This was the first draft for the story i eventually titled Invasion and featured at The Naked Convos for the Halloween specials ‘Lights Out’. Suddenly felt like sharing it because this blog has just been too quiet 😦 I’ve not faded! I’m too busy working on so many ‘things’. Hopefully, I’d be able to find enthusiastic writers of the dark arts like myself to keep this place functioning till I’ve rounded up the ‘things’ I’m working on. If you know anyone interested, please hit me up on twitter @weird_oo.  Thanks! 🙂

Now, to the ‘story’. Enjoy!

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It will pin you down in the bed and you will be unable to move. Your eyes would jerk open in alarm. You cannot scream. You cannot call for help. You can only feel its cold, moist hands caging your arms and legs. Four hands. It would do things to you. Bad things. It would not scar you but it would hurt. It would threaten to kill you if you told anyone. It would threaten to harm your family. You wonder why it reminds you. You know already.

You remember your eight year old voice screaming at the top of your lungs for your daddy. You remember the look of concern on his face when he came in and switched on the light. He woke the house help up to search the room. A ploy to keep your little mind happy. You remember how he kissed you forehead and told you to go to sleep. You remember the soft taunting laugh after he left. The mimicking of your voice calling out for your daddy. The soft whisper of “I warned you”. You remember the look on your mummy’s face when she you came back from school the week after. Your daddy is in heaven. You do not want to die. So young; So afraid.

It would suddenly leave you and there you would remain; tears slowly spilling from your eyes. You want to go to your mummy. You want her to hug you and make it all go away. You used to do that. Your mummy thinks it’s just a bad dream. Your mummy would call you a big girl and smile at you sleepily. She would call the house help to come take you back to bed.

No.

You cannot go to your mummy. She doesn’t understand. You’re not a big girl. You’re only eight years old and afraid. You would close your eyes tightly. You would pray for morning. You would try to sleep but all you can hear is laughter. Rich, light, tinkling laughter; and it is at your expense. Its like the laugh of Mama Blessing, the thin woman that sells snacks near your school.

You will chant ‘Go away’ in your head till you sleep. Your little chest rising and falling. Your guardian angel watching you; deciding when to kill you.

You would go out with your mummy and the help, in daddy’s car. You like daddy’s car because you can feel him when you sit in it. You told mummy once and she smiled at you, patting your head. She doesn’t believe you. So young; too imaginative. You are travelling to see your grandma in the village. It is your first time. You will pass cities and see things. Suddenly, your eyes will widen. Your little heart would start racing. You would start sweating. You would tap your mummy’s shoulder, pointing. She would turn and smile at you. “Its a real masquerade. Ojuju Calabar”

You will try to speak, but fear would shut your voice. You will nod and your mummy would go back to her newspaper.
Ojuju Calabar.
It sleeps with you every night.
You will turn to your house help and she will smile at you.
Yes, you understand.
If you say a word, she will kill you.
Mummy cannot save you from Ngozi, the house help.
Your own personal nightmare.
Ngozi by day, something else by night.
You would not tell.
You’re a big girl.
It is a dream.
You swallow your saliva and watch the dancing masquerades pass by.
You’re afraid.
Ngozi told you before you got into the car, that she has many friends in the village. They know about you.
They will come to visit her.
They will come to visit you too.

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