Growing Pains

Chapter 6: The House That remembers me

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*Chapter 6: The House That Remembers*

The rain in Enugu didn’t fall. It _waited_.

At 1:04am, Ada’s phone lit up her face in the dark. No ring. Just one text from an unknown number.

_“I told you not to come. But you’re already listening, aren’t you?”_

Her throat went dry.

Yesterday was Chapter 5. The funeral anniversary. The family meeting where Uncle Emeka shouted that the Nsukka house “must be sold before it buries another person.” Mama cried. Chike, 13, threw his plate. And Ada found an old key in her father’s Bible. A small brass key with a red ribbon.

She hadn’t told anyone.

Now this text.

She typed back with shaking fingers: _“Who is this?”_

Delivered. No reply.

The ceiling fan was dead. NEPA had taken light since 11:42pm. The only sound was rain on the zinc roof and Chike’s coughing from the next room.

Then — footsteps.

Soft. In the hallway. Past her door. Past Chike’s door. Stopping at the bathroom.

Ada sat up, heart hammering. “Mama?”

No answer. Mama was on night shift at UNTH. She wouldn’t be back till 7am.

The footsteps went back. Toward the front door.

Ada grabbed her phone, turned on the torch, and crept out. The corridor was empty. The front door was locked. Bolt and chain.

But on the floor, just inside the door, was wet mud. Footprints. Leading in... and out.

Her blood turned to ice.

She locked the chain again. Twice. Went back to her room and didn’t sleep.

At 5:10am she was dressed. Black jeans, black top, sneakers. Backpack with water, power bank, the brass key, and 2,000 naira.

“Where are you going?” Chike stood in the doorway, eyes puffy.

“To see Aunty Ngozi,” Ada lied. The lie tasted bitter. “I’ll be back before evening. Don’t tell Mama yet.”

“Ada, that voice note... Uncle Emeka sounded scared. Don’t go to that house.”

“I have to.” She knelt and hugged him. “If anything happens, call Inspector Dike. His number is on the fridge.”

The bus to Nsukka smelled like wet clothes and fear. Ada sat by the window, replaying the 7-second voice note from last night.

_“Ada, don’t go to the old house tomorrow.”_ Uncle Emeka’s voice, strained, like he was whispering. Then static. Then a click.

Why _tomorrow_? Why warn her _after_ she’d already decided?

2 hours later. Nsukka. The road to their father’s house was overgrown. The gate was rusted, but the padlock was new. Silver. Shiny. Not the one they left with.

Someone had been here. Recently.

Her phone buzzed. Same number.

_“Turn back now. Last warning.”_

Ada’s hands shook as she fit the brass key into the small side door. It clicked.

The compound smelled like mold, wet earth, and kerosene. The mango tree had fallen across the yard. Windows boarded. But the back kitchen door was ajar.

“Ada?” Her voice echoed.

Inside, dust thick on everything. Cobwebs like veils. But the living room had been used. The center table was cleared. On it, a kerosene lamp. Burning low.

No one there.

Under the lamp, her father’s black notebook. The one he took to church every Sunday.

She opened it. His handwriting, rushed:

_“If you’re reading this, they found the house. Don’t trust Emeka. Don’t trust anyone with the land papers. It’s in the—”_

The page was ripped out.

The lamp flickered.

Footsteps. Behind her. On broken glass.

Ada spun. Empty doorway. But in the dust, fresh footprints. Coming from the kitchen... stopping 2 feet behind where she stood.

She didn’t scream. She ran.

Out the front, through the weeds, into the rain. She fell, cut her knee, got up. Ran to the main road.

A black Toyota with tinted windows pulled up. Window rolled down. A man, 40s, cap low.

“You’re Ada? Your uncle sent me. He’s at the park. Car trouble. Get in before you catch cold.”

Everything in her said _run_.

“Where’s my uncle?”

“At the park now. Hurry.”

She took a step back. “I’ll wait here.”

His smile vanished. “Don’t make me force you, small girl.”

She ran. Into a compound, through 3 backyards, into a provision shop. Panting.

“Please,” she begged the woman. “Can I use your phone?”

She called Uncle Emeka. No answer. Mama. No answer. Nneka.

“Nneka, please. Nsukka park. Now. Someone is following me.”

45 minutes. Nneka came with her brother Emeka Jr. They took her to the police station.

Inspector Dike, tired eyes, listened. “This house. Your father’s death... it was called an accident. Fall from the roof. But the land... people have been fighting over it for 10 years.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“If someone thinks you have the land documents, you’re in danger.”

Ada remembered the notebook. _“It’s in the—”_

In the what?

That night at Nneka’s, she didn’t sleep. At 3:17am her phone buzzed.

A video. 12 seconds.

The old house. The lamp. The camera pans slowly. A man sitting at the table. Face in shadow. But his right hand on the table. A long scar across the knuckles.

Uncle Emeka’s scar. From cutting firewood when Ada was 10. He always said, “See this? This is why you must be careful with knives.”

Text followed: _“Told you not to come.”_

Ada threw the phone. “He’s lying.”

Morning. Uncle Emeka and Mama were at Nneka’s gate. Mama’s eyes were red.

“Ada! What were you thinking?”

Ada stepped back from Emeka. “Did you send a man in a black Toyota for me?”

Emeka frowned. “What? No. Ada, I’ve been calling you all night. Where did you get that?”

She showed him the video.

His face drained of color. “That’s not me. But... that scar. Only family knows.”

Inspector Dike arrived. “We traced the number. Burner. But we went to the house. Found this.”

He held up the torn page from the notebook.

_“...in the Bible. Psalm 23. Forgive me, Ada. Burn them if you must.”_

Mama gasped. “The big Bible. In the living room. Your father read Psalm 23 every night before he died.”

They went back with 2 policemen. The house was taped off.

Inside, behind Psalm 23, was a yellow envelope. Land documents. And a small USB.

At the station, they played it.

File 1: Her father, 2 years ago. “Emeka, these men want the land. They say they’ll hurt the children if I don’t sign. I’m hiding the originals.”

File 2: A week before he died. “If anything happens, it’s not an accident. The copies are in the Bible. The originals are—” Static.

File 3: The night he died. Breathing. Footsteps on the roof. A voice: _“Sign it, Tunde.”_ Then a thud.

Uncle Emeka was crying. “I didn’t kill him, Ada. I swear. After, those men came to me. Said if I didn’t sign, they’d take you and Chike. So I ran. I sent the voice note because I saw one of them at your school gate yesterday.”

Ada looked at him. Hate and pity warred in her chest.

That night, 2 men were arrested. Neighbors who’d been paid to watch the house. The man in the Toyota escaped.

For 10 days, Ada breathed. The land case went to court. Mama smiled again. Chike stopped checking the locks 5 times.

Then, 2am.

Ada was in the backyard bringing in clothes. The air was too still.

_Snap._ A twig by the fence.

Her phone lit up. Unknown number.

_“The USB was a copy, Ada. The original is still moving. And we’re still watching.”_

The bulb above her popped and died.

The gate creaked.

She ran inside, locked everything, called Inspector Dike. While waiting, she stared at the Bible on the shelf.

She opened it again. Psalm 23.

And there, taped to the inside of the back cover where she’d never looked, was another piece of paper. Her father’s writing:

_“Ada, if you find this, it means they’re close. There’s one more place. Under the mango tree. Dig where the roots split. Don’t go alone. -Dad”_

Outside, footsteps stopped at their front door.

A soft knock. Three times.

A voice, muffled: “Delivery for Miss Ada.”

But they weren’t expecting anything.

Chike woke up. “Who is it?”

Ada put a finger to her lips. She grabbed Mama’s phone and dialed 112. Whispered their address.

The knocking stopped.

For 30 seconds, nothing.

Then — the sound of glass breaking. From the kitchen window.

Ada pulled Chike into the bathroom. Locked the door. Stood on the toilet, pushed the small window open.

“Climb,” she whispered.

Chike hesitated. “What about you?”

“I’m right behind you.”

He went. Ada followed, dropping into the wet grass.

Behind them, shouting. Men’s voices.

They ran. Barefoot, through neighbors’ yards, to the main road. A police van screeched to a stop. Inspector Dike jumped out.

“Inside! Now!”

Back at the house, one man was caught in the kitchen. The other got away.

In the man’s pocket: a photo of Ada at school. A photo of Chike. And a map of Nsukka, with the old house circled. And the mango tree marked with a red X.

Ada stared at it.

“They know about the tree,” she whispered.

Inspector Dike looked at her. “Then we dig. Tonight. With police.”

At 4am, under floodlights, 3 policemen dug at the base of the fallen mango tree.

1 foot down. Nothing.

2 feet. A metal box.

Inside: the original land documents. And a letter.

_“My Ada,

If you’re reading this, I’m gone. These men killed me because I wouldn’t sell. The land has oil. That’s why they want it. Don’t sell. Don’t sign. Give this to the government. And Ada — Emeka didn’t do it. But he knows who did. Ask him about the night of the storm.

I love you.

Dad”_

Ada’s hands shook. Oil?

She looked at Uncle Emeka. He was sitting on the police van steps, head in his hands.

“Uncle,” she said quietly. “What happened the night of the storm?”

He looked up, eyes hollow. “Your father and I fought. He wouldn’t sell. The men came that night. I ran. I thought... I thought if I wasn’t there, they’d leave him alone.”

The rain started again.

Chapter 5 ended with a warning.

Chapter 6 ended with a truth.

But as they drove away from Nsukka, Ada’s phone buzzed one last time.

No text. Just a photo.

Her and Chike, taken 5 minutes ago, running from the house.

From behind.

Someone was still watching.

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*End of Chapter 6*