CAMP whispers;TRUST THE DEAD NOT THE LIVING

*Chapter 1: Wrong Number* The phone buzzed at 2:17am. Aisha rolled over in her NYSC hostel bed and frowned at the screen. The blue light hurt her eyes. Unknown number. At this hour? Lagos was quiet. Even the generators in the camp were off. She almost ignored it. But her sister Halima used to say “Always check unknown numbers. That’s how important calls come.” Aisha swiped open w******p. 1 new message. No name. No profile photo. Just a plain gray circle. Her thumb hovered. Then she tapped. The message had only 7 words: "Don't trust anyone in the NYSC camp." Aisha’s blood went cold. The room suddenly felt too small. The ceiling fan creaked above her like a warning. She sat up fast. Heart pounding. Those words felt familiar She remembered Those were the exact last words her sister sent before she disappeared 2 years ago. Same words. Same grammar. No emoji, no punctuation. Halima hated punctuation in texts. Aisha’s fingers shook as she scrolled up in her old chats. There it was. May 12, 2024. 2:17am. Halima: Don't trust anyone in the NYSC camp Then nothing. Her sister vanished from their village near Ibadan 3 days later. Police said “missing person”. They searched the river. Found her bag. Never found her body. But 6 months later, a fisherman found bones downstream. DNA match. They buried what was left in Ibadan. Aisha cried for weeks. So how was this number texting her now? Aisha typed with shaking fingers: "Who is this?" She pressed send. The double ticks turned blue instantly. Read. Her phone buzzed again. Reply: "You have 3 days to leave camp. Or you’re next." Aisha dropped the phone. It landed on her wrapper with a soft thud. “Impossible,” she whispered. “You’re dead, Halima. We buried you.” She picked the phone up. Dialed the number. “Number does not exist,” the automated voice said. Aisha stared at the screen. The number was already disappearing. Like someone was deleting it live. The last digit faded. Then the next. In 5 seconds, the whole chat vanished from w******p. No trace. Like it never existed. Only her memory of the 7 words remained. Don’t trust anyone in the NYSC camp. Aisha looked at the dark window. The camp was silent. Too silent. Somewhere far, a dog barked once. Then stopped. Her roommate Blessing snored softly on the bunk below. Safe. Normal. Aisha pulled her wrapper tighter. Three days. She had three days. But leave camp to where? Her parents were broke. NYSC allowance was all she had. And if she left now, she’d be “absconded”. No certificate. No job. Her phone buzzed again. Not w******p this time. A normal SMS. From: Unknown “Day 1 started. Clock is ticking, sister.” Sister. Aisha threw the phone under her pillow like it was hot coal. But she could still see the words glowing in her mind. She didn’t sleep again till dawn. When the morning bell rang at 5:30am for parade, her eyes were red and swollen. As she queued for morning exercise, she watched everyone. The clean-faced corpers. The strict officials. The Camp Commandant standing on the podium. Don’t trust anyone. But who sent the message? And why her? Aisha couldn’t eat breakfast. Pap tasted like sand in her mouth. Blessing waved a spoon at her. “You sick? You’ve been staring at your phone since 5am.” “Just tired,” Aisha mumbled. She locked her phone screen fast. If Blessing saw the SMS, she’d think Aisha was mad. After parade, Aisha went to the camp library. It was empty at 9am. Dusty books. Old NYSC magazines. She needed air. And answers. She opened the NYSC portal on the library computer. Typed “Halima Bello” in the alumni search. Her sister’s name appeared. Batch 2022. Posted to Oyo State. Completed service. Certificate collected by “authorized representative”. But Aisha knew the truth. Halima never finished NYSC. She died 2 weeks into camp. Aisha refreshed the page. This time, her sister’s name was gone. Page showed “No results found”. Her hands froze on the keyboard. She hit refresh again. Nothing. Now it was like her sister never existed in NYSC records. Aisha took a screenshot of the empty search result. Her hands shook so bad the photo was blurry. “Looking for ghosts?” Aisha jumped. The Camp Commandant’s assistant, Sergeant Musa, stood behind her. Young. Maybe 28. Always smiling. “Erm... no, sir. Just checking my sister’s details,” Aisha lied. Sergeant Musa leaned over. He smelled like aftershave. “Halima Bello? I remember that name. Pretty girl. Used to sing during campfire night.” He paused. “Shame about what happened.” Aisha’s heart stopped. “You knew her?” “Knew of her,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Oga Commandant mentioned her once. Said she was troublesome.” Then he winked. “You look like her though. Same eyes.” He walked away before Aisha could ask more. Troublesome? Halima was the quiet one. Always reading. Always praying. Back in the hostel, Blessing was showing photos on her phone. “See my camp last year. This was orientation week.” Aisha glanced. Then froze. In the corner of the photo, blurry but clear enough: Halima. In NYSC uniform. Standing beside Lieutenant Colonel Danjuma. The Commandant. He had his hand on her shoulder like they were close. “Delete that,” Aisha said. Her voice came out harsh. Blessing frowned. “Why? That’s your sister na. You never told me she did NYSC here too.” “She didn’t,” Aisha said. “She died before camp.” Blessing went quiet. Then whispered, “Aisha... are you okay? Because that’s definitely her.” Aisha grabbed the phone. Zoomed in. Same face. Same scar on her eyebrow from childhood. Same smile. But it was impossible. Unless... Unless her sister never died. Unless everything Aisha believed for 2 years was a lie. 2:17am came again. Aisha was awake. Waiting. Phone clutched in her hand. Buzz. Same number. Same gray circle. The chat reappeared like magic. New message: "Day 1. She trusted the wrong person." Aisha typed: "Who? Who did she trust?" No reply. Then she heard it. Footsteps. Outside the hostel door. Slow. Deliberate. Tap. Tap. Tap. Someone was walking past each door. Stopping at each one for 3 seconds. Then moving on. Aisha held her breath. The footsteps stopped at her door. Silence. Then a soft whisper through the keyhole. A woman’s voice. Sounded like Halima. “Aisha... don’t open the door.” Aisha scrambled off the bed. “Halima? Is that you?” No answer. Only footsteps moving away. She ran to the door. Unlocked it. Yanked it open. Corridor empty. Dark. Smelled like rain. On the floor, right in front of her door, was a NYSC tag. Brand new. Plastic still shiny. She picked it up with shaking hands. HALIMA BELLO STATE CODE: OY/26A/0001 BATCH: 2026A 2026. This year’s batch. But her sister died in 2024. Aisha looked up the corridor. At the far end, near the admin block, a light turned on in the Commandant’s office. A shadow moved behind the curtain. Then the light went off. Her phone buzzed one last time. "Day 2 tomorrow. Trust no one, Aisha. Especially not him." Aisha closed the door. Locked it. Pushed the bed against it. She stared at the NYSC tag in her hand until morning. Three days. But Day 1 was already ending. And she still didn’t know who him was. ....