CHAPTER FOUR
1125 Words
Zina didn't scream.
She couldn’t.
Her breath locked in her throat as the door slid open the rest of the way, quietly, like someone was easing it forward with careful fingertips. The hallway was a dark tunnel, the kind that swallowed sound instead of carrying it. Her room felt suddenly much smaller, like the walls had leaned in.
She sat frozen on her bed, phone trembling in her hand.
“Zina?” Kelechi’s voice crackled through the speaker. “You’re too quiet. What’s happening?”
Zina couldn’t answer yet. She kept staring at the half-open door, waiting for movement… for a shadow… for breathing…
But the hallway remained still.
Too still.
She finally whispered, “…the door opened.”
Kelechi inhaled sharply. “Is someone there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Close the door, Zina.”
“I can’t.”
She wasn’t sure if it was fear holding her in place or the feeling that if she moved, whatever lurked beyond that doorway would move too.
Zina reached for something, anything, to steady herself. Her hands brushed her lamp. She clicked it on. A soft yellow light filled the room, pushing back some of the darkness.
But the hallway remained black.
And then…
A soft creaking sound came from deep in the corridor.
Not footsteps. Not breathing.
Something else.
Like wood shifting under a weight that wasn’t heavy enough to be human.
Her heart pounded so hard she felt dizzy.
“Zina,” Kelechi said again, more urgent now, “go and close it. I’m staying on the line.”
Zina stood slowly, legs trembling. She forced her feet forward. One step… two… three… and she was close enough to touch the door.
She put her hand on the wood.
It felt cold.
Colder than it should.
Zina shut the door quickly and locked it, stepping back like she expected someone to push it open again.
But nothing happened.
No sound. No shadow. No whisper.
Just silence.
Too much silence.
She sank to the floor, her back against the bedframe. “Kelechi… something is really wrong with this house.”
“I know,” Kelechi said softly. “Tomorrow we’ll tell my mom you’re staying with us. You can’t be there alone.”
Zina nodded, even though they weren’t video calling. She stared at the door, waiting for something, anything, to happen.
Nothing did.
But she didn’t sleep for the rest of the night
Morning arrived like a slap of reality, sunlight streaming in through her curtains, birds chirping, neighbors shouting greetings through the compound fence. Everything looked so normal that Zina almost convinced herself she had exaggerated.
Almost.
Her aunt called from the kitchen. “Zina! Hurry, you’ll be late!”
Zina sighed shakily, got dressed, and tried to pretend nothing had happened.
But when she stepped into the hallway, she noticed something she hadn’t seen last night.
Three faint lines on the floor.
Scratches.
Perfectly straight.
Perfectly parallel.
And leading directly to her room door.
Her throat closed.
She crouched down and touched the marks. The grooves were shallow but definitely real, not cracks, not dirt, not anything she could explain away.
“Zina? Are you coming?” her aunt called.
“Y....yes!”
She stood quickly and walked past them, pretending she hadn’t seen anything.
But she felt them.
Those lines followed her all the way to school in her mind.
When she met Jide and Kelechi at the gate, she didn’t waste time.
“It happened again,” she said. “The door opened itself.”
Kelechi grabbed her arm. “Zina, no.”
Jide exhaled slowly. “Inside your room?”
“Yes. And this morning I saw scratches on the floor. Like something dragged itself to my door.”
They stared at her, fear settling in their expressions.
“Okay,” Jide said finally, “we need to check something.”
“What?” Zina asked.
He didn’t answer immediately. He adjusted the strap of his backpack, eyes sharpening with a seriousness she had only seen once before, the day he confessed he thought he was being followed when he was younger.
“Your aunt’s house,” he said. “We need to go there after school.”
Kelechi’s eyes widened. “Are you mad? After everything?”
“We need answers,” Jide replied. “Zina can’t keep sleeping in a place where doors open on their own.”
“And what if… something is waiting for us?” Kelechi asked quietly.
“Then we’ll deal with it together.”
Zina swallowed.
They weren’t superheroes. They weren’t ghost-hunters. They were just three teenagers with more fear than bravery. But she couldn’t run forever.
“Fine,” she said. “After school.”
They nodded.
But none of them could shake the feeling that this wasn’t bravery.
It was walking into a trap with their eyes open.
After school, they waited until the streets quieted, then took a keke to Zina’s house. The closer they got, the faster Zina’s heartbeat raced.
When they reached the compound, everything looked unbearably normal, the small garden pots, the silver gate, the clothes drying on the line.
But normal didn’t mean safe.
They walked inside together.
“It feels cold,” Jide said quietly.
“That’s how the hallway felt last night,” Zina whispered.
Kelechi clutched Zina’s sleeve. “Let’s just check and leave.”
Zina led them toward the corridor.
The scratches were still on the floor.
Kelechi gasped and covered her mouth.
“Zina, these are fresh,” Jide said, kneeling beside them. “Something made these recently.”
Zina nodded silently.
They stepped closer to her bedroom door.
She put her hand on the knob, and froze.
There were fingerprints on it.
Not hers.
Not her aunt’s.
Smudged, blackish prints, shaped wrong, too long in some places, too tapered in others.
Hands that didn’t look fully human.
Zina whispered shakily, “This wasn’t here this morning.”
Kelechi backed away. “Zina… Zina, we shouldn’t be here. Please.”
But Jide put a hand on the door.
“Whatever is in there,” he said softly, “it’s not going to leave you alone.”
Zina’s breath trembled. “I know.”
Jide pushed the door open.
The room was dark.
Still.
Silent.
Too silent.
Zina stepped inside first.
Her notebook was lying in the center of the bed.
Open.
A message written across the page in her exact handwriting:
STOP BRINGING THEM.
Zina’s blood ran cold.
Jide whispered, “It knows we’re here.”
Kelechi grabbed their hands, panic building in her voice. “We need to leave NOW”
The bedroom light flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then went out completely.
The door slammed shut behind them.
- Writer
