The Girl Who Was Buried Twice

Chapter One: The Call Amara Nwosu woke up at exactly 6:17 a.m. with a scream trapped in her throat. She sat upright, breathing heavily. For several seconds, she didn't recognize her own bedroom. The pale curtains. The standing fan turning slowly from left to right. The wardrobe beside the window. The framed photograph of her parents sitting on her bedside table. Everything looked familiar. Yet something about the room felt wrong. Amara pressed a trembling hand against her chest. Her heart was beating too fast. She closed her eyes. It was a dream. Only a dream. She exhaled slowly. Then she remembered the coffin. Her eyes opened. A chill moved down her spine. She could still see it. White. Beautiful. Covered with flowers. And the woman lying inside it. Her face. Her exact face. Amara pushed the blanket away and stood. "God." She walked into the bathroom and splashed cold water over her face. When she looked into the mirror, she almost laughed. "You are twenty-nine years old," she told her reflection. "You're too old to be frightened by a dream." Her reflection didn't answer. She wiped the water from her face. There was a small scar above her left eyebrow. She had gotten it when she was eight after falling from a mango tree. Her mother had told her that story countless times. You cried for three hours. You refused to let anybody touch you. Your father carried you to the hospital. Her father. Amara's smile faded. She hadn't thought about him in days. Eleven years. That was how long he had been gone. She reached for her toothbrush. Her phone rang. Amara glanced at the screen. MUMMY. She smiled. "Mummy, good morning." No response. Amara lowered the toothbrush. "Mummy?" She heard breathing. "Are you there?" Her mother's voice finally came. "Amara." Something about the way she said her name made Amara straighten. "Yes?" "Where are you?" Amara frowned. "In my house." "No." "What?" Her mother's breathing became uneven. "Where were you last night?" "At home." "Are you sure?" Amara laughed nervously. "Of course I'm sure. Why are you asking me that?" Her mother didn't answer. "Mummy?" "Come home." "Today?" "Yes." Amara looked at the clock. "Why?" "I need to talk to you." "You can talk to me on the phone." "No." Her mother's voice became firmer. "I need you here." Amara leaned against the bathroom door. "Is everything okay?" Silence. Then her mother whispered: "Your father found something." Amara's stomach tightened. She didn't understand. "My father?" "Yes." "Mummy, Daddy has been dead for eleven years." "I know." The answer came too quickly. Amara stared at the phone. "Then what do you mean he found something?" Another silence. Longer this time. "I don't know how to explain it." "Try." "I can't." "Mummy—" "Just come home." "Is someone sick?" "No." "Did something happen to you?" "No." "Then what is this about?" Her mother's voice cracked. "Please, Amara." The call ended. Amara stared at the screen. She called back immediately. The line rang twice. Then her mother answered. "Come home." "Mummy, you can't just say something like that and hang up." "I'll explain when you get here." "When?" "Before evening." "Why before evening?" Her mother didn't answer. "Mummy?" "I love you." Amara froze. Her mother rarely said those words without a reason. "I love you too." The line went dead. Amara slowly lowered the phone. Something was wrong. Very wrong. She finished getting ready without eating breakfast. By 7:30, she was sitting in her car. She started the engine. Then stopped. The dream returned. The funeral. The coffin. The woman. You're late. Amara shook her head. "No." She put the car in reverse. As she drove out of the compound, her phone rang again. Unknown number. She ignored it. It rang again. She ignored it. The third time, she answered. "Hello?" Silence. "Hello?" A man's breathing came through the phone. Amara turned down the radio. "Who is this?" Nothing. "Can you hear me?" Then a man's voice came. Deep. Calm. Almost too calm. "Don't go home." Amara's hands tightened around the steering wheel. "What?" "Don't go home." "Who are you?" "You don't remember me." "I don't know you." A quiet laugh. "You will." The call ended. Amara stared at the road. Her heartbeat accelerated. She called the number back. The automated voice answered. The number you have dialed is switched off. She tried again. Same result. Amara put the phone down. She considered turning around. For the first time that morning, she wondered whether she should listen. Then she remembered her mother's voice. Your father found something. She drove on. *** The Nwosu family house stood at the end of a quiet street lined with old mango trees. Amara had spent most of her childhood there. It had once been a lively house. Her father's laughter had filled the sitting room. Her mother's cooking had filled the kitchen. Neighbours came and went. Cousins slept over during holidays. There was always music. Always noise. Always life. But after her father's death, the house had changed. Her mother stopped hosting people. The upstairs rooms were locked. Her father's study was never opened again. Even his clothes remained exactly where he had left them. Amara parked outside the gate. Her mother was standing on the veranda. Waiting. She looked older than she had on the phone. "Good morning." Her mother didn't smile. "Come inside." Amara followed her. "Mummy." Her mother kept walking. "What exactly happened?" "Not here." They entered the sitting room. Her mother locked the front door. Then she checked the windows. Amara watched her. "What are you doing?" Her mother turned around. "Did anyone follow you?" Amara's eyebrows rose. "No." "Are you sure?" "Yes." Her mother nodded. "Good." "Mummy, you're scaring me." Her mother sat down. For several seconds, she said nothing. Then she looked at Amara. "Do you remember your father's study?" "Of course." "You must go there." Amara stared at her. "I thought you said nobody was allowed inside." "I changed my mind." "Why?" Her mother reached into her handbag. She brought out a small brass key. She placed it on the table. "Your father left this for you." Amara stared at the key. "How?" Her mother looked away. "He told me that if anything ever happened to him, I should give it to you." "Anything?" "Yes." "You mean his death?" Her mother swallowed. "Yes." Amara picked up the key. It was old. Heavy. Cold. There was a strange symbol engraved on its surface. A circle crossed by three lines. She looked at her mother. "What does this mean?" "I don't know." "You've had this for eleven years?" "Yes." "Why didn't you give it to me before?" Her mother looked directly into her eyes. "Because you weren't ready." Amara laughed bitterly. "Ready for what?" Her mother didn't answer. Amara stood. "Let's go." They walked toward the hallway. At the end was a wooden door. Her father's study. The door hadn't been opened in eleven years. Dust covered the handle. Amara inserted the key. It turned immediately. Click. The door opened. A cold smell rushed out. Old paper. Wood. Something else. Something she couldn't identify. Her mother stopped behind her. "Don't touch anything." Amara looked back. "Why?" "Because some things are better left where they were." She stepped inside. Her father's desk was still there. His chair. His books. His old leather briefcase. A calendar from 2015 still hung on the wall. Amara walked toward the desk. She touched the chair. Memories came rushing back. Her father sitting there. Calling her "my stubborn girl." Helping her with mathematics. Pretending to be angry whenever she stole money from his wallet. She smiled. Then she noticed something. The floor beneath the desk looked different. One wooden plank was slightly raised. Amara crouched. "Mummy." Her mother didn't respond. "Did Daddy have a secret room?" Her mother's face changed. Amara noticed. "You knew." "No." "You knew about this." "I didn't." "Then why are you afraid?" Her mother stepped back. "Amara, leave it." "No." "Please." Amara pulled the plank. It came loose. Beneath it was a narrow opening. Inside was a small wooden box. Amara reached in. Her fingers touched the box. The moment she lifted it, something fell from underneath. A photograph. It landed face-up. Amara picked it up. And froze. A little girl stared back at her. The same eyes. The same nose. The same lips. The same scar above the left eyebrow. Amara turned the photograph over. There was a date. 12 March 1996. Her breathing stopped. She looked at her mother. "Mummy." Her mother was crying. Amara looked back at the photograph. She was born in 1997. One year after the photograph was taken. Her fingers trembled as she turned the photograph over again. Written in faded black ink were six words. SHE MUST NEVER KNOW WHO SHE IS. Amara looked at her mother. "Who is she?" Her mother covered her mouth. "Amara..." "Who is this girl?" Her mother began to cry. "Please." "Who is she?" "I wanted to protect you." "From what?" Her mother said nothing. Amara stepped closer. "Tell me." Her mother finally looked up. And whispered: "She's not a girl." Amara frowned. "What?" Her mother's face had gone pale. "She's you." The room fell silent. Then, from somewhere beneath the floorboards— came three slow knocks. Knock. Knock. Knock. Amara stared at the floor. Her mother grabbed her arm. "Don't answer." Amara's blood ran cold. "Who is down there?" Her mother tightened her grip. "No one." Another knock. Knock. This time, it came directly beneath Amara's feet. And then a voice whispered from underneath the floor. A woman's voice. Soft. Familiar. "Amara..." Amara stopped breathing. Her mother screamed. "RUN."