THE LAST MESSAGE

Chapter 6: Ama

That night, Kwame counted every minute like it was a warning, and by the time the clock crept toward 2:13 AM, the fear inside him had become something physical, sitting heavy in his chest and making it hard to breathe. He stayed awake on purpose, sitting at the edge of his bed with the lights on, his phone in his hand and his door locked, as if any of those things could actually protect him. The house was silent except for the distant hum of night insects outside and the occasional sound of water dripping somewhere in the kitchen, but even those ordinary noises felt wrong, like the whole house was listening. He kept glancing at the clock—2:10, 2:11, 2:12—and when it finally changed to 2:13, the lights went out. Complete darkness swallowed the room so suddenly that Kwame’s breath caught in his throat, and before he could move, his phone lit up in his hand, the pale glow the only light left. One message appeared on the screen. Open the door. His fingers tightened around the phone as he stared at the words, his mind racing, because there was no sound outside, no footsteps, no knocking, only silence pressing against the other side of the wood. He shook his head immediately and typed back with trembling hands. No. The reply came instantly. She is outside. Kwame froze. His eyes moved slowly toward the door. “Ama?” he whispered, and as if answering him, a soft knock came from the other side. Once. Twice. Then her voice, quiet and shaky. “Kwame… please open the door.” His heart slammed against his ribs as he stood up too quickly, nearly dropping the phone. It sounded like her. It was her voice. But his eyes dropped back to the screen where another message appeared. Do not trust the voice. His entire body trembled. “Kwame,” Ama said again, louder this time, and now there was fear in her voice, real fear, enough to make him take a step toward the door before stopping himself. “Please… something is wrong.” He pressed a hand against the door but didn’t unlock it. “Ama, what happened?” he asked, his voice barely steady. For a moment there was silence. Then she answered, but this time her voice sounded different—lower, slower, like someone copying the way she spoke without fully understanding it. “You already know.” Kwame stepped back instantly, terror rushing through him as the doorknob turned slowly on its own, once to the left, once to the right, though he knew it was locked. His phone buzzed again. Now you understand. The knocking stopped, and for several long seconds there was only silence again, so complete it made his ears ring, and then from the other side of the door came the sound of something dragging across the floor, slowly moving away down the hallway. Kwame stood frozen, unable to breathe, until eventually the silence became too much and he forced himself to unlock the door and look outside. The hallway was empty. No Ama. No shadow. Nothing. Only darkness stretching toward the living room. He grabbed his phone tighter and walked carefully down the hall, calling her name in a whisper at first, then louder, but there was no answer until he reached the kitchen and saw her standing by the sink with her back to him. Relief hit him so fast his knees almost gave out. “Ama,” he said sharply, stepping closer, “what are you doing?” She turned slowly. Her face looked normal, but her eyes… something in them felt distant, like she was there and not there at the same time. “I was thirsty,” she said simply. Kwame stared at her. “You were just outside my door.” She frowned. “No, I wasn’t.” His stomach dropped. “You knocked. You were asking me to open.” Ama shook her head slowly, confusion crossing her face. “Kwame, I’ve been here for ten minutes. Why are you acting like this?” He wanted to explain, but the words felt impossible, because how could he tell her that something wearing her voice had been standing outside his room? He just stared at her, and after a moment she gave him a strange look before turning back to the sink. Then, without facing him, she said quietly, “He doesn’t like when you doubt him.” Every part of Kwame’s body went cold. “What did you say?” he whispered. Ama turned back again, blinking like she had just woken up. “I said you should sleep. You look tired.” His heart pounded so hard it hurt. She hadn’t heard herself. She didn’t know what she was saying. That frightened him more than anything. He backed away slowly, unable to trust what was real anymore, and returned to his room without another word, locking the door again even though he knew locks meant nothing now. He sat on the floor beside his bed until sunrise, too afraid to sleep, replaying every second in his mind, every word, every knock, every shift in Ama’s voice. By morning, one truth had become impossible to ignore—the entity wasn’t just haunting him anymore. It was using Ama. And if he didn’t stop it soon, he might lose her completely. Just as the first light of dawn touched the window, his phone buzzed one last time. Exhausted, he looked down at the screen and read the message waiting for him. Tomorrow, she chooses. Kwame stared at the words, horror rising fresh inside him, because whatever came next, it was no longer only about him. Now Ama was part of it, and he was running out of time.