Category: Thriller

Ma Sullivan

She sidled up to the front aisle and sat down, her thinning grey hair covered haphazardly with a scarf. It did not stop stubborn wisps of hair bent on freedom from escaping. She sat and waited for the remaining seats to be filled up apprehensively. Her calloused hands gripped the clutch of her favourite bag and she rubbed the filigree design with her thumb feeling every bump; a habit she was wont to do when extremely nervous.
The room to be viewed was still empty of people, the only occupant, a big metal chair She stared at it, as if concentrating trying to pry it secrets out. Soon, it would be taking the only thing she had left away from her. Her lips dried and she licked them reflexively. She heard movements behind her and knew the pew had begun to fill up.
She did not turn back, avoiding to see the faces.
It wasn’t shame or fear.
No. Ma Sullivan knew no shame.
She just did not want to explain her presence; or offer apologies she knew would be ineffectual.
So she sat there, hair tucked haphazardly in her scarf, back ramrod straight, staring right ahead.
Quite a number of people wanted front seats, and as she made way for them, they saw her and gasped.
She did not avert her eyes; No Sir!
She looked them straight in the eyes, taking in the ill-disguised look of disgust on their faces without a twitch of her facial muscles in reaction. They always dropped their eyes first, shuffling past her. She heard them whisper amongst themselves and pass her name around.
She heard the murmurings behind her but refused to answer them; she had every right to be here.

Soon, the lights dimmed and the main stage area lit up, distracting them.
Guards came in and walked to the chair, checking the straps and bolts. When they were done, one of the officials gave a speech.
She did not listen. She tuned them out.
She came for one thing only.
Soon, they brought him out.
She stared at him as they pulled him to the chair and strapped him. Ignoring the bondage, she stared fixedly at his face.
He had grown softer around the edges. His eyes looked rheumy. He looked older than ever.
His once full head of hair was shaved completely bald and looking like that, sitting there, she could not help but be reminded of his father.
His father had once sat on just the same chair.
She had watched her younger son sit on the same chair.
Now, it was his turn.
As if feeling a stare, his weak eyes looked to the audience and seeing his mother, there was a sudden light in his eyes.
Not one of happiness; of anger, of resentment.
He sneered at her.
She watched him impassively, unprovoked. Seeing as he couldn’t rile her up, his swore at her, red in the face.
Unfeeling bitch.
Like she hadn’t heard that one before.
Was this his way to finally get the attention he always craved from her?
Well, he got in. She was there watching.
He flipped her a middle finger before he got completely immobilised and smiled at the little frown thst crawled up her eyebrows.
The bitch wasn’t carved out of stone then!

Soon the ceremony, as she dubbed it started.
The official stated his name; stated his crimes.
Ma Sullivan did not flinch as the list of murders her son had committed rolled out.
Murders against women her age; women that looked like her
Murders meant for her.
He had had her face in mind every time he strangled them; he said so in court.
His real victim was her but since he could not get her, they had to do.
No, he wasn’t molested ss a child.
But the fucking bitch was made of stone, all my life!
She sat stoic then, listening in the court room.
She was doing the same now; sitting there, stoic.

Soon it was show time,
They fixed the cap on his head and there he sat, looking as stupid as his brother had looked with that cap on his head; as stupid as his father had looked too, seated right there.

They killed him.

The others gasped as the electric currents fried him. She said nothing, merely watching her son’s jerking body as his brains fried.
It almost reminded her of his birth; the light flickering in the dinghy backroom of a motel. The smell of death and decay that she had been unconcerned about.
She wondered for a second if his electrocution had hurt as much as she did, pushing him out of her
It would have been fitting if it did.
Come in screaming, leave screaming.
It didn’t matter now anyway.
He was dead.
When he had been confirmed dead, she watched them roll out his dead body.

The show was over.
The murmurings began again.
How could she come to watch?
How could she bear it?
Just what kind of a woman was she?

She said nothing, walking out of the stifling room to the open air, grateful for the gulps of fresh air.
She made a beeline to her car and when she was safely inside, she rested her head on the steering wheel.
Tears coursed down her cheeks and she did nothing to wipe them away.
Where had she gone wrong?
Why did they all end up the way they did?
The media touted her as evil. ‘Matriarch of the Evil Sullivan”
It did not matter that she never participated in their crimes; or that she had kicked all three of them out of her house before they had gone on a bend.

Could she have stopped it?
She had failed.
As a wife; she married a lazy psycho, a lunatic.
As a mother; she was too busy to love them. She herself never received any love from her mother.She had worked hard to provide money for anything they wanted.
Why hadn’t they been enough?
Her lunatic mistake of a husband then bred them for evil.
As a human; she had been too afraid to stop them.
She kicked them out instead.
She had been a coward.

She swallowed a sob and decided on what she would do.
She would absorb all the blame; from the families of the victims, from the general populace.
She would absorb them all.
Then she would take it with her to a place where she knew she belonged.
To hell.


If this doesn’t make sense, welcome to the club. Didn’t make sense to me either.
Reading a book titled Talking to serial killers and this is the result of a half-formed idea.
Are people born evil? Or is it solely on upbringing?

Let’s think about that.



The receptionist tries a little chitchat with the stranger.
“So how long you gonna be town for, Mr. L?” she asks, smiling shyly at him.
“Just for the night, my pretty lady” he answers, smiling. “A show…of some sort.”
She blushes, fluttering her curled, auburn lashes. “Oh great!” she enthuses. “You part of the new performing act in town? We hardly have any shows here!”
He smiles warmly, cupping her cheek suddenly, planting a soft kiss on a lovely cheek.
“Oh you’d see tonight. And I hope you my pretty lady, would participate!”
She simpers, muffling her giggle with dainty hands, her eyes watching his lithe form leave to his room with interest.


Her doorbell rings insistently, waking her up from fitful sleep. Cursing, she opens bleary eyes and stares at the digital clock, glowing green.
“What the…”
She groans, flopping back on the bed. Her eyes slowly close when the doorbell rings again, longer this time, as if whoever is at the door is leaning on the  buzzer.
She jumps up, kicking at her duvet angrily.
It has to be her sister. The good for nothing wastrel who does nothing but party every night since she came to stay at hers. She has probably forgotten her key.
She grumbles all the way downstairs, switching on the light and with sleepy-eyed fury, draws the bolt off and yanks the door open.
“You better have a fucki…”
She stops.
There is no one at the door.
Her eyebrows scrunched in confusion, eyes still glazed with sleep.
“For fuck’s sake!”
She slams the door shut and cursing under her breath, she walks back up the stairs.
The bulb suddenly flickers, and as if snuffed, goes off, plunging her into darkness.
“Oh come on!” she groans, adding expletives for good measures when she blindly stubs a toe. Gingerly, she traces her way up the dark stairs, holding onto the handrails as guide.
When her feet get to the top, she suddenly feels cold hands grip her ankles.
Incomprehension shocks her to silence for seconds.
At the first pull, she regains her voice.
And screams.
She screams as she is dragged her down the stairs.
She screams as she falls, her head hitting every step like a bouncing ball before unconsciousness takes her out.
The light flickers on seconds later.
A trail of blood is smeared down the stairs.


He stands bleary-eyed, holding on to his flaccid penis as he releases his waters of mankind as he tends to call it.
‘More beer than water’ he muses to himself.
Friday night, time to get wasted.
Inebriated by the alcohol, he is barely moved by the stink of the urinal.
As he is about to give himself a firm shake before zipping up, the light of the stall goes off and he curses, words slurred.
Suddenly, he feels cold, clammy hands prise his hand away from him member and grab his balls.
He squeaks in fright, the pain at being violated momentarily rendering him sober.
A scream of terror tears itself out of his throat as the strong, unyielding hand drag him, as if trying to force his body into the small toilet, slamming his head repeatedly on porcelain till they lose their virgin whiteness, crimson red with blood.
His body slides down to the urine stained floor.
The lights come back on.
A man walks in and opens a stall.


She squats unceremoniously on the toilet seat and lets out a string of piss.
Her headphone blasts music into her ears and she bobs her head, feet tapping tot he beat.
Suddenly, she feels something cold and long slither into her vagina, forcing its way in.
Her eyes widen as she tries to stand.
She is pulled back to the seat.
She screams as she continues to sink further into the toilet bowl, eyes shiny with tears and unbelief.
She screams in pain when she feels her inside being dragged out.
As if pushed away by an invisible force, she falls, kneeling, her head smacking the tile floor.
Drops of blood streak down the toilet bowl, on the floor.
The light illuminates the drops of blood drops making crisscross skid marks down her pale thighs, her womb still pulsing warmly between her legs.
Her headphones continue blasting their music, unaware.


Jeremy is shoved out of bed and dragged into the kitchen.
A meat cleaver is forcefully thrust his hands.
He screams, hoping to wake someone up as invisible hand drag him up the stairs.
He realises what is about to happen seconds too late.
He plunges the cleaver repeatedly into his big brother’s chest and throat.
His prepubescent voice, hoarse, continues to scream, unable to stop.


You would next.
You would scream.
But nobody would hear you.
NOBODY would hear you.
This is your Requiem.



Mr. L’s lips are stretched at the edges into a smile, naked on his bed in his motel room, his thick , long member, black as night and visibly throbbing, contrasting with the pale hue that is the rest of his body. He fiddles with the chain on his neck, eyes closed as his body trembles slightly.

“Scream my little ones” he murmurs throatily, licking his dry lips. “Scream!”
He groans, cocking his head to the side, as if listening to the finest aria from an orchestra, a deep hum rumbling in his chest, building.
His hair crackles with electricity, standing at their ends.
The bed shakes as his body increases its vibrating intensity.
“Scream!” he murmurs louder, almost orgasmic.
He throws his head back and bares his teeth at the ceiling, hands squeezing his chain tight, body frozen.
As the music in his head builds up to a crescendo, he ejaculates.
His semen, black like stale blood runs down his thighs and he sighs, the look of serenity creeping into his face, opening dark eyes tinged red.
He belches, sulphurous smoke escaping from his nostrils.
He laughs, teeth gleaming. “Wonderful! It’s been a wonderful show, Ladies and Gentlemen!”



An old truck coughs up smoke as it struggles to fire up its engine early in the morning.
After a few tries, the truck roars dully to life.
Whistling, a stranger pulls out of the parking lot of a motel, whistling under his breath.
He waves out of the car to no one in particular as he gets on the road.
“Where shall we perform next, Ladies and Gentlemen?” he murmurs.


He turns to you and smiles knowingly.
He winks.



You would next.
You would scream.
But nobody would hear you.
NOBODY would hear you.
This is your Requiem.



When I wrote this at first, I had no idea who the man was but when I finished, I realised it could be no other than Mr. L.
Always wanted bring in a character from an old story into a different one.
Ah, if you have no idea who Mr L is,‎ 

Ah yes, before I leave.
Phantompages is going to be 2 on Sunday! Yaay!
Umm… no idea about what I’d do YET but hey, keep your eyes peeled.
Oh and subscribe if you haven’t.

What else?
Have a lovely weekend!

The Mortician

I sat in my inner office, biting on the sorry end of a pencil as I stared intently at a document. Figures swam in my eyes and I sighed. We were barely managing to stay afloat from the state of the account books. I dropped the pencil and removed my glasses, rubbing my eyes laboriously.
I really shouldn’t have given Patty a day off. Patty, my able assistant and Saviour on days like this when my brain refused to cooperate with me.
I sighed again, closing the file and keeping it for later when I heard a chime at the outside entrance signifying that someone had entered into my small establishment. I stood quickly, tucking my shirt in and straightening my tie, I walked out of my office to receive a customer.

A tall but somewhat diminished man stood, unsure of himself looking at the empty front desk where Patty should have been. He didn’t notice my silent entrance. I cleared my throat to get his attention and when he turned, I took in his appearance. His clothes hung off him loosely as if it unsure whether to mould to his skin or not; decrepit clothes of dull greys and browns. He sported a buzz-cut, dark hair greying at corners, his face rugged and bearded. His hands fascinated me; huge, callused things that spoke volumes about his menial type of job. His dark eyes were flinty, piercing mine when i looked at them. I dropped my eyes quickly. From my examination, he wasn’t a rich man.
I sighed inwardly. How was I going to get ahead if I could only net these sort of people?
I put on a bright smile and presented my hand to be shaken. he stared at it and ignored it.
I swallowed my slight irritation.
“Hello and welcome to Dante’s Mortuary ” I said affecting good cheer. His eyes roved the front office as I spoke to him.
“Is this a mortician’s place?” he asked in a dry voice that sounded like gravel pieces grated themselves somewhere in his larynx. I smiled at the question.
I got it a lot because of the bright and tasteful décor of the office. People always expect something dark and grey when they hear the word ‘Mortician’ and so being thrust into a vibrant office always threw them off.
“Yes it is and I am the man in charge” I added helpfully.
I felt his eyes go over me and I bore his examination with good grace. A few seconds passed and he didn’t say anything.
“So…” I started “You need my services?”
He nodded. “Are you good?”
I smiled unsure of how to answer. “Yes Sir. I can assure you I am excellent at my job. I would want to show you my past works but I’m sure they’re rotting in the grave right now”
I flashed him a brilliant smile which he answered with an impassive look. My smile died. Poor taste in joke?
“Well…I am good” I finished limply, suddenly unsure of how to continue the conversation.
“She was a beautiful woman.” he whispered, eyes far away. His eyes focused back on me. “I want to make sure she looks good. Good for viewing”
I nodded sagely. “Of course Sir.”
“Money is no object” he added and I reappraised him, curiously. Well! I grinned.
“Of course Sir. We give our clients expert services which they can testify to. Or not.”
“She was very beautiful” he whispered, eyes faraway again.

We stood there in silence, him arms by his sides distant; me, arms folded primly behind me, twisting my toes in my shoes with growing impatience.
Suddenly his attention returned. “She was a looker. She must look that way. Make sure of that.” he said sharply as if rebuking me and I snapped to attention.
“Of course Sir! May I inquire her name and when she died?” I asked.
He stared at me for a second too long, making me suddenly uncomfortable.
“Her name was…is Martha”
He smiled small. “I’ll fill out the necessary documents when I bring her.”
He turned to leave then stopped just at the door.
“As to when she died…” he paused, licking his lips. “It would be as soon as I get home” he whispered.
Without a backwards glance, left my office.
It took me several seconds for the import of his words to reach me. I gasped, swallowing hard. My mind was in turmoil.
“Maybe I heard wrongly” I whispered remembering he had said money was no object.
I needed funds. Badly.
I swallowed and walked back into my inner office.
“Maybe I heard wrongly”

He was right, she was a beautiful woman.
I stared at her lovely face slightly marred by death, fingers stroking her full dark hair. Her eyes were closed, thankfully.
Sometimes they were brought in with their eyes open. The emptiness usually made me shudder. It didn’t help that I enjoyed working on them late at night when there was quiet.
“What a pity” I whispered. “What a beautiful loss…”
“Maybe you heard wrongly?” a voice asked.
I jumped, startled.
I was alone. I laughed softly running my fingers through my hair. Fatigue.
“Or maybe you heard me wrongly?”
I jumped again, eyes glancing widely. “Who..what?”
My eyes fell on her face and watched in horror as her stiff lips stretched into a smile.
“Ah… Now you hear me… But you heard him wrongly…right?” the feminine voice drawled into my ear.
My legs shook and I stumbled, voiding my bowel on my trousers.
“Let’s make sure you really heard wrongly… Let’s make sure…”
A tug; sharp blooming pain.
I screamed.


Patty walked into the office the next morning and dropped her bags on her desk.
“Harry! Morning!” she called out.
She got no answer.
She frowned and walked into his office. She had noticed the lights on. Odd in itself, it meant he was in.
His office was empty.
“Ah. He’s working then”
She walked to the door opposite his office and knocked. “Hey Harry! I’m in!”
Silence greeted her.
Frowning she opened the door and walked in.
The smell hit her before the sight did.
Her eyes widened and she gagged, choking on a scream.
Harry was splayed on the floor, scalpel clutched in one bloodied hand, his ears clutched in the other.
On a slab, the unsmiling face of a beautifully dead woman.

Halloween Special

Feel like writing.

“Trick or treat?” The hooded child asked.
Without a word, I shut the door.
“Bloody Halloween kids” I grumbled, sitting back on the sofa and picking up my book.
The doorbell rang again.
I sighed and dropped my novel. I really hate Halloween nights.
Bloody kids!
I yanked the door open.
The same kid.
“Told you to fucking scram didn’t I!” I shouted. He was quiet and I immediately felt guilty. I shouldn’t swear at youngins.
“What is your name?” The boy asked in a quiet voice.
My name? Against my own volition, I told him.
He repeated my name, as if practising.
“Ok Chichi” he said and raised his head to look at me. At that instant, the security lights went off.
I didn’t see his face.
He pulled his hood back down and the lights flickered back on.
I suddenly felt disturbed and without another word, I shut the door and locked it.
No more answering the door.

I could not concentrate. Something I couldn’t put my finger on niggled the back of my mind like a worm.
Upset and tired for no reason, I decided it was time to sleep.
I live alone.
I don’t know why this thought came unbidden to my head as I brushed my teeth.
I lived alone.
Shaking off my disquiet, I jumped into bed and switched off the lights.
On a normal day, listening to the creaks of the house soothed me to sleep but not today.
Every groan sounded like an invasion. Every creak, like someone was in the house with me. The house seemed colder. I huddled under my duvet, trying to stay warm.
My rational mind forced me to stop with the foolishness and sleep.
After tossing and turning, I managed to drop off onto a troubled sleep.

I run.
Trick or treat?
I’ve got no bloody sweets kid!
Trick or treat?
What’s your name?
Trick or treat?
Run faster.
One stinking sweet bitch!
One. Stinking. SWEET!
Cold, small hands grab my ankles and long, sharp nails dig in.
I scream.

I woke up in sweat, shivering as my body fluids dried on my skin. I groaned and stretched my hand to flick the switch on my bedside lamp.
“One stinking sweet”a voice whispered.
I turned sharply.
I saw no one.
“One stinking sweet!”
My eyes widened. It was that child’s voice!
Suddenly I felt clammy hands grab my ankles.
I screamed, trying to kick off my invisible captor. The hands multiplied on my skin, pinning my arms to my sides and holding my head steady.
I felt something cool touch my cheek.
With sharp pain came recognition…and terror.
A knife.


Knife wounds decorated her face.
He had stuck the knife inside her mouth when he got tired of stabbing at her eyes.
He walked towards her and gently removed the knife.
He checked the clock on her bed stand.
“Not too late” he whispered.
He bent close to her lacerated ear and whispered.
Suddenly, she coughed, blood spraying her night shirt.
He stepped back and watched her.
She shrunk before his eyes.
When the transformation was complete, he helped her out of the bed.
“Come” he whispered gently, giving her a hooded cloak.
“Work to be done.”
Slowly, she nodded.


Juliet grumbled as she paused the movie on her laptop.
She opened the door and frowned at the two hooded children standing outside.
“Trick or treat?” One of them whispered, a girl.
“Go somewhere else!” Juliet grumbled and tried to shut the door.
The other child stuck his leg in the way.
“What is your name?” He asked
Juliet frowned. “Juliet. So?”
The two children repeated her name and her security lights went off.


Three hours later, three children rang a doorbell.

It’s 04:24am and I am struggling to make sure this story rocks for you guys.
I do not believe in Halloween. That is because on Phantom Pages, EVERYDAY IS FRIGGING HALLOWEEN!
This is my third and final Poe rewrite. It also happens to be my favourite because it is my favourite Poe story.
I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Dig in, zombies!


When you hear a statement like ‘I heard a voice from my past’, you mostly expect to hear the tale of a vengeful ex-lover.
In my case, I heard the voice of an old school friend back in my Kings College days. My shock and somewhat reserved pleasure of hearing from him again was obvious.
“How did you get my number?” I had asked politely and listening to the voice recount the tale, while I rummaged through the deep pockets of my memory, fuzzy as they are, to remember what my caller looked like.
All I could recall was a hazy face of a chum with whom I played pranks and sometimes has dinner with. We had seen a few times after our college days and slowly, we grew apart.
“I need your help Demilade…”
That snapped me back to the conversation right then.
I paused.
“My help?” I echoed, wary.
When a voice from the past calls you, asking for your help, you know there’s trouble and trouble is one thing I have had enough of.
“Yes, your help” he replied. “Can you please come over to my house? It would be easier to explain.”
I remember my silence at this. I was mute for so long, he said several “Hello?”s just to make sure I was still on the line.
A better part of me had been ready to cut the phone and switch it off for the rest of the day. A little part of me, curious little part of me, was intrigued.
I against better judgement, I decided to satisfy my curiosity. What harm could it do?
“I don’t know…” I began and his pleas began anew.
It’s important.
It’s a matter of life and death.
I had later given him no assurances of my coming, seeing was I was in a different state, but I remember telling him to text me his address.
For old time’s sake; that was the phrase in my head.
Weeks after that call, I was back in Abuja. I had forgotten totally about my proclaimed friend.
It was on a bored stroll that I remembered him and the address and quickly, I went through my directory to get it.
I contemplated on calling, but decided to visit instead. Past 6pm it was but I felt that wasn’t too late to pay anyone a visit. I didn’t plan on staying too long after all and he did say it was a matter of life and death.
That, was how I found myself, driving to No. 56 Mississippi Street, Maitama.

I must say, the envy bug took a huge chunk off me as I parked outside a gate, the number 56 beautifully decorated on the side of the wall. Even from without, I could view the large house. Rich enough to afford a house this nice? Again, I searched my memory on this ‘Old friend of mine’. Yes, I remember he did come from an affluent home. He must have done well for himself, I thought.
With a creak and a groan, the gate opened and a security guard emerged from within.
“Demilade Phillips” I said to his silent enquiry-a quizzical look- of who I was. “Tell your master, Demilade Phillips is at the gate”
The security guard cast a baleful look at me and my somewhat rickety old Corolla before going back into the building.
It felt like an eternity before the bigger gate opened and I took this as an invitation to drive in. I drove through, gaping at the actual size of the house.
It was even bigger than it looked!
The security guard, who had been following my car, pointed to a spot where some other cars had been parked. I must say, I hadn’t seen the latest Range Rover until that day.
How awed and somewhat intimidated I was to park my old, red car beside the black beast.
I switched off and got out of the car.
“The master would see you. Follow the path Sir” the guard admonished and left me to find my way.
As I walked, I began to notice how old and decrepit the house seemed. Paints on sides of the wall were chipped, revealing greyed plaster. Weeds decorated sides of buildings like verdant garlands and grew from the cracks of the paved footpaths.
The house was falling into disrepair.
“Demilade…” a voice said, breaking me out of my scrutiny.
I turned and stared at an unknown man; unknown to me for all of 10 seconds and I’m sure I must have had an idiotic look on my face.
Slowly, I began to see hints of a man I knew ages ago.
“I look a mess, I know” the gravelly voice said, smiling sadly at me.
A mess? He looked positively frightening!
Bushy beard, thin frame covered in a faded blue shirt that had seen the insides of a washing machine one too many times.
Of course, I didn’t say this. I could only manage a ‘Wow’.
“You sure have changed” I whispered, walking to shake his outstretched hand firmly.
“Been a long time. Dee” he said, calling me by my old school nickname.
I laughed suddenly. “Too long Roboto. Too long!”
Roboto, that is, Rotimi my friend.
I remembered him now.
And with remembrance came the burning question, “What happened to you?”
If anyone was ever a shadow of his former self, this man was. The chubby lad from our Floreat days wasn’t this emaciated man I was staring at. He sighed and motioned me towards the main house.
“I’ll tell you everything when we’re inside”
I acquiesced and walked with him in silence, our feet grinding the gravel on the footpath.

“Have a seat” was all he said as he ushered me into his palatial home.
Palatial…and dead.
The drapes were drawn shut; gloomy. The furniture was coated with the gauzy film of dust. I could hear the rattling of an air conditioner in one part of the living room, whining as if taking its last breaths.
“Pardon the appearance” he said, breaking me out of my study and I smiled, sitting on a lumpy sofa beside him
We exchanged news and pleasantries.
Yes, I am an engineer.
Ah! Yes! I remember Tokunbo.
No, I ended up not getting married; bachelor for life.
The story of finding my bride kneeling between the legs of my best man, I left out. It wasn’t something I wanted to share just yet.
I threw his questions back at him.
He was an oil magnate.
Took over family business at death of his parents.
No, he wasn’t married.
He lived with his sister.
And just as I was about to ask after her, a blood curdling scream rent the air. I shrieked, jumping out of the sofa I had reclined in with alacrity. Another burst of animalistic shrieks and screams filtered down and my skin puckered with goose bumps. I turned toward the direction of the sound, somewhere inside the house.

“What was that?” I asked in whispers, surprised at the calmness of my host, sitting still, watching me.
He smiled grimly. “My sister it seems, decided to say hello”
Quite shocked, was I at this revelation.
Embarrassed, I regained composure and sat down as obscenities and curses continued to rain down on us. After what seemed like an hour of madness, there was quiet.
I cleared my throat for the lack of anything to do.
Finally, the reason for the call was revealed.
I listened in morbid fascination to the story of how expensive vices rendered his only remaining family mad.
“Why didn’t you take her to a hospital?”
He shook his head and looked into my eyes. “Family is family. Couldn’t leave her in a mental home.”
How did he take care of her, I had inquired and her told me he saw to her needs, tough as it was. No one wanted to stay long in the house, ergo no servants. At nights, her screams got worse and frightened past domestic workers away. Not even the promise of a tripled salary could entice them to stay.
I was stunned at this revelation. No wonder the poor lad was in a state!
Rude of me perhaps, but it had to be asked.
“Why did you call me?”
He shook his head. “Truth, I don’t know. You came to mind one day. Felt the need to call you, to speak to an old buddy”
I received this news in silence and confusion. To speak to an old buddy? He continued to ramble on and I couldn’t hep but think that surely, he was getting as crazy as his sister.
I expressed my condolences to him and explained how I saw no way I could be of any help.
He got up suddenly and walked to me and holding my hand in a tight grip, he knelt in front of me.
“Just be there for me again. I need a friend again!”
I was quite taken aback by the gesture and the somewhat feverish light that I saw in his eyes as he stared quite intently at me.
I could do naught but agree to his terms.
He greeted my statement with a genuine smile and for a second, my heart went out to the poor, poor man.
“I have to be leaving now” I said, making a show of checking my watch.
He offered to walk me to his car and I agreed, glad to be leaving. We took a different path to the first and I noticed a garden that had a giant obelisk and a statue of angels.
I stopped to stare at the beautiful carvings, greying under the burden of the elements and age. He realised I wasn’t with him and walked back to me.
“Oh. you’ve meet my parents” He whispered.
“Your parents?”
He nodded and pointed out two open graves.
Ready-made for him and for his sister.
“How morbid” I commented and he laughed queerly, sending shivers down spine.
“Have to be prepared” he murmured and we continued our walk to my car in silence.
“Please come by more often” he said as I got into my car.
I nodded politely and shook his hand before closing the door and setting off.
That was how we met and I was determined never to meet him again.

As usual, saying something is one; actually keeping to that word, another matter entirely.
After our brief and somewhat disturbing visit, I got an urgent call and quick as a bird, I was out of Abuja. I did try to keep in touch with my friend, a call here, a text there.
All pleas to come visit were of course null as I wasn’t even around. Granted, I had gone to Calabar for a convention, yet, my convention had ended a week ago.
What then was stopping me from going back home? Was I afraid of my friend, or the fact that the goodness in me wouldn’t allow me lie to him if he asked after my location? Why was I so afraid to ‘help’ him? Could I even be blamed? After all, I didn’t understand what he really wanted from me.
Be that as it may, I stretched my stay in Calabar for a fortnight and going on the third week, I decided I had had enough. I wasn’t going to let another man scare me away from my city. Absurd!
I was on the next flight to Abuja.
I did enjoy a week’s respite before he called.
“You in town now?” he had asked.
I was a grown man; I did not lie. “Yes I am.”
He had asked me to come pay him a visit and I politely declined. Open graves, mad inmates. I sure wasn’t going to go back to that house.
“We would go out for a drink?” I said, offering an olive branch but he too declined.
“I have a sister to look after.” he replied frostily, before saying his curt goodbye.
I must say, I did feel bad for a second but that passed and the wave of relief I felt billow through me made me almost euphoric! I was free!

Alas, I was wrong.
After a few days, I got a frantic call in the late evening. My heart leapt out of my throat and fled when I saw his caller ID. A part of me darned my old friend and curse my good upbringing!
Mr. Politeness.
I picked up the call.
“Demilade you have to come! You have to! Oh my God!”
He shouted and I could have sworn he was sobbing down the line. My pulse raced with worry.
What is it?
I kept asking but the call was cut short. Either he ran out of credit or the network was bad. It was a particularly rainy evening after all.
Fast, I grabbed an umbrella and walked to my car. Wipers on, I drove off to his house.
At the back of my mind, I wondered if I was making it a habit to be a knight in shining armour. My friend was no damsel, which made it all pretty disturbing, truth be told.
It seemed the guard had been given express instruction to let me in because he only had to stick his head out to confirm my car and without questions the huge gate swung open. I parked (next to the Rover again), but had no time to admire the car.
Umbrella open, I walked to the waiting figure who could only be Rotimi. He had no umbrella and the heavy rain pelted him with their watery missiles. Quickly, I rushed and shared my umbrella with him. I was about to chide him when I saw the look of abject despair on his face.
“She is dead” was the only thing he said and walked away from the protection my umbrella provided, oblivious to the chill and dampness. I followed him quickly and entered his home; still was as dreary as the first time.
“I have to bury her” his second sentence to me.
I held his arm, confused. “Bury her? It is raining! And it is night. Won’t you at last have a proper funeral service?”
He turned to stare into my eyes and the look I saw in his eyes stopped me. Here was a man who was dead already.
I wasn’t going to be able to reason with him, I realized too.
“Fine…” I murmured. “I will help”
I watched some of his stiff mien melt and for a second, I thought he was going to fall to his knees. He walked away from me and I noticed his quaking shoulders.
He was crying.
Embarrassed and feeling out of place, I stared at my wet trainers which had left a set of muddy tracks on the marble floor.
“She’s upstairs” he whispered when he had gained a measure of control over his emotions and together we walked up winding stairs to her room. He opened doors, switched on the light and the first reaction when I put my head in there was to run out of the house and never come back. The room stank of urine, faeces and and underlying smell of rot. On the walls were depraved scribbling and realistic drawings of the most obscene and bizarre images.
“She was quite an artist” I whispered awkwardly, for the lack of nothing better to say. He grunted in reply and pointed to the bed where a shrouded body lay.
I was unsure of what to do.
“Where is the casket?” I asked and he looked at me oddly.
“Casket?” he echoed and my mouth rounded in an ‘Oh’. He planned to throw her inside her watery grave that way. How…nouveau.
He moved to the other side of her bed and motioned for me to grab hold of the shrouded ankles. I must say, for a second, I baulked but then common sense returned and I wondered to myself what harm a dead woman could do to me.
A clap of thunder and a flash of lightning decided at that moment to occur, causing me to jump, startled. The fluorescent bulb flicked and dimmed and I felt the sudden need to be out of the room before it went completely dark. I lifted her ankles –how heavy they weighed!- and gingerly, we made our way downstairs. I could not manage the task of carrying an umbrella and a corpse so I resigned to getting myself wet.
He led us under the rain to one of the dug graves and without ceremony, we dumped her body in. He shovelled some sand in, whispering something that was lost to the sound of rain falling on the corrugated roof of the guest house nearby. He buried half way while I stood there, getting rained on, watching him mutter as he laboured. Our eyes met and as if noticing me for the first time, he stopped and walked to me, dropping the shovel.
“I can do this tomorrow Dee. let’s go in.” he shouted above the noise and I nodded, walking with him inside. I left another set of even muddier tracks inside the house but he didn’t seem to mind. Not that I was surprised.
He took me to the kitchen and we removed our shirts. In the kitchen sink, we wrung water out of them.
“Sorry for the inconvenience” he said, directing me back to the living room He disappeared and appeared seconds later with a bottle of Jack Daniel and two glasses.
“Rum” he said, pouring me a full measure. With whispered thanks, I poured the drink down, wincing and sighing with gladness as the warmth of the liquor hit the back of my throat.
He began an odd eulogy right then to the dearly departed. I said nothing, listening to him. I suspect he must have forgotten I was even sitting with him in the living room. He soon quieted and a hush fell. I was grateful for the silence, content to listen to the rain pitter patter furiously and soon I found myself drowsy lulled to sleep by the sound of raindrops.

I cannot say what woke me up but wake up I did. I stretched, wincing in my neck and m eyes alighted on Rotimi. I got up slowly, staring at my friend with a growing sense of foreboding. There he sat on a love seat, eyes open, glass clutched tightly in his hands, whispering to himself.
“Roboto…” I said, before approaching him.
He did not move to acknowledge me.
Was he asleep? In a trance? I drew nearer and tapped him.
“Rotimi…” I said, staring in partly worried and in part fascination at his unblinking gaze and moving lips. I leaned in closer to hear whatever it was he as mumbling.
“She is not dead. She is not dead. Only drugged her to sleep. She is not dead. Buried her alive. Drugged. Alive. Not dead. She is asleep. Drugged…”
She is not dead?
She… She was not dead!
My eyes widened as the import of his words hit me. I drew away from him sharply. Thunder struck and lightning obliged with its flashes.
As if on cue, the power in the house went off.
I felt fear begin to creep at the back of my neck.
His whispering became louder still. I could barely see him in the gloom and another flash of lightning revealed him. He was rocking back and forth.
My heart raced and I quickly stumbled my way into the kitchen where I had hung my shirt to dry off and hastily wore the damp shirt. it was time to make me exit
I heard the door bang open and close and I ran out of the kitchen and into the living room to investigate the noise.
My heart stopped.

Rotimi continued murmuring, oblivious.
Low cackling, muffled laughter; slow, shuffling footsteps.
The living room brightened with another lightning and I swallowed a scream.
A naked, muddied woman walked slowly towards Rotimi.
The light was gone just as quickly and we were plunged into darkness.
She laughed harshly, voice similar to the one I heard the first time I came to the house.
My mind put two and two to make four and my bowels lost control. I felt the warm trickle of urine run down my legs.
She wasn’t dead.
She hadn’t died!
I shook  as I kept still at the entrance to the kitchen, hoping the darkness covered me. I listened in horror as Rotimi shrieked.
Another brief illumination.
She had her hands wrapped around his neck, grinning in feral delight. Rotimi’s eyes bulged and for a split second, as his eyes roved, as if sensing my presence, our eyes met.
Darkness gladly descended.
I heard him choke my name.
I cowered in my hiding place.
I’m sorry.
I can’t.
I heard her scream in glee, accompanied by repeated, heavy thuds. His blood-chilling scream unnerved me and I stuffed my fingers into my mouth to stop myself from screaming.
I don’t want to see!
Nature disobeyed and the room was brightened again.
Her hand was wrapped at the back of his neck, blood dripping. Where Rotimi’s face used to be, a pulpy mass.
Blood and brain matter littered the floor.
She slammed his head on the marble floor again.
“Nuts. Crack me some nuts” she barked and howled like a wolf.
“Holy Mary Mother of God” I whispered tremulously.
Darkness was back.
I heard her ask a distinct question.
“Where is the other one?”
My heart stopped.

It was my turn!
I forced my quaking legs to move, trying to fix a cordinate on where she was when the room was last illuminated.
“WhereisheWhereisheWhereisHE! NUTS! CRACK YOU LIKE A NUTS!”
I heard her move and quickly, i inched my way to the door.
My mind was disoriented. Which way was it?
“NutsNutsNuts” I heard her whisper. Was she nearer?
I swallowed a scream, urging myself to think. I stumbled on furniture and cursed mentally.
She had heard it.
Her shuffling was getting faster.
Quickly, I moved away, feeling a stool under my palm and suddenly knowing which way the door was.
She was quiet.
I stopped and listened.
She was quiet.
I walked slowly towards the door and at that moment, another brightness.
A figure stood before me.
Her black eyes gleamed, yellow teeth exposed in a grin. Her matted hair fell over her face. obscuring an eye, hands akimbo.
“And where did you think you are going?” she whispered to me.
“Oh shi…” i groaned, stepping back.
Quicker than a flash, i felt her cold hands seize me by my shirt.
Panic seized me.
I screamed, pushing her away with a might born out of fear and grunting in satisfaction as i heard her hit a chair.
I scrambled for the door, hands shaking as I tried to find the handle.
She screamed and lunged for me just as I found and yanked the door open. For a brief second, I felt the cold clasps of her fingers at the back of my neck before I ran blindly, out of the house.
She followed me.
I heard her scream as she came out in pursuit.
I pumped my legs as fast as they could carry me, praying to the Almighty I got to my car. I squinted frantically, trying to locate the huge Rover I knew as a landmark.
I ran towards it and heard fast footsteps behind me. My hands fumbled for the keys in my pocket as I ran towards my car and I unlocked it. I literally flew at the handle, yanking and jumping inside, slamming the door and locking.
I heard her body slam on my window and even in the poor light, I saw her glimmering eyes and smile and my eyes widened in horror when I noticed the stone in her hand.
My fingers fumbled with the keys as I heard her first smash, trying to break my window open.
“Come on!” I shouted at the car as I stuck the keys in the ignition and tried to start.
The car wouldn’t start.
I tried again, muttering frenzied encouragements.
I shifted away as the window gave way, broken shard of glass showering me.
She stuck her hand in the hole and tried to grab my, managing only to hold on to an ear.
I screamed.
I felt long nails dig into my skin, drawing blood. She was going to tear my ears out!
With a scream of triumph, my car came alive and without a thought, I reversed, and nodding with a grim smile of satisfaction as she screamed, letting go of me as the jagged window lacerated her arm.
Loud blasts of my horn summoned the guard and immediately he had the big gate open. Without a warning to him, I sped off into the night, not even sparing a glance backwards.

I fell sick after this.
Due to the chill of standing under the rain or due to the horror I experienced, I do not know. It could have been both.
After weeks of self-medication, treating my ear, I got better.
I left my car and moved away from Abuja, going to Lagos to stay with my family.
I do not think I will ever come back to Abuja.

She is out there, waiting.
Some nights, I wake up in cold sweats, afraid. For a few seconds, I believe I see her beside my bed, eyes glimmering; fingers stretched out towards me.
Would I wake up one day to feel her cold fingers closing around my neck?


Inspired by The Fall of the House of Usher by Edgar Allan Poe.
That’s it with POE!
This is a thank you to all who have read and helped me with words of encouragements and creative criticisms. It is always great to know I have an audience to sound out my crazy ideas on.

Please, do not forget to vote for Phantom Pages here for Best Writing blog If you had voted On Monday to Wednesday last week, please vote again because your votes were not counted. 😦
I would really appreciate it if we could make this happen!

Tomorrow begins a new month and I can’t wait to get writing new things!

Do comment and have a wonderful Halloween celebration if it’s your thing.
I’ll be sharing one cup of rice to every child that comes to my door for sweets. How’s that for a treat?

Red Eye

Remember i said i was working on something new; an experiment of some sort?
Yes! Starts today!
In case this is all ‘new’ to you, I decided to take on the task of rewriting some of my favorite short stories by Edgar Allan Poe. There are three of them and I would be posting them every Wednesday, leading up to Halloween Wednesday.
I was going to make people guess the original stories butttt… figured some of you haven’t read Poe’s works so I’ll be putting the original title works at the bottom.
That said, here’s the first story!



I am a good daughter. This needs to be said. I have my faults, as we all do, but I have been good.
My mother would like you to disagree but pay her no mind.
She hates me.
She always had and truth be told, I cannot blame her. I am a child of her shame, a child born out of violence. She had always been quick to let me know that; that and the fact that I was born ungainly. Had I been pretty or even petite like her, maybe she’d have found a place in her torn heart to love me. Sadly, Fate dictated differently. I am too tall and too dark; too clumsy.
“Just like that mad demon that raped me!” she’d yell on her worse days. She is OK on her good days. OK meaning she leaves me to my devices –mostly reading torn sections of old newspapers-, hardly talking to me. On her bad days, I am the subject of her well-worded expletives and well-aimed blows.

We live together, my mother and I. I suspect she has a family but she has never mentioned them to me. She mumbles names in her sleep. I think they might have kicked her out of the house; probably due to the circumstances surrounding my conception.
All a guess, of course.
I know nothing and no one.

A trial it is, living with her.
Being poor, I am unable to complete my secondary education- sad, considering the fact that I just happened to be good at school studies- and now I help her in the running of her fish business just few blocks away.
I hate fish; I hate the smell of fresh fish; the cloying disgusting rank that nauseates me every time. Telling her this once had been a bad idea, judging from the sizable welts I received from her beatings. My opinion matters naught and I have learnt to bear the olfactory assaults. I do not own perfumes so I have and will continue to rely on soap and water to wash the smell off me though I suspect the odor has stuck to me, considering the upturned noses I got from students when I was still at school.
“If you know what is good for you, you’ll kill yourself!” She would scream sometimes. Some days I wonder why she hadn’t gone ahead and aborted me when she found out she was pregnant. Even God would have forgiven her that act. My father, after all, is a mad man.
Yes, she was raped by a mad man.
An exception to whatever rule governs killing unborn children.
Even if she was against abortion, why then didn’t she leave me in an abandoned dump-site to starve and die, providing a feast for whatever wild dogs strayed upon my scrawny body? Why did she let me live? Was I some sort of reminder of the fate that had befallen her? A living obelisk; a monument of her shame?
I have asked myself these questions.
Everything has always had a way of being my fault.
The fish mongers sell her rotten fish – “Onome this is your fault!” she would scream followed by a missile of a pan or a cutlery; thankfully, not a knife.
Bad sales- “’This is your fault! You’re too ugly! Chasing my customers away!” -and as usual, accompanied with her friendly missiles. I guess I have to thank Providence for giving her such a bad aim.

The funny thing is that on some days, I do believe it is my fault.
I’d hate me too if I were in her shoes.
It does vex me sorely though when she calls me mad.
I hate it.
I am not mad.
I am not my father.
One would imagine she’d have hidden the condition of my father from me but Oh no!
Not her!
I remember being 12, coming to her fish stall from the public school she barely managed to afford to take me to, in tears.
Bastard child, I had been called.
Of course, I got no measure of comfort from her asides her tongue lashing to clean my stupid tears and help her with customers. I think I spoilt her mood for the rest of the day, judging by her violent chopping of fish and barely veiled insults at customers. A little part of me had been happy, she was angry because they had abused me. She did feel something for me!
I bore her abuses with a smile, naïve me.
Home we went that day, and typical me, I broke a glass cup, her favorite cup. Needless to say, she flew off the handle.
“Idiot!”  Hit. “Stupid fool!”  Hit. “Why won’t they call you bastard!” Slap.
I howled, begging for mercy.
Hit. “You should be happy they did!” Hit. “After all” Slap “Your father was a mad man!” Hit.

That was how I got to know of him.

To be honest, it made life easier for me at school. I would chuckle when the inbred daughters of Satan would gather in their circle, calling me names.
A bastard child is better than a child of a mad man.
“Stupid mad girl” mother would scream and I would bristle angrily.
I am not mad!
I was unfortunate enough to say that to her hearing. Needless to say, I nursed a swollen lip for a week.
I hate my mother.
It is a terrible thing to say about one who gave you life but it is the truth. I hate my mother; I hate what years of bitterness and anger had turned her into. I am unashamed to say that the thoughts of her dying painfully have given me a measure of comfort.

If there is anything I hate even more, it is her left eye. You see, she lost the use of that eye during the rape incident that brought me into the world; another fact she never tires of telling me.
“I’d have been able to see with my two eyes if not for you! Idiot!”
Her left eye is forever partially open; a yellowy mess of dead optic cells filmed over with a red gauzy membrane.
The divine comedy of God or the hand of his son, Satan; I do not know.

Fish eye; red eye.

It became a habit to stand out of the line of sight of her dead eye, frightened as I was by its intensity. It would glare at me, shooting me a look full of hatred. Dead isn’t dead and I am not imagining things.
It hates me and it would kill me soon.
I do not know how, but I can feel it.


It is evening and we’re done for the day.
We walk home, me in silence, she in her usual loud voice complaining about sales, shouting greetings at her friends, mumbling curses at her ‘enemies who want to see her downfall’, screaming at me to walk fast, screaming at me for walking too fast. 
We go home to no power as usual- Welcome to Magodo- and I hurry to light the kerosene lamp which we use. She goes inside to undress and after a while, while I unpack our bags, she comes out with her favorite seat outside the compound.
“Come fan me!” she commands harshly and sighing, I walk over to her, to obey.
She closes her eyes to sleep.
Well, her right eye.
Red eye gleams; I can hear it chuckling.
“Stupid mad girl” the eye seems to whisper.
I shiver.
I suddenly feel the need to close the eye.
Put a paper over it; shut it out!
It is horribly distracting. Tonight, I cannot seem to tear my gaze away from the rheumy, dead orb.
I stop fanning and immediately, the other eye flickers.
“Idiot what are you stopping for” she murmurs sleepily. I continue my task, murmuring an apology. I stare at her faded shirt in the weak light, breast flat with age underneath, hanging freely. A slight wind stirs the compound and her nipples respond obscenely, perking up even in her sleep.
I grimace, averting my eyes in embarrassment. My look is drawn back to that eye.
It glistens dully and for a second, I was sure it quivered.
Something is hiding behind that red eye. I draw nearer, careful to make sure I do not wake her.
Yes! There! It moves!
My skin crawls and I want to draw away but morbid curiosity keeps me rooted to the spot, staring.
I am not seeing things. I am not seeing things.
Suddenly a protrusion sticks out from her eye and with a barely muffled shriek, I fall back, hand on mouth, eyes wide.
“You should have stayed” the eye whispers. “Come nearer so I can poke your eye too”

I shudder, a thousand goosebumps chasing one another, my skin their playing field.
“Mad girl. Keep staring. Come closer. I will poke your eye and eat it”
I shake my head hard, trying to rid myself of its voice.
It wants to kill me!
“You’re mad. You’re better off dead. You will die sad. Come closer…”
I drop my fan, stepping away from it; from her.
“Are you running away? You’re very mad. Madder than mad. Come closer!”


It means to kill me!
My mother is snoring, dead to the world.
‘Run!’ my brain screams at me.
“Yes! Run! Idiot! Run from me!”I defy it, legs shaking as I slowly walk away from the sleeping figure. When I am out of its sight, I run to the backyard, burying my face in my hands, feeling tears drop like watery gifts into my shaking palms.
It wouldn’t leave me alone.
It would never leave me alone.
It would kill me.
It would!


“Onome blow out the lamp! Idiot! What are you waiting for? Don’t you know I use money to buy kerosene?”
Mother’s voice coming from the bedroom.
I study the lamp a little longer, staring at the yellow flame ensconced happily within a globular glass held together by metallic companions.
“Should I?” I whisper.
It just sits there on top of the wick, saying nothing.
I take a deep breath and blow, plunging the house into darkness. I trace my way back to the one room we share, my hands –and painfully, shin- guiding me. I hear her soft breathing as I lay down beside her, making sure to keep a distance. She has the tendency to kick while sleeping. Even in the dream, she stays fighting.
Should I?
I wait, listening to the house speak, begging them to dissuade me.
“Do it…” the ceiling whispers.
“Do it!” the walls cry.

Do it! Do it! DO IT!

I turn fitfully, wrapping my shaking hands under my armpits.
I can still hear them.
“She thinks you’re mad”
“Yes! Mad!”
But I am not…
“But she thinks you are! Stupid girl!”
“It’s for the best…”
“Yes! The best! Do it!”
“The best?” I whisper and I hear mother murmur in her sleep.
I still, waiting for her to finish her turn into a more comfortable position before slipping back to her dream world.
A madness seizes me.
I need to look at her face.
Just one more time before I run away; yes, I want to run away.
I need to!

When I am sure she is asleep, I get up tiptoeing to the kitchen, wincing as my searching hands almost push the lamp down. They steady and I blindly locate the matches. I light the lamp, making sure it’s dim and walk back to our bedroom. I draw as close to her as I can without waking her up and true to form, the eye is open.
“Idiot” It calls out to me. “What are you looking at?”
‘You’ I think, still staring. ‘Looking at you for the last time’.
“Mad animal! I know what you want to do! Always running away! Stupid girl!”
I hear it laugh and I grit my teeth.
“Why are you staring at me with your ugly face? Mad animal!”
“I am not mad” I mutter angrily, fingers squeezing the metallic lamp tight.
Mother murmurs again, and turns. Quickly, I step back, dropping the lamp at the farthest corner.
I am not mad.
I will not run away.
I pick up my pillow, flat shapeless thing and approach my sleeping mother.
I am not mad.
My hands shake slightly as I stand there, staring at her slumbering form.
“I am not mad” I mutter weakly.
What am I doing! I have no courage to…
“She thinks you are mad!” the wall cries out.

“I don’t think you are mad” I hear the eye whisper, “I know you are mad!” It chuckles.
“No I am not!” I shout, forgetting myself in that moment, startling my mother.
She wakes up, groggy.
Panicked, I do the first thing that comes to mind.
I climb on her and press the pillow over her face.
I hear her surprised shriek, muffled by the pillow.
What am I doing!
I can hear the house screaming!
“Mad! Mad!” the eye still yells.
“I am not mad!” I shout, pushing the pillow harder.
She buckles hard under me, as her brain gets starved of oxygen trying to throw me off. I press my weight on the pillow, heart pounding loud in my ears. What is this sensation?
I press even harder on her and realization steals up on me.
Pure, intense pleasure.
“Kill the eye! Kill the eye!”
“Mad! Mad!”
The cacophony in my head increases and I struggle to tune them out.
“Shut up!” I growl, shaking in disgust as I let go of the pillow.
I am afraid to lift the pillow up; to see my handiwork.

I have to see…
I slowly lift the pillow, hesitantly and stare into her dead eyes, face sculpted in a mask of fear.
“I killed her” I whisper, dazed
“I killed her…”
I slump on the bed, body shaking, tears clouding my vision.
“With these hands…”
I stare blindly at my large, callused hands.
Suddenly, I am seized by an idea.
I get up and move to her. If I gave her mouth to mouth, she could come back.
I pry her lips open and without a thought place mine, breathing deeply into her mouth.
I stop and put my head on her chest, listening for a heart beat.
I do it again.
And again.
“Wake up” I mutter, listening. “It was a mistake. I swear!”
I slap her.
“Wake up!”
“Up!” I cry, breath hitching.
“Mummy wake up!”
The house stays silent, listening to me, watching me cry till I drop off to sleep, cuddling my dead mother.


Pull, tug, push.
All day to myself.
I wander around the house, making sure to avoid where I have hidden her.
Would she smell? When would she begin to smell?
I walk aimlessly, biting my nails to the quick.
What do I do?
I sneak out of the house, making sure I am not spotted. Few steps away and I stop.
What if someone walks into the house? What if she isn’t dead?
A wild panic seizes me and I run back to the house as if the hounds of hell were in pursuit.
Walk. Walk. Turn. Bite. Walk.
Tummy rumbles and I wince.
I cannot go out; not yet.
Yes, night.
Walk. Walk.
I am startled out of my reverie by a knock at the door.
“Mama Onome? Onome?”
The voice is familiar.
I walk out of the room to the veranda.
“Ah Aunty Philo” I say, forcing a small smile.
“Onome you’re home. You people did not sell today? Where is your mother?”
I smile again, tightly. “Oh she went on a journey. No business today”
Mama Philo, the neighbor helps herself to my mother’s seat outside. “Ah journey? But I didn’t see her when she left! Did she fly?”
I laugh, wondering if I sound as natural as possible. “No o! She left early”
Mama Philo ‘Hmms’ and asks for a drink of water.
“Ok Ma” I say, relieved to be going inside.

As I cross into the kitchen, I hear it.
Lub dub.
I pause, listening.
I do not hear the strange sound again and hurriedly, I pour the guest a quick glass of warm water.
As I approach the verandah, I hear it again.
Lub dub.
A beating heart.
I stop, drawing a weird look from Mama Philo.
“Onome are you ok?”
I look at her. She didn’t hear it?
I laugh, trying to cover up the awkwardness. “Yes. Just my…head hurts”
She nods and accepts the glass from me.
The sound comes again, and this time, louder.
I stare wildly around, where is it coming from?
I turn to Mama Philo. She seems oblivious.
“So how are things Ma?” I ask stupidly, trying to cover up the sound of the beating heart with my voice.
She answers me, recounting the tale of something; I am not listening.

It is getting louder.

“Aunty I am coming” I say distractedly, walking inside.
The sound is coming from the room.
I walk in, letting my ears guide me to the source.
My eyes widen when I find it.
Lud dub.
Lub dub.
Her heart is beating.
I run out of the room, startling Mama Philo.
She jumps out of her chair. “Onome what is it?”
She stares at my horrified expression in confusion.
I smile wildly. “Nothing” I shout, voice unnaturally loud.
I clear my throat. “Nothing” I repeat.
I start laughing.
I don’t know what is so funny but it seems appropriate to laugh.
“You can’t hear it?” I suddenly ask. I need to confirm.
Her face clouds up in confusion. I burst into gales of laughter.
She can’t hear it!
“Hear what?” she asks slowly, looking at me like I just grew two horns.



I laugh louder, trying to drown the sound with my voice.
Beating. It’s beating!
“Nothing! Hear nothing!” I scream out, laughing harder.
Laugh harder she must not hear it!
She shifts warily. “Onome are you alright? What is inside the house?”
“Nothing!” I say too quickly; too loudly.
“Are you sure?”
Why can’t she hear it?
“Yes! I am fine”
Why am I screaming?

Suddenly I grip her arm, pulling her into the house, ears shut to her screams for me to leave her alone.
Is she struggling? Why?
I need to show her.
“See!” I scream, tearing off the clothes i used to wrap mother’s dead body.

Why am I laughing?



This story was inspired by Tale Tell Heart -Edgar Allan Poe

City Boy, Hustler

After a fevered night of typing, I bring to you today’s post.
Do enjoy.
Like I care if you don’t. -_-
Or am I? -_-


He woke up disgruntled.
The heat was killing.
He sighed and rolled to his back on the hard bed, wincing in distaste. He folded his beefy arms around his head and stared lazily at the ceiling, watching the blades of the fan rotating slowly before they came to a stop.
He hissed under his breath, mumbling curses at the country’s power supply company. He maintained his position for a moment, staring at nothing in particular, noting the specks of dust on the fan, wondering if it has ever seen a rag.
His stomach then chose to rumble, breaking him out of his reverie. He mumbled another string of even more colourful curses and pushed himself up. He sat on the bed for a little while, turning his slightly thick neck sideways to ease the tension in his neck muscles. His stomach rumbled again, as if in reminder and sighing, he got out of bed.
He stumbled on a sleeping body on the floor and let out a short expletive as he managed to regain his balance.
“Idiot!” he muttered furiously and delivered a well-aimed kick at the body before leaving, hardly listening to the mumbled sleepy complaints coming out of the confines of the cloth.
He walked to the kitchen and opened the white standing fridge.
It barely had anything edible in it.
He sighed and turned to the gas cooker. There was a pot half opened on it, table top littered with grains of rice. He smiled and walked to the rack that had plates at a corner and picked a ceramic plate. He walked back to the pot and opened.
It was empty.
“Oooooh!” he grumbled, slamming the pot cover back on and throwing the empty plate on the floor in anger.
“Ah Ahn! Who don break plate for that kitchen!” a voice angrily yelled from the living room.
He kicked at the bigger  pieces of the broken plate and gingerly stepped over the smaller ones. He had no plans to clean up. If anyone stepped on them and got injured, good for them.
Growling angrily, he walked to the living room where his house mate, Fredo, sat.
“Mace so na you dey break plate! What’s wrong with this nigga! You think you’re in your father’s house?” Fredo said between mouthfuls, pointing angrily at Mace with a spoon.
Mace stared at his skinny frame, clad in a white shirt and washed out jeans.
“Dude why didn’t you leave food for me!”
Fredo eyed him and suddenly laughed.
“This boy sef! That’s why you’re breaking Presido’s plates. Oya come we can share mine. Go bring spoon come.”
Mace walked to Fredo and snatched the plate of food out of his hand.
“You’ve eaten enough.”
He collected the spoon out the shocked hands of Fredo and began shovelling jollof rice into his mouth. Fredo snapped back to present and stood up angrily.
“E be like say you take crase wake up this evening Mace! Why will you collect the food I’m eating! It’s like your mother did not teach you manners abi?”
Mace paused and turned to him. His glare shut up Fredo.
“Don’t mention my mother dude.”
Fredo stammered and huffed. “Ehn! Is..Is that not why your father disowned you? Better gaan beg your rich papa to take you back and stop eating our food here!”
Mace advanced menacingly towards him and Fredo backed down instinctively.
“Presido!” he shouted. “Come warn Mace o!”
Mace eyed him and suddenly chuckled. He sat down on the lumpy sofa, cursing it for its lumpiness.
A second later, another man entered into the living room. Fredo went to stand beside him.
Mace paused from his eating to stare at the heavily muscled Presido.
“I was eating and this your boy Mace snatched the food from me” Fredo said.
Presido chuckled and shook his head “Mace boy, you need a job. You need to let off some steam.”
Mace mumbled and continued eating. Presido turned to Fredo “Dude no worry just go clean the kitchen. I’ll buy you a big bottle of Black”
Fredo huffed and mumbled “Every time you go just dey treat Mace like say him be King. Just sake of say na butter kid wey fine small…”
“My friend shut up” Presido growled and Fredo’s mouth clamped shut. Without waiting for further words, he went to the kitchen.
Presido sat down and sighed. “But Mace you gats chill sometimes. This your stubbornness shouldn’t be a problem here o.”
Mace effected a contrite look, even though his lips were curved in a sneer.
Presido shook his head at his goose, laying him golden eggs.
After Mace’s arrival, his business booming. Mace was his prime Runz boy but he had to admit, the boy’s temper was an issue he’d soon have to deal with. There should be ways of fucking him up a little without spoiling his good looks.
Mace dropped his plate and relaxed, or tried to anyway, on the sofa.
“Look Prezz I know what you thinking. I’m a handful. Just sometimes I get bloody frustrated with this whole thing you know! This life is kinda rough and It does take some getting used to. If my bloody asshole of a father wasn’t so uptight  and annoying with his strictness, I won’t be here and you  know that. Plus I know I’ve made more money for you that those girls you play pimp to.”
Presido said nothing, watching unblinkingly and Mace squirmed a little at his scrutiny.
“Mace…” Presido said and suddenly laughed.
He brought out a Blackberry from his pocket.
“You’ve got a client. Number two. Code name, Dave. He’ll be at the Oriental Hotel for 8pm. He’s paid his deposit. Would forward the details to you.”
Mace nodded, smiling. Finally.
Some action.
Presido started to walk away and stopped, turning “You better be good. This one smells boxed up. He might give you a tip.”
“No worries”
Presido nodded his head and walked off.
Mack brought out his phone and checked the time.
He needed to start getting ready.
Smiling, he got up and walked back to his room.
Quickly, he donned his finest suit he had managed to take out of the house before his father had unceremoniously kicked his butt out.
He prepped himself up in front of the mirror and satisfied, he smiled seductively at his reflection.
The reason he made so much money for Presido wasn’t just because of his good looks. He was the only guy in Presido’s employ that was ready to service other men. And other men sure did pay well to get their services.
He had no scruples.
He associated Morality with his parents and wanted no part of it. They could go stick their religious beliefs up their butts for all he cared. While he stuck his…beliefs up another guy’s..
He grinned at the thought.
His phone buzzed and he checked to see the details Presido had sent.
Ready, he left the house.

He arrived at the restaurant where he was supposed to be meeting his ‘client’ and walked in, expertly surveyed the room, looking for Code Name: Dave.
He was looking out for a man, he didn’t have an age to go with, sitting alone, probably drinking alone, looking awkward and fidgety.
His eyes hovered from his vantage position until he spotted the man that fit the bill.
His jaws unhinged for a second.
Suddenly he smiled.
Wearing his thick, dark shades around his face, he walked up to a 60-something year old looking man and sat down, unasked.
“Dave” Mace said in a gruff voice.
The man stared at him and nodded. “You’re Mace? You come highly recommended.”
Mace smiled slightly and nodded.
“What hotel are we booked for?”
The man smiled “Drinks first. You must be thirsty.”
He winked and Mace smiled in return.
He watched as the man called the attention of a waiter and without asking him, ordered for another bottle of wine.
Mace looked at the expensive wristwatch on his wrist that jingled as he gesticulated and smiled to himself. He saw the man had no wedding ring on, though the indention of a wedding band was still on his finger.
Mace’s smile widened.
“You have a beautiful smile” the man said as the waiter walked off.
Mace nodded his thanks and the man smiled.
“Why not take off your glasses? We’re indoors. Or is it one of the latest fads with you guys now? I can’t keep up!”
Mace smiled. “Take it off?”
The man nodded. “Yea.”
Mace smiled again. “Sure?”
The man’s brows furrowed. “Yea..sure”
Mace nodded and grinning evilly,he removed his shades.
A laugh escaped his mouth at the indrawn breath of the man before him.
Mace…Mason smiled.
“Hello Daddy. Chief David Akinbalogun. Dave. Fancy seeing you here.”
He threw his head back and laughed at the stunned, fearful expression on his father’s face.
“I’m guessing Mummy doesn’t know about your…soliciting. Yes?”
His father gulped, eyes wide, gasping.
The waiter came at that moment with the bottle and Mason smiled at him
“A glass of water please. Someone would be needing it.”
The waiter nodded and left.
He watched his father squirm, hands shaking.
Mason chuckled.
“To think that you were my next client? Amazing!”
His father coughed, looking around helplessly; looking anywhere but at Mason.
“You kicked me out of your bloody house because I was ‘too violent’. ‘A drop-out’. ‘A drug user’.
Mason smiled, his eyes twinkling in delight.
“So Daddy, it seemed I won’t be coming back home over your dead body as you predicted.”
His father said nothing, head bowed.
“It seems you would be telling Mummy her son is coming back home. Or I would be telling her an interesting story about her husband…”
His father sighed and put his hands on his head. “How much do you want?” he mumbled.
“Old man, chill. Let’s drink our wine before we discuss business. You and I are in for a ride of our lives” Mason said, mocking, wiping tears of mirth out of his eyes.
“Damn..” he said softly, bringing his phone out of his pocket, grinning. “Today just got interesting..”
He sent Presido a quick text.

“Seems I’ve hit the JACKPOT”

His father wiped a tear rolling down out of the corner of his eye.




Phantompages here.
First, I’ll start with an apology to everyone. I should have talked about the handover of the blog HERE. Many didn’t know about my giving this blog to Eddie. Got tired of people complimenting me, thinking the recent posts were my write ups. Lol. They weren’t.
I hit a bad patch and had to step back.
Started blogging because I enjoyed writing first, and I wanted to share my work with people, second. I think I lost track of that. I put myself under a pressure of writing to please the readers. Forgot what it was like to write for the fun of it, good or bad. I became too obsessed with creating a perfect story. There are no perfect stories. I forgot this.  So, I had to step back.
A special thank you to Edwin who helped me keep the blog alive (even though he threatened to flog me for almost deleting the blog 😥 ).
Yes, I almost deleted the blog. What? It’s mine. 😛
We love you Eddie san! :* :*

If you’re still reading this and have not jumped to the story, good! I like people like you 😀
This story was written for me. It’s not perfect. It probably can’t be compared to some of what I’ve written. But it struck a chord within me as I wrote. I hope it does the same to you. If it doesn’t, maybe my next story would.
Be patient.

Enough talking, let’s dig in!


“…But i need to confirm from the Church first, Mrs. Jacques.”
She sobbed. “Padre s’il vous plait! Please! He’s only five. My only son. Please Father..”
He sighed. Sometimes doing the right thing wasn’t always the best option.
He got up from his seat and walked to the kneeling woman.
“It is ok Mrs. Jacques. I will do it” he said, helping her stand.
“Padre… Merçi! Merçi!”
He nodded absently. “Yes, yes. First, I must determine if he really needs one. Shall I call at your house tomorrow?”
She nodded vigorously, thin grey hair flopping on her pale, tears-streaked face.
“Come see him tomorrow”


“I will perform one but it would have to be in the night.”
“Yes Father”
“The things that would be needed, do get them Mr. Jacques.”
“I will”
“And Mrs. Jacques, do calm yourself down. You’ll be of no help in this condition.”
“I’ll try Father”
“Good. May God be with you two.”


“Lord have mercy..”
“Lord have mercy..”
“Christ have mercy..”
“Christ have mercy..”

Soft laughter..

“God, the Father in Heaven..”
“Have mercy on us..”
“God the Son, the Redeemer of the World..”
“Have mercy on us..”
“God, The Holy Spirit..”
“Have mercy on us..”
“Holy Trinity, One God..”
“Have mercy on us..”
“Holy Mary, pray for us..”
“Pray for us..”
“All Holy Saints..”
“Intercede for us..”

Soft Laugh..

“Be Merciful..”
“Spare us Oh Lord..”
” Our Father who are in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation,
“But deliver us from evil..”

Soft Laugh..
Choked sobs.

Save your servant..”
“Who trusts in you, my God..”

“Trust? Indeed..

“Let him find in you, Lord, a fortified tower..”
“ the face of the enemy..”

I’m no enemy.

“Let the enemy have no power over him..”
“And the son of iniquity be powerless to harm him..”
Save him please Lord; save him..
“We must complete the prayer Mrs. Jacques. Mr Jacques please, make sure she.. ”
“Yes Father please continue..”

Yes Father, please continue..
Harsh laugh.. 

“Lord, send him aid from your holy place..”


“And watch over him from Zion..”

Mama..Mama it hurts.. Mama! It hurts!

“Hold her! She must not go near him!”
“Vittoria! Calmez-vous! For Pierre”
“We must continue the prayer! Lord, heed my prayer!”
“And…and let my cry be heard by you..”


“Holy Lord, almighty Father, everlasting God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who once and for all consigned that..”


“..fallen and apostate tyrant to the flames of hell, who sent your only-begotten Son into the world to crush that roaring lion; hasten to our call for help and snatch from ruination and from the clutches of the noondayDevil this human being made in your image and likeness..”

Papa! Mama! 

“Strike terror, Lord, into the beast now laying waste your vineyard. Fill your servants with courage to fight manfully against that reprobate dragon, lest he despise those who put their trust in you, and say with Pharaoh of old: “I know not God, nor will I set Israel free.”

Harsh Laughter..

“Let your mighty hand cast him out of your servant, Pierre Jacques, so he may no longer hold captive this person whom it pleased you to make in your image..”

Paedophile! Wanna suck my cock Father? My cock is small, just the way you like it Father! Mama!

“..whom..whom it pleased to make in your image, a.and to re..redeem through your Son; who..who lived..lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God, forever and ever..”

Amen Father!

“Say Amen! Do not be distracted! Don’t listen to him!”

Amen cock sucker!

“I command you, unclean spirit, whoever you are, along with all your minions..”

You command nothing Padre! Remember Father Downing? He says hello!

“ attacking this servant of God, by the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection, and ascension of our  Lord..”

Father Downing says he misses your sweet mouth! Did you enjoy sucking him off Father? Will you suck me Father..Father..Papa..Papa! Mama! It hurts! It hurts!





“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Aie pitié!”




“Hold her! Don’t let her go to him!”






“He’s breaking free Father!! What should I do!”
“Hold him down! Be his father! Don’t let him be free!”
















Lights out.


He lay under the bed shaking, rosary tightly claspsed in his fists.
“Padré..” the voice of the five year old boy called, somewhere far from his hiding place.
“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Holy Father hear my cry. Let your ears be attentive to the voice of my supplication…”
A door banged open and he started, heart thundering.
“Father…Father! You’re good. Oh you’re good!”
He shuddered at the voice, his heart breaking for the child who was being used so carelessly as a tool.
” God, by your name save me, and by your might defend my cause.”
The voice drew nearer, screaming obscenities in a loud voice; whispering pleas in the child’s voice.
“Father, I’m scared. Please help me. It’s too dark. Where is mama? Where is papa? Father? Father? FUCKING CUNT REVEAL YOUR SELF!”
He shook, forcing himself to murmur prayers.
“God, hear my prayer; hearken to the words of my mouth…” he swallowed, blinking to get the bead of perspiration off his lashes. He wiped his face with his robe.
” Our Father who are in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come”
The room door opened and he shut up.
He listened in silence to the feet of the boy walking into the room.
“Father…Here? Old man? OLD MAN! COME OUT YOU MAN WHORE!”
His heart thudded and he swallowed.
“Father…” the boy called softly, voice nearer.
He felt the slight depression above him on the mattress and he knew the boy was on the bed. He remained still.
“He’s not in here..” he heard the boy whisper softly.
He remained still.
Suddenly,  torch light was flicked on and thrown under the bed, illuminating him.
He gasped.
The face of the little boy peered at him, from above the bed, head upside down.
He stared in horror at the face of the little, eyes filmed over, tinged with blood, saliva dribbling unchecked from a gaping mouth, tongue lolling.
He shrieked and raised his rosary with shaking hands.
“In the name of the Father..and…Son…and..”
The boy stretched out is hand and with an iron grip, clasped his mouth shut.
“Tell me Father..” the gravelly voice of the boy’s occupant said “Do you fear Death?”


 Father Bromley left the dark house quickly, taking the stairs two at a time. He ran to his car parked outside the house and opened. He sat in, trying to calm himself.
It was a good thing the Jacques family lived in a secluded area.
He flicked the light on and looked at himself in the front view mirror.
Suddenly, he smiled.
“Well Father..” said the gravelly voice coming from his throat, “Let’s see what fun I can have with you”
His eyes flashed red in the mirror before they returned to their grey colour.
The new occupant of Father Bromley winked at himself, started the car and drove off into the darkness.



Hello ningensei (Humans, in case you wondered what that meant).
I bring you a story I joyfully received from one of the witers on one of my favorite blogs, (Pass The Salt), @Titaenium!
Do read and enjoy! 🙂


“So the devils besought him, saying,
if thou cast us out,
suffer us to go away into the herd of swine”

Matthew 8:31
(King James Bible {Cambridge Edition})


The lake is still.
A monstrous mirror; reflecting the empty, endless blue of the sky.
She wants it to move.
She picks up a perfect pearl of a pebble and tosses it but before it slams into the sliver surface of the water, she wishes she hadn’t. The splash is deafening, sending ripples across the lake’s surface, turning glass into liquid.
Mary smiles a little as the chaos oddly calms her nerves for a moment. The lake is returning to stillness, but she isn’t. Her mind is a jumble of jagged emotion. She won’t cry. She didn’t cry the last three times and she won’t now.  He was just a boy. She had loved him; had imagined a wedding in the springtime, in  a garden bursting with colour and life. Then he had called to tell her he was on another continent. He was never coming back. There was no emotion in his voice but she could see him in her mind’s eye walking down some red-dirt road, avoiding a bustling crowd, full of colour and life, chewing his teeth as he forced out the words.

She had smiled through her tears as she whispered goodbye and calmly walked to the lake. A place she only knew. She had brought him here to her place.  They had kissed in the soft scented air, rolled around in prickly grass, sunbathed naked. He had  filled her hair with lilies and kissed her, told her how beautiful she – a loud scream escapes her lips as she grabs a handful of the pebbles that litter the bank and flings them into the air above the lake. They fall in staccato, puncturing the still glass of the lake for a second time and causing birds to take flight from the trees, where they had been silent, choked by the hot air.
She falls to her knees and ragged sobs escape her. She wants to stop but she can’t, love has fucked her over again and it hurts.

“Are you alright?” a deep voice rumbles above her. She looks up and sees a man, a very beautiful man. He’s physical rugged, matching his gravel-in-velvet voice and she would have believed he was some sort of construction worker if she hadn’t seen the paint smeared across both his knuckles.
“Yes.”, she says standing up,  dusting moist sand off her yellow sundress and tucking blood red hair behind her ears. , “I’m fine, just a little…tired”
“You looked  like you were having a meltdown and it didn’t look ‘a little tired”. His voice is tinged with sarcasm. She giggles.
“Well, it was  tired, when I have actual meltdowns I spit fire.”. It’s his turn to laugh.
“I’m Lucius”, he says extending his green, blue and yellow hand.
“Mary”, she says as she grabs it. It’s warm and rough and it makes her feel safe again. She stares into his eyes and her heart skips.  They’re the colour of rum, almost red.
“You’re bleeding”, he points to her knees, his brows, wrinkled.
“Sorry?”. She’s busy staring at his cheek covered in ink black stubble, she wants to touch it and forget.
“You are bleeding.?” He says, emphasizing the –eeding
She looks down, sees the raw red skin and realizes that her knees are tingling and that they have been since she met her Knight with Painted Hands.
“Oh. I h-“
“I’ll just go get  my painting gear, so we can get it checked at my place.”

They walk a short way along the bank till they get to his easel, stuck in the soggy earth. On it is a large painting of the lake in all it’s still glory; lush blues and shimmering greys, at the left bottom corner, she sees herself, a yellow smear  frozen in thought, staring across the lake. It’s breathtaking. She’s feels small and fragile.
As he bends over to wrap it in moist muslin, she knows what she has to do to forget her fuckhead ex.
Sex heals.
They walk to his apartment which isn’t so far from the river.
He goes to get his first aid kid as she perches tentatively on a sofa.
He comes back and dutifully begins to clean up her wound.
The moment he drops the soaked cotton ball and rises to look at her face, biting his lower lip innocently, she attacks.
He tastes like creamy coffee and smells of citrus, lake air and a heady male musk. His body is hard against hers and as she works her tongue into his mouth grabbing his stubble covered jaw , he hoists her and slams her into a wall kissing her back with a heat that makes her toes curl then he takes her to the room. He pulls off his shirt and tosses it over his shoulder; she has her dress in a pool at their feet. He lifts her and she wraps her legs around his waist, he moves sliding across the smooth wood floor of his apartment and drops her into the bed, pressing her into the soft cotton sheets with his fever hot body. He unclasps her bra and takes a nipple into his mouth and the world shivers.

They’re dancing.

A primal dance, punctuated with the music of their moans. She’s above him, head thrown back, pale neck exposed, stomach bellowing furiously, curly red mane stuck to her shoulders with sweat, she can feel his hot flesh deep  inside her. He lies in the white sheets, his tan skin contrasting, the tattoo of a hog’s head peeking through the hair on his heaving chest; the air is thrumming with lust. Lucius crests with a ragged moan emptying himself into her. He flips her onto the bed and looks into her sky blue eyes, dark with lust and smiles, sliding his fingers into her centre and watching her back arch in ecstasy. He grabs her hips in his rough painted hands and with his mouth, brings her over the edge, ripples of heat flashing through her as she sees the Sun.


She stands at the door, her shoes in her hands and her yellow sundress rumpled. Her red locks are a halo of unruly curls around her face. She smiles at the nearly naked sleeping Lucius, kept decent by a slip of white bed sheet. He looks like a bronze statue as the sun slips through the curtains to ignite his tan skin. The sex worked; her ex now seems like an old memory that left a bad taste in her mouth. Life could now go on, with her being single and studying towards a healthy CGPA. She has her hand on the handle, when Lucius’ voice freezes her,
“Will you come back?”
“No, not really”, she laughs, moving mused hair out of her eyes, “I’m not ready to start and/or continue anything with anyone right now.”
He smiles, a crescent of blinding white in the morning sun.
“You will be back.”, his tone is sure and almost authoritative. She laughs again, but her heart does a little flip.
“Okay! If you say so!” her voice is unnaturally high and her hands are flailing more than normal.
Lucius has gone back to sleep, bronze eyelids quivering.
She slips on her shoes.
Weird. He doesn’t even know where I live.
Mary leaves the house and attempts a cute, long walk of shame to the nearest bus stop. She catches a glimpse of herself in a store window and sees her neck covered in hickeys. She takes a bus back to her tiny apartment.


Something is wrong.

Mary heaves dryly and a sharp pain shoots through her chest.  The roots of her hair are the color of blood, dark with sweat as she rests against the porcelain bowl of the toilet seat, breathing heavily. Her skin is pale and her eyes are a ripe pink; full of terror. She has been on the toilet floor for six hours unable to move. She takes a final heave and blood gushes out, red splattering against the shiny white.
She gasps and her hand goes to her mouth, tears running down her cheeks. She stands up on uneven legs and calls the ambulance.


“You are pregnant. The blood is weird, but it’s probably internal tears from all the dry vomiting” he says.
The world gradually goes hot and the tears start again. Her throat is dry.
“I’m sorry, Mary, but you need to calm down. Just go to sleep, you’ll be better. I’ll be back tomorrow for a scan.  Just call me when you need me.”
His body looks like its a thousand miles away and his voice echoes endlessly. Mary is pretty sure she is having a heart attack. She could not be pregnant. She just could not. She had always protected during sex with James, her ex, and he had been gone about two months before he called, so it wasn’t plausible. Lucius had been seven days ago and it just wasn’t biologically possible even though there hadn’t been protection. She remembered Lucius’ words and realized that she would be returning to his doorstep just eight days after having vigorous unprotected, nearly anonymous sex with him. She giggled to the empty room and drifted into a drugged haze.


She’s having sex in a pig sty. She can feel the wet mud and dung on her back, around her large hairy pigs are silent and watching with black beady eyes. The man above her has the head of a hog, just like the one on Lucius’ chest. The body looks exactly like his too, complete with a tiny scar above his right nipple.
He repeatedly pounds into her.

The pigs are watching.

He starts grunting and a heat begins to well up between her legs, then she begins to scream, though it comes out as low moans because of  her gagged mouth.

The pigs are watching.

Snot drips from his snout onto her bare breasts, sliding down their middle, and causing her to nearly vomit and choke into the gag.

The pigs are watching

The heat is building and his grunts are getting louder.

The pigs are watching.

He comes with a loud open mouthed squeal, head thrown back. The heat between her legs becomes a flame. She dies, muffled screaming, as her flesh burns and ashes float on the stale air.

The pigs are watching.

Mary is woken up from her vivid dream by screaming. It’s loud, shrill and piercing. She realizes she’s the one doing it; her mouth is open as she delivers piercing shrieks into the air. She notices something is different and when she looks down and realizes, everything goes black.


Mary slams the bottle into the door and it shatters sending emerald fragments across the sidewalk. She starts pounding on the wood with her other hand, making the door shiver as loud booms echoes through the house.
It opens suddenly and she falls into Lucius, her weak wrist letting go of her weapon and it rolls down the front stairs.
“Hello, Mary” he says, a sinister glint in his eye as he drags her in and locks the front door.  He moves swiftly back into the kitchen where something is frying and filling the air with a rich, fatty aroma.
Mary gags, as she steps in after him into the kitchen.
“What have you done to me!???” She screams, tearing open her blouse and revealing a belly the size of two basketballs. Buttons clatter across the hardwood floor as she stands there, holding the torn pieces of cloth open.
“Now, now, let’s be civil. I did nothing, only had sex with you to help you get over your evil ex”, he smiles. His teeth are too white.
“How did you know that?” A chill runs across her spine and over her arms. Lucius’ eyes are blood red.
“I know a lot of things, Mary Sherwood”.
“How do you know my name?” Mary’s voice quivers. Her shaking hands drop to her sides and liquid warmth runs down her leg. Whatever is in her stomach kicks hard, she screams in pain. Lucius smiles at her.
“For instance, I know…” he turns back to his pork.
“…that you are going to…” she can’t move when he swings the hot oil-filled pan into the side of her head, knocking her out cold.


The truck bounces down the dusty road, in its open bed is an unconscious Mary. White and gold blouse torn, an angry red welt marks the side of her face, her hair is singed but still shines ruby in the happy yellow sunlight. In the driver’s seat, Lucius is nodding to the motions of the bouncing truck. His shirt is off and his eyes are shielded by large sunglasses.
At the end of the road a large red barn stands, the paint peeling off in large patches, about twenty feet to its right, a little white cottage stands, as Lucius brings the truck to a halt in front of the barn, the door to the house flies open and five more Luciuses come out, walking briskly. They all look exactly like the man at the wheel; same height, same dark hair and stubble, same dark-red eyes and the same hog’s head tattooed onto their left pectorals. Two of them lift Mary off the bed of the truck and walk towards the barn that another two are opening. The barn is full of squealing, grunting pigs. They dump her unceremoniously into the mud.
When they come out, Lucius and the fifth are gone. They run into the house, grunting as they go.


Mary wakes up to darkness, chanting and pain. Six men stand above her, speaking harsh phrases. Her eyes adjust to the darkness as another cramp goes straight through her soul. They are naked.

The pigs are watching.

She looks down and sees she is naked too, covered in dark black mud. Her stomach has grown bigger, too big. The skin has been stretched to translucence and inside she can see a dark form much larger than a baby swimming. The men begin to chant louder, and pain rips through her body as her pelvic bones crack audibly. She screams and feels her throat fill with the dark copper of blood.

The pigs are watching.

The pain is radiating through her nerves, her centre is burning. Something is coming out of her and taking her life with it. Another crack fills the air as the right side of her chest collapses in, her lung fills with liquid and she begins to gurgle. The men chant even louder.

The pigs are watching.

Her vision begins to cloud over and just before life leaves her, she sees a man rise from between her thighs, covered in blood and slime.
It is Lucius.
She can’t scream, but her red hair goes a pure white. She dies with her eyes open, full of fear.

They stop chanting immediately she dies.
They, better known as Legion.
He had cast them out into swine thousands of years ago and into the swine they had stayed, waiting.
Finally, a suitable vessel presented himself to be possessed.

Legion shall never be bested again.
Legion shall not make the same mistake of remaining in one body.
Legion shall propagate; shall divide.

“Be fruitful and multiply” one of them say to the newly born man.

They smile in unison.

The silent pigs go crazy; squealing, grunting, and trampling over each other as they move to devour the pale, broken body of Mary Sherwood.

The End.


I hope you all enjoyed reading that as much as I did!
Please, do leave your comments thanks! 🙂

Last Christmas

Hello! This post isn’t a new one, No Sir! This was a story I wrote as an entry for an online writing competition still going on at titled The Writer. If you’re on twitter, you can follow the hash tag #TheWriter for all the updates and interviews. Well, my story didn’t make the cut. Guess it wasn’t my best. Different from my usual perhaps! LOL at the title btw. It was originally titled This Christmas but as Keresimesi don pass na… *Weirdo shrug*

Enough of the endless prattling. Enjoy!



I’m suddenly thinking about bees; those fat yellow-black monsters I used to chase at my gran’s garden when I was still young, during the summer-y months of July and August. I wonder why I’m thinking about them. Maybe it’s because of how similar they sound to the clipper that shaved off my red locks of hair some weeks ago at this very place. Yes, it all started with thinking about hair. Hair to bees. It’s funny how my mind roams randomly. This salon is almost like a hive, with the eternal bzzzt of a dozen clippers, the soft, metallic chop chop of two dozens scissors and the innumerable murmurs of ‘Thanks’ and ‘Come back again’.
I close my eyes and I can almost feel the summer’s sun on my skin; almost smell the compost in the garden. My nose wrinkle instinctively at the memory. I never really liked that smell, especially when it was watered down with either the odd rain or gran’s watering hose.
My eyes snap open. I remember where I am, far away from the farm in both distance and years. The woman smiles at me. I wonder how long she has been here standing, watching me in my closed-eye musing. I smile sheepishly in apology and thanks, following her. Humming a carol tune along with the jukebox, we make our way to her office.
“Have a holly jolly Christmas…”
On our way, we pass several posters of multi-racial women with beautiful hair, smiling brilliantly at whatever camera lenses were capturing their images at that moment. I throw one raven-haired a cheeky grin and cackle in my head.

The Christmas song doesn’t leave my head even as I walk outside into the stinging cold, package I went to collect, in hand. I readjust my bright red scarf (Christmas spirit!) across my neck, singing softly as I walk down the street to the hospital.
“I don’t know if there’ll be snow…”
Well there isn’t! Back in Cumbria, houses would have been snowed in by now. Not here of course. All we have for now in London is the rain.
The blue and white NHS signpost welcomes me back and with surety, my feet walk unaided to the ICU. I go past a brightly adorned faux Christmas tree and several strips of green and red decorations; tell-tale signs of someone trying into infuse some cheer in the wards. Sadly, only the members of staff would get to enjoy its beauty; patients strapped to life-giving machines can’t, can they?
“Oh my have a holly jolly Christmas this year!” I whisper as I walk into her room, smiling.
I gently drop my bag, bringing out the early Christmas present. They had done a good job! I walk up to her bedside, bed springs squeaking as I lower my frame to sit.
She’s asleep, chest rising and falling in tandem to the beeping of the huge machine beside her bed.
My lovely angel.
A smile tugs at the side of my lips as I listen to her whistling breath. One genetic trait her father managed to smear on her ‘mini-mummy’ characteristics. My smile turns sad as I remember George.

He left.
He left me four years ago with a one-month old baby to care for all by myself. We were not married after all; no vows holding him down.
The weasel.
She was my bundle of joy, the bundle of joy I refused to abort for his selfish reasons.
I’m her mummy and her daddy; always have been, always will be.
I rub her bald head gently, feeling the tiny pricks of new hair growing. She used to have beautiful, shiny auburn hair, like her mama. Her illness changed that. It started with dizzy spells; then graduated to frightening seizures. Routine brain scans equalled a skinhead four-year old girl.
The brain scans would continue until the doctors are sure about what exactly is wrong with her. They’re confused.
Been a month already. I would not think about it; not now. Maybe in January, after Christmas.
Gently, I wear her the gift.
My gift of Love.
I can’t help smiling.
“Merry Christmas hun” I whisper, kissing her forehead. My tummy growls its protest at being left unattended to.
“Oh hush” I mutter as I get up, picking up my umbrella and wallet.

Windy rain.
I struggle to hold on to my umbrella but a sharp gust of wind snatches my partner away from me, twirling it in a dainty pirouette. My arms flail in protest.
A young man manages to grab on to it before it flies afar.
“Thanks!” I exclaim in gratitude.
His eyes travel across my face to my head and I watch his eyes widen in surprise. I had forgotten my hat. I see his face soften in pity and I can instantly tell what he’s thinking.
Bald head.
“Merry Christmas” he whispers and walks away.
I want to call out to him and correct him but I doubt he’d understand.
What better gift can a mother give her child?

“Mummy do you think there’s a chimney in the hospital?”
I looked up from my reading “Why baby?”
She coughed a little and I went to her side.
“Well dunno if Santa comes to hospitals.”
“Of course he does baby.”
She smiled.
“Mummy, do you think Santa can get me new hair?”
My eyes suddenly smarted.
I kissed her forehead.
“I’m sure he will”
She grinned in satisfaction, her hands playing with my hair.
“New hair as pretty as yours mummy.”

I’m her mummy, her daddy and her Santa.
Call me crazy if you will, but I made a wig for my baby with my hair. Unusual perhaps but then I’ve never been known to be ‘usual’ now have I?
I smile at his retreating back.
“Merry Christmas” I murmur.


That’s it!

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