. He held the phone to his ear, listening to a series of words that seemed like they had been written for him by fate. His heart tightened, not with sadness, but with what felt like emptiness.
He had envisioned this moment many times in his mind over the past several years, yet the silence following this call was deafening.
That night, it felt closer than it had ever been.
He could feel it sitting on the edge of his bed. He felt the bed dip under the pressure. He also smelled the scent of burnt wood and wet grass. He would not turn and look at it, as he had seen firsthand before how much bolder it could become by acknowledging its presence.
"It is finished," it said softly.
Sipho reluctantly gulped. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Pause. Then-
"It means the last door has been opened."
Sleep did not come to him.
After three days, Sipho came back to the house.
It seemed smaller than he had remembered, its figure hunched, as if it were an old animal ready to die. The walls were cracked, the paint peeling in long, tired strips. No sooner had he set his foot on the property than his ears started ringing sharply, and the presence ebbed with a certain satisfaction.
The house recognized him.
It was one stale and heavy breath filled with the ghosts of past conversations still hanging in the air. Amahle’s things were all over the place—clothes folded, dishes stacked neatly, a Bible left open on the table as if she had only gone out for a short while. Sipho felt his eyes sting somewhat unexpectedly.
For all of her harshness, she had been his mother.
He shook the thought from his mind.
The funeral was a whirlwind event. People described Amahle's sacrifices, her fortitude, and her steadfast love for her lone surviving son. Sipho stood there without saying a word, his hands clenched, every word hitting a sore spot within him. The thing waiting just behind his right shoulder the whole time was his secret, unseen listener.
Later at night, when he was home alone, Sipho got to hear it comfortably for the very first time.
The floorboard made a sound.
Once.
Twice.
The same one next to the kitchen sink.
Sipho:
He knew that sound.
When he was a kid, he wasn't allowed to step there. Amahle's voice would get sharp, nearly panicky, whenever he came too close.
"Leave it," she would say. "Some things are not for you."
Sipho sat on his knees.
The plank was not fixed properly.
His hand was shaking when he took it off. Dust flew, bringing the smell of blood and smoke. Here beneath the floorboard lay the notebooks, larger than expected. Some were quite thin, while others were thick, bound with worn leather, their pages yellowed and warped.
The very first diary entry he opened made his stomach churn with unease.
Dates.
Symbols.
Names.
Thando's name was written over and over again, initially with worship, then irritation, and finally with angry handwriting. Sipho turned the pages quickly, his heart thumping in his chest as the story of betrayal was unveiled in a series of harsh, calculated moves.
The intended sacrifice: the second son
Order disrupted.
Offer misaligned.
Debt transferred.
Sipho dropped the diary.
"No," he whispered.
The thing behind him made a slight movement.
He kept reading until his fingers were sore, until his sight was getting fuzzy.
He read about the night Thando passed away not as a fatality, but as a mistake. He read about himself, but instead of a child, he was depicted as a vessel. A reminder. A living balance sheet.
And even worse ,
He read about the future.
One entry stated, "When the keeper dies, the burden awakens fully."
The air in the room suddenly became colder.
The candles Amahle had left behind unlit for years suddenly ignited simultaneously.
The thing came closer.
Finally, Sipho turned around.
It didn't have a single form. It was like a collage of borrowed pieces—Thando's eyes, Amahle's voice, the shape of Sipho's own reflection. At once terrifying and comforting, it was so big that it seemed to fill up the entire room without touching the walls.
"So now you understand," it said.
"You've completely destroyed my life," Sipho said with a broken voice.
The thing lowered its head.
"You killed my brother."
"No."
It smiled in Thando's mouth. "Your mother did."
The truth came like a blow that was stronger than any physical strike.
All the frustrations. The terror. The endless feeling of being under surveillance.
It had never been a random thing.
"You fed on me," Sipho said.
"You fed me," it corrected softly. “With every doubt. Every time you kept yourself small. Every time you thought you were broken
Sipho's legs gave way.
"What do you want now?" he asked.
The thing came closer, its presence overpowering.
"Completion."
The word resonated throughout the house , vibrating down to Sipho's bones.
"And if I refuse?"
The thing's grin got bigger.
"You already tried that."
The walls started oozing shadows. The house gave a deep groan, as if it were preparing itself for the next blow. Sipho felt a burst inside him—a long chain breaking.
"No," he said, his voice much louder now. "I didn't choose this."
The thing's face grew dark.
"Neither did your brother."
Anger came for the first time, and it was stronger than fear.
Sipho got up.
"You're not the one who gets to define me," he said. "You don't get to finish this."
The thing looked at him with interest.
"Then burn the door," it whispered. "And see what lives on."
Suddenly outside, the wind started to rise, howling among the trees.
The house was attentive.
- Writer
