Once upon a time, in a quiet village where people minded their own business and news traveled faster than the Harmattan wind, there lived a boy named Musa. At just 15, he was slim and slightly tall for his age, always having dry lips no matter how much water he drank. He didn’t talk much, but he listened. While other children chased mangoes and dreams, Musa chased nothing. His father had debts from the last planting season, and his mother had died during childbirth. Most days, Musa sat by the roadside near the broken well, watching villagers pass, hoping that one day his life would move too.
His clothes were faded, his school shoes full of holes, and his lunch often came from whatever remained in the neighbor’s pot. Yet Musa never complained; he had learned to stay quiet and out of trouble. But trouble doesn’t always wait for those who seek it. Sometimes, it comes wearing a red dress, a gold necklace, and muscles that gleam under the sun.
It all began on a Thursday morning. Musa’s father, Barbasani, returned from the farm looking both confused and excited. His voice trembled as he called Musa into their hut. “Musa,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead, “you are going to marry a woman.” Musa looked up slowly, bewildered. “Sir… you’re serious?”
“Yes, today,” his father said.
Musa blinked. “But I’m just 15.”
His father frowned. “And so were men not expected to go to war at your age in the olden days? This is a blessing. This woman is rich. She said she saw you at the stream last week and liked your smile.” Musa’s heart started racing. Who was this woman?
“What’s her name?” he asked.
“Madame Veronica,” Barbasani said proudly. “She built that big white mansion on the hill. She’s strong, beautiful, powerful. Look, she’s already sent bags of rice, one cow, two phones, and 5 million naira.”
Musa’s mouth fell open. “You signed the marriage papers without asking me?”
Barbasani placed a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t ask the rain why it falls. My son, just open your bucket.” Musa didn’t say another word. What could he say? That same evening, the village square was alive with drums. Women danced, men drank, and everyone celebrated the poor boy who had married a billionaire. Children teased Musa, saying he had married his grandmother.
But the laughter stopped when Madame Veronica arrived. She stepped out of a black G-Wagon, wearing a long red dress that clung to her figure. Her skin gleamed like she had bathed in palm oil, her arms thick with muscle like a wrestler’s. She looked both young and old, her face unnaturally smooth, yet shadows lingered behind her eyes.
She walked straight to Musa and smiled. “Do you accept me as your wife?” she asked softly.
Musa looked up, smelling a mix of flowers and something bitter, like burnt leaves. He nodded slowly.
“Good,” she said, kissing him on the forehead. “Now, let’s go home.”
The car ride to the mansion was quiet. Musa sat in the back, trying not to stare at her, but she stared at him.
“Do you like meat pie?” she asked suddenly.
“Yes,” Musa replied.
“Good. I’ll have them make you twenty. You’re too skinny. But don’t worry, I’ll fatten you up.”
They passed trees, rocks, and hills until they reached the white mansion. The gates opened automatically. Inside, the house felt eerily quiet. Everything shone—the floors, the walls, even the air seemed clean and strange. Musa stepped in and looked around. Mirrors lined every wall—some tall, some long, some shaped like eyes. Veronica held his hand and led him upstairs.
“This is our home,” she said. “You can go anywhere, but one rule: never open the red door at the end of the corridor. Do you hear me?”
Musa nodded quickly. “Yes, Ma.”
She smiled. “Good boy.” That night, she served him a huge plate: fried rice, chicken, goat meat, puff-puff, and juice. Musa ate until he could barely move. Veronica watched. When he finished, she rubbed his head.
“Tomorrow, you’ll start your new life,” she said. “You’ll never suffer again. You’re my king now.”
She rose and went to her room. “Sleep well. Don’t worry about noises. This house is old. It speaks.” Musa lay on the bed in the guest room, staring at the ceiling. The bed was soft, the fan silent, the sheets perfumed, but he couldn’t sleep. He felt too heavy, too full, too watched.
Around midnight, the air changed. The fan slowed, the windows rattled, and the mirror in the corner fogged even though the AC was on. Then he heard it—a soft, sad sound like a baby crying, far down the hallway. His heart jumped. The crying repeated, then faded.
Musa got off the bed and tiptoed to the door. He peeked outside. The hallway was empty, but the red door glowed faintly, like a candle behind it. His hand shook. He closed the door and returned to bed, pulling the covers over his head. The crying didn’t return, but the silence was heavier. He couldn’t sleep that night.
In the morning, brushing his teeth, he saw his reflection blink twice while his eyes only blinked once. Musa froze, toothbrush in hand, foam dripping. He stared again—the mirror looked normal. He wiped his mouth slowly, leaned in, trying to act brave, then walked out. The house was too quiet—like a museum where no one spoke.
Walking down the hallway past large paintings, he paused. The boy in one painting had big eyes, a scared face. There was something familiar, but Musa couldn’t place it. The more he stared, the more the boy’s expression shifted from fear to anger. Musa jumped back and hurried on.
At the staircase, he noticed two small boys by the dining room wall. Black shorts, white shirts, shaved heads, no blinking. They stood like statues, staring straight ahead.
“Hello,” Musa said. No movement.
“Do you work here?” Still nothing.
“What’s your name?” No reply. He reached to tap one on the shoulder, but Madame Veronica’s voice called behind him.
“Leave them.”
Musa spun around. She stood by the kitchen door with a glass of red juice, wearing another tight red dress. Her arms looked bigger today, as if she had lifted heavy weights all night.
“They don’t talk,” she said with a smile. “I rescued them from the street.”
“But they look like statues,” Musa said.
“That’s what happens when people are too silent for too long. Don’t worry; they’ll get used to you.” One boy blinked finally, but it wasn’t normal; his eyes rolled upward before closing.
Veronica turned him toward the table. “Come, let’s eat.” They sat at a huge dining table with yam porridge, fish stew, plantain, and juice—too much for two. Musa ate slowly, watching her.
“You don’t eat meat?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I only take what I need.”
She smiled, showing perfect teeth, but Musa saw something strange behind her eyes, a shadow, as if she hid something and didn’t care if he noticed. He dropped his spoon.
“I want to go outside today.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Why?”
“I just want to walk around, get fresh air.”
“There’s fresh air in the garden,” she said. “You don’t need to go far.”
“But I want to see the gate, maybe wave at my friends.” Her face softened. “Musa, this is your new home. You don’t need the outside world anymore. Out there, nobody cared when you were suffering. In here, you have peace.” He nodded slowly.
“Okay, good boy,” she said.
He stood to leave.
“Wait,” she said. “Come here.” She pulled him into a hug. Her arms were warm and strong, but possessive, like a snake wrapping around prey.
“You’re mine now,” she whispered. “Till your last breath.”
Musa stepped back and went upstairs. He didn’t enter his room, instead stopping at the red door. It looked normal—plain red with golden carvings—but he felt a slow, deep heartbeat behind it. He pressed his ear to the door. Nothing. He turned back.
Passing the mirror near the stairs, he saw someone standing behind him in the reflection. He turned—nothing. Heart racing, he stared again; now it showed only him.
“I need to leave this place,” he whispered.
That evening, in the guest room, he sat staring at the walls. No clock, TV, or calendar. Time moved strangely, as if the day never ended. He went to the bathroom and watched the mirror. His reflection smiled; he frowned—so did it. He raised a hand—mirrored. Then, for a fraction of a second, its eyes shifted slightly to the right.
Musa stepped back. “What’s happening to me?”
He went to the window. Outside, the sky was cloudy, trees still, air heavy. Then he saw one of the small boys walking toward the garden alone. Musa quietly followed.
The boy entered a hidden garden section with strange plants, black candles, and wooden carvings. He sat humming a slow, sad tune. Suddenly, he stopped, turned, and whispered, “Seven days.”
Musa froze. The boy touched the biggest tree, pressed his forehead, then stood still. Musa ran back inside, heart racing. He didn’t tell Madame Veronica. He went to bed but didn’t sleep.
Hours passed. The fan slowed, air shifted, windows rattled. He heard the humming again—soft, distant, many voices. He held the blanket tight. The mirror fogged, and a small handprint appeared inside. He shut his eyes, whispering, “Please let morning come.”
The humming grew louder, then stopped. A soft knock sounded on his door. He froze. Another knock, then silence. The mirror cleared. The room was still. He didn’t sleep again. Morning light revealed one thing clearly: something was very wrong in this house, and he was in the middle of it.
Musa sat on the bed edge, legs trembling. The red handprint was gone, the humming silent, but the memory lingered. It was the third night of strange events: the mirror blinking, the boy whispering “seven days,” the humming, the knock. Not a dream; he knew it was real.
He opened the door slowly. The hallway looked normal, but something lurked in the silence, watching. He went to the staircase, trying to act brave. The two small boys stood by the dining room wall, still as ever—one blinked, the other didn’t. He walked past and found Madame Veronica seated at the table, dressed in a tight green wrapper and blouse, hair tied high.
She drank something thick and brown—smelling like burnt leaves.
“Good morning, my king,” she said with a wide smile. “You didn’t come down for dinner last night. I waited.”
Musa sat slowly. “I wasn’t feeling well.”
She stared at him, smile fixed. “Was it the food or the dreams?”
Musa’s heart skipped. “What dreams?”
She looked away, waving her hand. “This house can confuse you sometimes, especially at first. The walls remember things. Maybe you’re just adjusting.”
He picked at his bread, pretending to chew. “What do they remember?”
She looked him straight in the eye. “Stories, ghosts, boys.”
He dropped the bread.
She laughed softly. “I’m joking, my love. Eat. You need your strength.” Musa forced a weak smile and nodded, but he didn’t touch the bread again. After finishing breakfast, he asked for a book to read. She led him to the library, a vast room lined with tall shelves, dusty chairs, and peculiar statues. “Pick any book you like,” she said, “except the ones with black covers. Those are private.” Then she turned and left.
Musa stood alone, surrounded by hundreds of old volumes. Some were massive, others tiny, but one shelf in the corner looked far older than the rest. He approached it and noticed the wood was cracked, and one book jutted out halfway. He pulled it gently. Its cover was deep red, edges torn, and no title. He opened the first page and gasped. “Diary of Boy Number 12.”
His hands trembled slightly as he flipped to the next page. “My name was Samuel. She renamed me Number 12. I arrived here in 1992. My parents said it was for my good, that I would eat well, sleep well, and become great. But I haven’t seen the sun since then.” Musa’s eyes widened. He turned the page. “This house is a trap. Madame Veronica is not what she appears. She is older than she claims, stronger than she shows. Every seven days, one of us disappears. The door at the end of the hallway leads to the truth, but none who entered ever returned the same.”
Musa looked up sharply, then behind him. No one was there. He continued reading. “If you find this diary, you are next. I was the 12th. You might be the 14th. Don’t eat her food. Don’t trust her smiles. And whatever you do, avoid the red door or prepare to lose your name.” He slammed the book shut, breathing fast, hands damp with sweat. Was this real? Who was Samuel? One of the silent boys?
He tucked the diary under his shirt and left the library quickly. Turning a corner, he bumped into one of the house boys. The boy didn’t move. His eyes stared blankly ahead. Musa whispered, “Do you remember who you were?” No response. He leaned closer. “Samuel, is that you?” The boy blinked twice, lips moving slowly as if struggling to speak. “A U N.”
Musa stepped back. “What did you say?” The boy remained still. Musa ran upstairs, shutting and locking his door, though he wasn’t sure it would help. He placed the diary under his pillow and paced. She wasn’t just rich or strong—she was hiding something ancient, something evil. The house wasn’t just big; it was alive. And the red door wasn’t a rule; it was a warning.
That evening after dinner, Musa sat with her in the living room. A golden chandelier hung above, swinging slightly despite no breeze. She sat beside him on a velvet couch, her leg resting on his lap. “You’re quiet tonight,” she said, stroking his hair. “Are you not happy?” “I’m fine,” he replied quickly. She studied him for a moment, then smiled. “You’ve been reading?”
“Yes, books can be dangerous,” she said slowly. “They hold too many truths. Truths can shatter peace.” Musa looked away. “I just like stories.” She chuckled. “Good. But some stories are better left untold.”
That night, as she went to her room, Musa waited. He waited until the house was silent. He waited until the hallway clock struck midnight. Then, barefoot and heart pounding, he crept out. Passing the mirrors without looking into them, he moved slowly down the cold hallway. And then he reached it—the red door.
He pressed his palm against it. Warm. He placed his ear to it. Silence. He touched the handle gently; it didn’t move. He looked around. Trembling, he traced the golden carvings with a finger. They pulsed under his skin. Suddenly, they glowed faintly. A soft hum filled the air. The door cracked slightly. Musa gasped, stepping back. The air grew heavier. The hum grew louder. The crack widened just enough for him to see inside.
It was dark. Then slowly, an eye appeared in the crack—large, black, human but wrong. It blinked once, then focused on him. Musa froze. His mouth opened, no sound escaping. The eye narrowed, a low whisper emerged: “Musa.” He screamed and ran back to his room, slamming the door, locking it, crawling under the bed. Hours passed as he shook, breath fast, waiting for morning.
When daylight came, he wasn’t sure if he’d survived the night or if something had followed him. He stayed under the bed, eyes wide, unable to move. Every sound made him jump—doors, footsteps, even the wind. Only when light confirmed it was well past morning did he crawl out, sit on the floor, breathing slowly. He had to escape before the seventh day. That eye wasn’t human—it was hunting him.
He washed his face and opened the door cautiously. Hallway quiet. House boys absent. He tiptoed downstairs, peered through the windows. Gray sky. Wind pushing the tall trees. Then he saw Barber Johnny at the gate, standing still in his blue uniform, cap low, eyes fixed forward. Musa felt drawn to him.
He slipped through the back and approached the gate carefully. “Sir,” he whispered. No response. “Please, I need help.” Johnny didn’t move. Musa stepped closer. “I saw something last night,” he whispered. “Behind the red door.” Still silence. “I read a diary. I’m number 14. Is that true?” Johnny blinked slowly. “You shouldn’t have opened that door,” he said, voice dry, cracking. Musa stepped back, heart racing. “So it’s real?” The old man nodded. “You are the 14th. The others are gone. Some became walls, mirrors, shadows that hum at night.”
Musa’s eyes widened. “Why me?” “She chooses boys with weak parents, parents who need money, parents too hungry to ask questions.” Musa swallowed. “My father…” “He was in debt,” the man said. “That’s how she gets them. Gives money, food, cows. Buys silence.”
“Who is she?” Musa asked. “Looks human, but she isn’t. They say she was a queen once, made a deal with something dark—a spirit promising youth and power.” “But the spirit wanted something in return,” Musa guessed. Johnny nodded. “Every seven days, she must offer a soul—a young one, full of life. The younger the boy, the longer she stays beautiful.”
Musa stepped back. “She’s going to kill me.” “Not quickly,” Johnny said. “First, she drains your reflection. Then she weakens your voice. You’ll find it harder to speak.” “She already has,” Musa said shakily. “I hear humming. I see hands in the mirror. I saw an eye last night. It called my name.”
“You don’t have much time left,” Johnny said. “You have to run.” “I tried,” Musa said. “The gate disappears when I approach.” “It’s a spell,” Johnny said. “But there’s a way—a small window between dusk and midnight when her power wanes. Reach the gate then, it may open.”
Musa’s eyes lit. “When?” “Tonight,” Johnny said, looking skyward. “When the sun touches the ground, shadows grow long—that’s your moment.” “I’ll be ready,” Musa said. “I’ll pack my things.” “No,” Johnny said. “You must leave empty-handed. Anything taken will follow you.” Musa’s face tightened. “What about the other boys? Can we save them?”
Johnny looked down. “Some are too far gone. Their names are gone. Their shadows belong to her now. But if you escape, her spell weakens.” The air shifted. Trees froze. Sun vanished behind dark clouds. Musa turned. Madame Veronica stood a few steps away. Her dress flowed like smoke. Eyes glowing faintly.
Silent, she stared at Johnny. He stepped in front of Musa. “I warned him,” he said calmly. “I broke the rule.” “You were never supposed to speak,” Veronica said softly. “Meant to guard the gate, not open it.” “I’ve watched too many boys disappear,” Johnny said. “He deserves to know the truth.”
She tilted her head. “You think you’re brave?” she whispered. “No,” he said. “I’m just tired.” Veronica raised her hands. In a heartbeat, Johnny gasped, clutching his chest. Gray skin, stiff legs, eyes wide. “No!” Musa screamed. Johnny turned to stone, frozen mid-sentence.
Musa fell to his knees, shaking. “You didn’t have to do that,” he cried. Veronica stepped closer. “You think I didn’t know?” she asked softly. “You think I didn’t feel the door open last night?” Musa looked up, tears in his eyes. “Why me?” She smiled. “Because you shine; your soul is bright. You are the kind that tastes sweet.”
She leaned closer, whispering, “And soon you’ll be mine.” Then turned away, walking slowly. Musa stared at the stone statue of Barber Johnny—his only help gone, his escape blocked. The mansion felt like a cage. Tomorrow would be the seventh day. Time ticking. The red door still waiting.
Musa didn’t eat. He sat at the table, eyes on the bowl of pepper soup, steam swirling. Her eyes watched him. Madame Veronica smiled. But this smile was different—larger, hungrier. “Eat, my love,” she said softly. “You haven’t touched your food.”
“I’m not hungry,” Musa said, voice calm. “You haven’t eaten all day,” she replied, touching his hand. “I had your favorite made.” Musa pulled away. “My stomach isn’t well.” Veronica nodded, smile steady. “Is it because of Barber Johnny?”
He looked up. “You turned him to stone.” “I did what I had to,” she said calmly. “He broke the rules.” “He helped me,” Musa said, trembling. “He told me the truth.” “The truth?” she asked, tilting her head. “And what truth is that?” Musa stayed silent.
Veronica circled the table, stopped behind him, hands on his shoulders. Warm, firm, strong. “You are afraid,” she whispered. “I can feel it. You think I want to hurt you, but I don’t. I chose you, Musa. Out of all boys, I picked you. You’re special.”
He stayed still. She leaned close to his ear. “You don’t understand being chosen, do you? Loved by someone who can give everything.” She crouched to meet his eyes. “I can give more than your father ever could. Power, gold, cars, everything.”
“I just want to go home,” Musa said quietly. She blinked, smiled. “You are home,” she said, clapping her hands. Two silent boys appeared, carrying boxes wrapped in gold cloth. “Bring them,” she said.
The boys placed the boxes. Veronica knelt. “Open them,” she said softly. Musa hesitated, then opened the first—inside, a brand-new iPhone. The second—golden wristwatch, sparkling. “These are yours,” she said. “More where that came from. Anything you want.”
Musa stared, then looked at her. “What do I have to do?” “Just stay. Be mine. That’s all.” Musa swallowed. “Okay,” he whispered. “Good boy,” she said, stroking his cheek. “I knew you’d understand.”
She stood. “Take the gifts to his room,” she said. Boys left. Veronica turned. “Tomorrow we celebrate. Chef prepares a royal meal. You’ll wear something special. Time to act like the prince of this house.” Musa nodded.
She walked to the stairs. “Sleep well tonight. Your real life begins tomorrow.” Musa ran to the sink, splashed cold water repeatedly. His heart wouldn’t calm. She was planning something. He had read it in the diary. Seventh day—the final bonding. Tonight was the sixth night. One more chance.
He didn’t touch the gifts, hid them under the bed, locked the door. Blanket pulled to his chin, eyes open. Fan rotated slowly. Mirror dark. Room silent. Minutes passed, hours, then a low humming.
Not the mirror this time, but the hallway. Half-closed eyes, he turned toward the door. Shadow passed under it. Handle turned. Creak. Musa held his breath. Shadow entered. He sensed her presence—Madame Veronica.
She paused at the foot of the bed, then moved to the mirror. Musa watched through his lashes, careful not to blink. Hand touched the glass. It glowed faintly. She turned, back to him. She pulled off her red gown. Then she did the unthinkable.
She unzipped her skin like a dress. Flesh peeled slowly, revealing something gray, veiny, inhuman. Shoulders widened, arms lengthened, neck cracked. Fully out of her human skin, her true form stood tall in the dark—creature, not human, not spirit. Body pulsed, breathing through its skin.
Symbols marked her back. Fingers long, curved, nails black and sharp. Eyes glowing red. She faced the mirror; it showed both selves—human and true—but smiling. Musa shivered, still under the blanket. She moved to the window, opened it wide, cold wind flowing in.
Whispered words Musa couldn’t understand. Wind answered with a deep sigh. She stepped back, carefully zipped her skin back on, pulled red gown over it, smiled at herself in the mirror. Then walked to the door, paused, looked at Musa. Heart stopped.
He remained still. She stared, then whispered, “Sleep well, my king,” and left. Door closed. Musa waited until silence returned, then sat up. Hands shaking, eyes wide, now knowing the truth—she was not merely evil, but a monster. Tomorrow she would claim his soul unless he escaped.
He didn’t sleep. Corner of the room, lights off, knees pulled up. Hands shaking, heart racing since seeing her shed skin. Madame Veronica was more than a witch; she wore human skin like a jacket. She smiled, walked like a person, but inside—creature. Tomorrow, he would be her next offering.
Today was the seventh day. Barber Johnny’s warning echoed: “You don’t have much time left.” Musa waited for sunrise. Light touched the sky, he unlocked his door and crept out. Hallway quiet. Mirrors still. House boys gone. He tiptoed to the red door. He had to see inside.
Hand on the carvings again. Warm, pulsing like a heartbeat. Looked behind. No one. He turned the handle. This time it opened. Creak. A narrow staircase led underground. Thick smell—earth, sweat, something sharp, bitter like blood.
Musa stepped inside. Door closed. Froze. One step, another. Stairs steep. Air colder each step. Bottom—a wide underground chamber. Walls carved with marks, red clay floor. In the center, boys—about a dozen, maybe more, black shorts, white shirts, barefoot, heads down, hands chained.
Humming that same sad, slow tune. Musa covered his mouth. One boy looked up, eyes white, no pupils. Whispered, “You came too late.” Musa’s voice cracked. “What is this place?” Another boy: “This is where she keeps us until we fade.”
Musa approached. “Can you be freed?” Boys glanced at each other. Smallest pointed to the wall. “There,” he said softly. “The gourd. Break it, maybe some of us survive.” Musa turned. In the corner, a small clay gourd on a stone platform, wrapped in red thread and cowries, pulsing as if alive. Step by step, he moved. “What is this?”
One older boy said, “That’s her life. Her youth. The souls she consumes are kept inside. That’s why she never grows old.” Musa reached out. A voice growled behind: “Don’t touch it.” Another boy had risen. Eyes black, more shadow than child. “She owns—
