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The stories you're about to read are as bizarre and strange as they come.

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© Chuks Obinna

STORY 1: MIRROR WORLD



'It's a wonderful world.'

He always told me that, each time we met. He was me, and I was him. But he had white hair and my hair was black. He wore his shoes weird--left pair on his right foot, and right pair on his left foot.

I always wore my shoes properly. Mom and dad always shouted at me whenever I make little mistakes like mismatching my shoes and all.

I always see him in my room, through my mirror.
'It's a wonderful world over here, I promise,' he'll always say to me. I was curious. I'd sit down in front of the tall mirror in my room. It had been grandma's but she's dead now and mum kept it in my room because she was scared of it. That's what dad says, anyway.

There's nothing scary about that mirror. If you stand in front of it and look hard you'll see strange things. That was how I met him, and that was how he was going to show me the wonderful world he lives in.

'My world is not wonderful,' I said to him sitting on the floor in front of the mirror. He also did the same, but sat on a field of the greenest grass I've ever seen, surrounded by flowers of yellow and blue and pink, and white. The clouds were very blue and calm.

'Why?' He asked, his brown eyes glowing. It looked like I was staring at my reflection, and sometimes it felt a little bit weird.

I opened my mouth to answer when my door burst open and dad stepped in. He looked angry, his eyes wide and his lips.pressed tight.

'Who is going to wash those plates eh, stupid boy?' He bellowed. 'Your mother is sick and all you do is sit down and...' he bent his head and stared at the mirror and then at me.

My lips shook as I looked up at him expecting him to ask who the boy with white hair was, but he said nothing and just left, slamming the door behind him.

I sighed, my eyes welling up with tears. 'Mother is sick. I think she'll die, I heard the doctor say that.' I looked up at him. 'Father is bad. I hate him.'

'Then come over here, take my place. You'll love it here.'
I wiped the back of my hand across my face and blinked away the tears.

'Really?'

He nodded.

'It looks beautiful over there.'

'It's a wonderful world,' he repeated. I sat back down and frowned. 'Why should we switch places, don't you like it there?'

The boy nodded. 'It's a wonderful world. Come, I'll show you.'

'But mother...I'll miss her. I can't leave her just yet.'
'Okay. Why not come in and play with me. You can go back anytime you want.'

I smiled. 'Really?'

He nodded slowly and stood up, stepping closer. I also stood up and stepped closer to the mirror, our steps synchronized.

'Just take my hand,' he whispered and stretched out his hand.

'Okay.'

I slowly reached out and pressed my hand on the cold face of the mirror. I could already feel the gentle brushes of the wind on the other side and even smell the flowers.

'Come on, reach in further,' he urged and I pressed harder. My fingers soon slipped in through the glass, ripples spreading out as it would on a stream. My hand went in deeper, then I noticed something different.

The cool breeze was gone. Well, not entirely. I could feel it brushing against my arm--which was now halfway into the mirror--but my fingers felt hot as if inches away from an open fire.

I gasped and looked up. The blue sky was now black, the green grass ashen and burnt and the flowers shriveled into dust.

'What...what is happening?'

He looked up at me, his brown eyes now red and his skin white. His face had a slash running across his nose, tearing into his upper lip, the pink of his livid flesh glaring. He smiled, showing yellow teeth, each pointed at the end.

'It's a wonderful world,' he growled. I screamed and tried to pull my hand away but he held me, his fingers digging deep into my flesh. I thought about mother in that last moment, right before he pulled me in and I became lost forever.

STORY 2: THE THING ABOUT DEMONS




Demons stink of rotten eggs.

That is what grandaunt said.

Whenever you perceive the odor of rotten eggs, be sure that a demon is nearby. Maybe even with you.
Those words have always fascinated me, at least until the day a demon came to my room.

I love sleeping with the lights off. It was a beautiful night, with a full moon shining into my room. it was an almost perfect night.

Silence. Whispers of soft breezes against the windows. Occasional tap tap sounds of birds on the roof. I was playing a fighting game on my phone, earpiece on and volume blasting now, so I guess that’s why I didn’t hear it come in.

The light on my phone dimmed when the battery dropped to 15%, so I knew it was time to sleep. I unplugged the earpiece, wrapped it around my phone, and dropped them on the bed. I always roll onto it each time I slept, but that didn’t stop the habit of placing my phone beside me.

I lay my head on the soft pillow, sighed and closed my eyes. That was when I got the first sign.

The smell came with the wind; sharp and fast. I quickly sat up and looked around. Of course, I was alone. The moonlight was suddenly dim, covered by clouds. My room was plunged into darkness.

My phone, I thought to myself and scrambled for it. It was gone. The smell came again, sharper and stronger. Rotten eggs. I became aware of the darkness around me, and the tapping on the roof. Birds, or the footsteps of a demon.

My body shook as I held my breath and tried to stay calm. My windows creaked and rattled, the tapping growing louder and the smell stronger. I couldn’t hold it anymore.

Stretching my legs off the bed and crashing on the floor, I dashed out of the room screaming. Lights came on around the house. Doors creaked open. Mother ran in, lantern in hand, screaming the blood of Jesus.

‘What is it? what is it?’ my father asked frantically.
I stammered, sweating profusely and panting as I pointed towards my room. My father dashed into his room and came back a moment later, armed with a sharp cutlass. I rolled my eyes.

You can’t kill a demon with an ordinary cutlass—at least not without first lining it with holy water and anointing oil. I couldn’t tell father that, for I was so out of breath that I felt nauseous and my knees felt weak and unsteady.

Mother held my hand and guided me to the couch while I watched with blurry eyes as father led the way, his cutlass glistening, and my older brother followed behind.

I managed to stand up, afraid the demon would come for me even though my mother had already drawn at least ten signs of the cross over my head and sprinkled me with ‘the blood’, a drop of which touched my lips. That blackcurrant is sour now, mum.

The corridor seemed to waver as I walked slowly, my eyes on the shaking ray of yellow light from the lantern. I’d just gotten near the door when I heard my father’s long hiss and his thunderous voice.

‘Come on pick it up!’

Was he talking to the demon? how commanding of him. Or was that the demon mimicking the voice of my father?

I peeked it, stretching my head in, only to see my brother crawling under the bed. The rotten smell turned my stomach and made me hold my breath.

‘I was just playing with him; I only forgot about them,’ my brother mumbled as he crawled from under my bed, a green bowl balanced in his hand.

I entered the room, my eyes on the bowl and all eyes on me. Three rotten eggs sat in it, faded yellow with a rancid liquid seeping out of the cracks on one of them.

The stench was so strong I fell over and hurled out my dinner. At least it’s no demon, I thought as I heard that unmistakable plat! of father’s dreaded slap, followed by my brother’s grunt.


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Story 3: Something Strange

Will you be my best friend?

The voice was soft and slow, and very, very clear. It had come from her room, she was sure of that because the house was silent and her mother had gone out to get some things from the market.

Her father was asleep in his room, and there was no way he’d be asking her if she wanted to be his best friend. Not in that soft, slow voice.

She placed the novel she’d been reading—basically just a young readers series about twenty pages long, which seemed almost too long for her—on her bed and rolled off, groaning at the thought of leaving the bed and at the same time curious about the voice she’d just heard.

She didn’t hear the voice again, at least for the full minute she’d spent kneeling by the side of the wall, where she thought the voice had come from.

A braided strand of her hair fell over her face, the tip decorated with colorful beads most of which had either fallen off or were about to. Holding her hair and subconsciously pulling at the beads on it, as she was fond of doing (which was why her mother almost always complained about the rate at which she had to replace the beads), she stood up.

Where did that voice come from?

She was sure it hadn’t been her imagination, but hadn't her mother said, the other day, that her thoughts had the power to get loud enough for her to hear them, and that her imaginations sometimes had voices?

That could explain the voice, and so she decided to go back to the book she was reading. Although she was perfectly okay with staring at the wall—her mother had gotten her a literature text and asked her to read some chapters, saying she would ask her questions when she got back.

Anything was better than reading about a poor girl who couldn’t go to school but somehow managed to overcome her misfortune and win a scholarship, ending up as a lawyer or doctor.

“Why do people always have to be lawyers or doctors, or engineers?” she’d asked her father one day. She tried to recall the answer he’d given her as she walked back to the bed, her feet dragging against the ground. Giving up a few seconds later, she picked up the book and continued reading.

“Chapter six,” she mumbled—which sounded more like a frustrated sigh—and touched the space beside her, groping for the pencil she used in circling relevant points for quick memorization when her mother came back.
She was sure her mother wouldn’t read the whole text, and so she guessed the few places where the questions would come from and circled them with her pencil.

Questions like: how old was the poor girl? Or who gave her the scholarship? That was the idea, but now a different question formed in her head as she squinted her eyes and looked around.
Where is my pencil?

The sheets on her bed were rumpled, the colorful designs of cartoon characters misshaped by the way the sheets folded.

Placing the book on the frame of the bed, she lifted the sheets and arranged it neatly, hoping to see the pencil fall off but that didn’t happen. She did, however, hear a scraping sound from the side of her bed, and also a soft giggle. Curious, she climbed on the bed, rumpling it again, and crawled to the edge. The edge of her bed, where her feet usually lay when she slept, was positioned a few inches close to her clothes drawer.

Between that space was a pile of her clothes which she’d been too lazy to pick up and fold, even though she knew her mother would yell at her and call her incompetent (whatever that word meant).

She stared at that pile, for it moved ever so slowly like it had some living creature underneath it. She hoped it wasn’t a rat—she hated rats—but then she heard the soft giggle again and it came from the pile of clothes.
It had to be her mind.

If not, how could she explain hearing the sound of a little child coming from the spot where her clothes lay? there was no way her clothes were big enough to hide her completely.

She knew this because she’d tried that before, a year ago, when she had a puppy. She’d always played hide and seek with it, even though the hid part was a bit too difficult as there wasn’t any good spot in the house to hide, at least a place where the puppy couldn’t get into, and Luna—for that had been the puppy’s name—had been good at sniffing her out.

Her favorite spot was the space between her bed and her drawer, crouching there and covering herself with her clothes. She sighed and tried not to remember those times, for the puppy had died a few months ago—It’d strayed out of the compound and fallen into a mud pond where it drowned.

Leaning against the frame of the bed, she stretched out her hand and tried to reach the pile of clothes. Her fingers wriggled slowly as it reached for the clothes, the giggles still audible and the movements under the clothes still obvious. Just as her fingers grazed against the light fabric, she heard a shrill noise from behind her. Letting out a gasp, she turned around to see that the TV had just come on.

At first, she thought it had come on of its own accord, but then her eyes caught the slow rotation of the ceiling fan; power had been restored.

She forgot about the pile of clothes and rushed to her light switch. She was much too slow though, she realized as she spotted her father’s hairy arm on the light switch. He snapped the switch and the bright light in her room fizzled out.

“Sarah,” his bold voice came as he opened her room door wider. Her father, just as tall as the door, bent into her room, his face tired-looking and his eyes red. He scanned the room with his eyes, taking in every inch and then stopped his gaze at her.

“Sarah, those power holding people have given us light and all the bulbs in your room are on?” he asked and looked at her TV which still showed static and let out its annoying shrill noise. He walked to it and unplugged it. “You know how high the bill is each time you leave everything on.”

“Sorry, pa,” she said and bowed her head. In truth, power had been out for a week and they’d been using the diesel generator parked at the backyard every night, and this always made her father grumpy as he always complained about diesel prices—actually, he always complained about everything.

He was even complaining at the moment, his lips moving fast and the veins in his neck straining, even as she let her thoughts roam and barely paid any attention.

“Are you even listening to me?” he snapped and scratched his chin which was covered with stubble, which he’d probably shave off very soon. His head was just as smooth as his chin would be if he does shave it.

She nodded slowly, not sure what he had said before the ‘are you listening to me’ part. She thought of the perfect, most generic reply and gave it to him.

“Sorry, pa.” Spicing it up by clutching her hands in front of her as if in prayer, and staring straight at him.

“Your mother will soon be back,” he said and held the door, ready to leave. “You should finish your book before she comes and starts complaining to me.”

Sounds boring. Let us play instead.

The voice was clearer this time, and louder, too. She gasped and turned around, expecting to see a little boy on her bed, for the voice had sounded like that of a boy her age, possibly a bit older.

“What is it?” her father asked and she stared at him, a puzzled look on her face. Did he not just hear that voice? She wanted to ask him, but she was sure he’d link it to ‘too much time in front of the TV’, as he did with everything else, and then that would be the end of TV in her room (a hotly debated topic in their home).

She shrugged. “Nothing.”

Her father narrowed his eyes at her and then looked behind him, mumbling something about how the power had gone out after just a few minutes of coming on.

“Read your book. It’s almost two, I have a program to watch.” He said that with the familiar grumble in his voice; the one he had whenever he knew he had to turn on the generator and consequently waste more diesel.
“Yes, pa,” she said and watched as he left the room and shut the door.

The ceiling fan in her room whirled slowly as it came to a stop. Now, she was beginning to feel slightly hot, although the room was a bit breezy and dry--it was December, after all, and the harmattan had kicked in early. A moment later, she heard the slam of the back door, and soon after that, the low rumble of the diesel generator as soon as it came on.

The fan whirled fast now, circulating the cold harmattan air around the room, making her sleepy as it always did, but sleep wasn't an option, not with her mother possibly on the way already, just like her father had said. And also…

A sound cut through her thoughts and made her turn around immediately—a slow ripping sound, the type she was all too familiar with when she made a terrible drawing, and became upset enough to rip it to shreds. She looked around for where the sound had come from and then she realized that her bed was rumpled. More rumpled than she'd left it and her book was gone.

She heard the ripping sound, and this time there was no mistaking that it'd come from underneath her bed. Another ripping sound and a piece of paper flew out from under her bed. It stopped just by her feet and she looked at it. She could only make out the bold CHAP of 'CHAPTER', and the words were hard to see because the paper had been ripped from the side, roughly to the top.

I'm in trouble, she thought, but in truth, that was not the first thought to cross her mind; it was more like the fourth, behind 'who is under my bed?' 'Thank god I don't have to read that book again', 'oh no, what will I tell mother?' and finally, 'I'm in trouble'.

Inhaling slowly, she took a slow step towards her bed. The moment she pushed her foot forward, the ripping sound stopped and she heard a scramble under the bed. She dropped to the floor and looked under the bed, hoping to catch the person, whoever they were.

It was dark under her bed, and full of cobwebs and dust, not to mention the old shoes and toys, and a large trunk in which her old books were (because buying new ones were not enough, apparently, and the old ones were supposed to be ‘important’).

Her frail hand pushed against these cluttered junk, shifting and probing further, trying to ignore the dryness of the dust and tickling of the cobwebs against her hand.

"Ah!" she gasped when she felt the thin cover of what she was sure was her book. Her fingers clasped around it and she held it tight, but something tugged it in the opposite direction.

She tried to pull it out, stopping only to take a peek under the bed to catch a glimpse of whatever was in there. She tugged hard and it tugged harder, stretching her hand further under the bed.

Her shoulder bumped against the bed and she winced in pain. That was when she heard the giggles again, and this time it was much closer to her; so close that she could feel a rising warmth, like someone's breath, against her neck.



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STORY 4: THE HUNTER'S CHRONICLES

The trail went cold just as I reached the edge of a little mechanic village.

That was literally the name written on the brown signpost with rusty peeled-out edges: 'A LITTLE MECHANIC VILLAGE.'

The air behind me was dry and gusty, blowing fine dirt across my face, and flaying the dirty white cloth wrapped around neck. It was the desert part of the country, and the dryness around was starting to disturb me.

But that was merely a distraction; the village right in front of me had a certain strangeness to it.

The warm air was filled with the tangy smell of metals and stinging odor of black oils. The black smoke in the distance, churned slowly and cast a melancholic shadow over the village.
I have heard of this place, sometime during my travels. I never thought my job would take me here.

I am a hunter, you see, and ever since the last decade or so, the need for my kind has steadily increased, what with the steady increase in the looseness of our specific preys: demons and evil spirits—Mmuo, as they were called—from the world across ours.

In years past, decades and centuries ago, a class of witch doctors—dibias—appeased these spirits and convinced them to stay in their world. But as the years dragged on, and technology and the new ways began to follow, the practice died. Apprentices became uninterested, and dibias became unheard of.
Slowly, the dibias became lost to time and now, with no one to restrict them, the spirits started coming back, successfully crossing through to our world.

I stepped into the village, slowly walking through the mostly-dirt road and looking for signs of life, and also signs of him. The wooden houses reeked of rotting flesh, the broken windows creaking and most of the houses razed to the ground, the edges dark with coal and red with flames.

My target, a maleficent being known as 'Ngonga, was a tricky one-they get trickier after every hunt; more brazen and deceptive, eager to kill and possess the living.

'Ngonga, a shape shifter–I hated those. He was said to have been spawned by the devil himself, deep within the cores of hell. I didn't agree; he was just another pest waiting for extermination.

The village seemed abandoned, 'Ngonga had certainly been here. I felt a tingle in the air. He could still be around.

The buildings were all alike: makeshift shacks and shelters made of oiled brown wood and patched with corrugated iron sheets. The inhabitants of the village, as I've heard, were mostly men, and so didn't feel the need for elegant dwellings.

They were also mostly mechanics who spent their days head-deep in oil-stained engines, for that was their only delight.

I heard a squishy sound as I stepped on something soft. I looked down at my feet, my eyes narrowed. I'd stepped on some sort of bag which had broken under the weight of my boot.

The dark edge of my boot was submerged in a thick liquid: a dark red mixture that vibrated in tiny waves and began to encroach up the leather bindings of my boot.

I shook the liquid off my boot and wiped two fingers across the sole. It smelled like nothing, the liquid, and it quickly dissolved against the sun.

A noise attracted my attention. I turned around and listened. It was the grinding of an old truck, or a generator, one that was not in sight.

I saw a trail of thick dark smoke moving slowly into the sky, around the side the noise had come from. Brushing off the crease on my dark trousers, I squeezed my hand into a fist and began to approach the noise.

The shack looked older than the rest—eaten-up wooden posts, washed-up white paints that were crusty and peeled, showing off the brown of the ancient wood beneath, rusty brown sheets across the sides with irregular holes in them and a broken wooden step.

I went in through the front. The steps creaked as I climbed them, threatening to break against my weight. An owl hooted just as I approached the door; a bad omen–you learn to take note of omens.

The grinding sound increased as I walked into the dark shack, accompanied by low hisses and pounding. The only source of light was the door at the opposite end, a short distance from the entrance.

I sniffed the air, it smelled damp and of mildew. The sunlight shone against my face as I reached the open door, the grinding sound was now deafening.

It came from an old diesel generator, black and oily, with a broken exhaust pipe that vomited thick black smoke.

I stood by the door, watching the smoke and then listened to the distinct clanking coming from behind the old generator. Someone was there.

I remained where I stood for a few minutes. The generator sputtered on, the mechanic (whoever he was) clanked on, and the smoked spiraled away, in the same pattern, upwards.
Suddenly the sputtering and grinding stopped and the smoke died down. The air rang with silence.

"One of the relics of the old century, rusty old thing. A miracle it still starts," a low voice said and then I heard the loud clank of a metal tool as it hit the ground.

The man, healthy looking with circular glasses and an oil stained apron, came into view. His skin was dark and his hair sprinkled with white greying hairs. He moved around the generator and shut a small compartment after shoving a stained rag into it.

He looked at me, not at all surprised at my presence, and walked across to a metal sink wedged into the side of the building.

The water rushed in a thin stream over his hands, coming out oily brown into the bowl.
I watched him carefully–the man was deliberate in his action, whistling low as he washed between each finger. The sink dripped water unto the floor board beneath but, oddly, the water didn't collect in one spot, rather it streamed upwards across the edge of the sink and back into the pipe.

"Don't think I've seen you around, friend," he said, and faced me, wiping his wet hands on his trousers.

"I just arrived," I answered. "I'm... searching for someone."

He nodded and then shrugged, scratching the base of his scattered white beards.

"The village is deserted, most of the men have gone. Women left long ago."

I walked across the generator, running my hand across the glossy edge.

"What about you?"

He moved over to an old cane chair and sat on it, grunting and then sighing contently. He reached into the pocket of his shirt, a black wooly material, and retrieved a small square pack.

The pack rattled as he shook it, and the he opened it and took out a light blue mint-like substance which he then threw into his mouth.

"No, thanks." I said, when he offered me some. The stuff smelled foul, I watched him keenly.
He shrugged and cleared his throat.

"What about me, you ask?"

I looked on.

He replaced the pack, again deliberately. And then with a smile, he spoke.

"Well, I come and go. I'm a traveler, if you wish to call me that. This village–" he looked around, "this village suits me–serene, warm and full of richness."

"How long have you been here?" I asked, moving closer to him. There was a mark on his shirt, just by the pocket, that attracted my attention.
He smiled again, "who knows, two weeks, maybe three, tops." He was looking up at me now.

"I'll have that mint now, on second thought."
He smiled. "Good choice."

As he reached out the pack, I feigned a false step and fell forward, slighting his hold on the pack. It fell to the floor.

"My bad," I apologized and squatted to reach for the pack. My eyes were on the mark burned into his shirt, a dark red half circle, like a snake. He was no longer smiling when he caught my gaze.

I handed the pack back to him, grazing his arm slightly and stepped aside.

"You, tell me, what's your business here and why are you dressed like a desert man?" His voice seemed thicker now, and noticeably harsher. He hissed.

"I'm a hunter, if you may," I said and peeled off the wrap across my neck, folding it over my arm.

His eyes opened wide and then he quickly switched back to a bland expression.

"That red mark across your face–"

"A birth mark. My destiny, they say."
The mark on my face was a birthmark, yes, but not my destiny. It was a wide slash across my left cheek, straight up to my right ear. Red and menacing.

"I have heard tales of the barbaric men of the north; great hunters, I am told, although their prey is of a much peculiar kind." He suddenly stood up from creaking chair, rubbing his chest as if massaging a burn, his face contorted.

"Tell me, what exactly do you hunt?" His voice was no longer friendly, flashing with red.

My eyes were on the growing inflammation on the part of his arm I'd grazed. His forehead glistened with sweat and his step faltered.
I stared straight into his eyes, "Let's just called them strangers."

He turned his back to me and began to chuckle. Low and steady at first, and then rough and high pitched, followed by short coughs.

"Strangers you say?" His voice was sharper now, "we just met, do you think I'm a stranger?"
I didn't answer. He still had his back against me.

He chuckled again, "what was that you grazed my arm with?"

A small substance we called the revealer. A little smear on any mmuo and they 'came out of character'. This one was obviously strong, he seemed to be battling with it.

"A mixture of angel dust and holy water." I said to him.

"Oh, that explains it."

As he said this, the clothes on his body fell on the floor.

I quickly stepped back, eyes on the wriggling pile on the floor. I'd never battled a shape shifter before, but if it was anything like the rest mmuos I'd encountered, then I had this covered.

The pile of clothes suddenly stopped wriggling and then a hissing sound escaped from it. I looked closely and watched as a black snake slithered from underneath it.

The snake was long, its body covered with hard scales which glistened like shards of glass. It kept crawling close to me, just as I kept moving backwards. I waited for the tail of the snake to appear, but nothing. Unless....the snake was a tail.

I heard a growl behind me, gasped and turned around. A heavy smack caught me on my face and flung me high into the air. I crashed noisily into a pile of boxes.

"You know nothing of the great 'Ngonga, mighty shape shifter."

I felt the floor thud as he approached me. I grunted from the pain on my shoulders and stared at...whatever he was. The snake had been his tail. He was like a huge lion, on all fours, very furry with two great horns protruding from the side of his head. The tail swung from side to side, hissing.

I quickly drew my handgun from my belt and threw into my left hand, and aimed. Bang1 white smoke covered my face as I fired the first. The bullet whizzed through the air and hit him on the shoulder.

He growled, and I fired again...and again, exhausting six rounds, the empty shells clanking as they hit the dry earth. The second shot hit his tail, the force of which ripped off the snake's head.

The rest rounds missed as he leaped into the air and morphed into a zipping bird, fluttering fast and cawing loud.

I was on my feet now. I reloaded and aimed at the bird which kept zipping here and there. I groaned and squeezed the trigger. The chambers whirled and the spring clicked, releasing a haze of flame-red bullets. He dodged them all.

He zipped towards me the moment the last round clicked. As he approached, a tiny black crow, he suddenly became like a man.
He gripped the gun off my hand and smacked it against my face.

I grunted, spurting out blood and saliva, and then he flung me across the dirt, my body tumbling against the hard earth.

I tried to get up, shaking my head, and listening to the fast approaching feet, and then hooves.
I rolled over just as he rode past me. I stood on my feet, the wrap around my face flapping against my ears. I dipped my hand into my satchel and picked out two small white orbs.
He brushed air through his nostrils, his eyes blood-red.

He was in the form of a huge antelope, its horns pointing long into the sky. The animal suddenly stood on its hind legs and the horns retracted into his head, his long nose shifting inwards and his ears drawing down to the side of his face. He had a smirk on his face as his size increased steadily. He was like a huge man now, burly and sweaty.

He ran towards me, and I did the same. I screamed and tossed the two orbs at him. He instinctively set his hand forward and shielded his face –but that didn't matter; the orbs exploded into a white powder and he stood still.
"Cheap tricks," he grunted.

I shrugged, "works for me."

The orbs trapped him in his current form for a few minutes. A few precious minutes.
Panting, my body aching all over, I threw a punch across his face, he swayed to the side and exposed himself. I withdrew my dagger and stabbed his side, releasing a spring of glowing blue blood.

He shrieked and smacked me heavily into the air. I was getting tired of being flung around like a ball.

There was nothing to break my fall this time as I landed hard on the ground, raising a cloud of brown dust. He shrieked again and charged at me.

Muttering some words, I reached for a light green herb and shoved it into my mouth. The dirt around me whooshed as I became the air.
He suddenly stopped, grunting and breathing hard.

"Show yourself, little hunter, fight like a man who has dignity."

He kept looking around, trying to find me.
"I am a man," I said, appearing right behind him, the barrel of my gone to his head. I squeezed the trigger behind his head. The bang was deafening, and his groan loud.

He fell forward with a loud thud, a squishy mix of fluids exploding onto my body and the ground around where he fell.

I wiped the stuff off my face and spat out the herb. There was a fallen stump just beside the dead shape shifter. I sat on it and spent the next hour treating my wounds, my weapons on the ground where beside me.

Exactly two hours later, I was out in the yellow desert. I'd caught another trail.

When you do what I do–when you have that red mark across your face, you don't fight for dignity, you fight to get the job done. Whatever means necessary.

STORY 5: THE DEVIL IS A LIAR

Bob Damian aka the devil roamed the streets of lowertown, Coastal city, in search of whom to devour. He found his man in Judas Akachi, a balding sweaty middle-aged taxi driver standing by a DVD shop, biting his nails and occasionally scratching his backside.

The devil, a thin man dressed in a well pressed black shirt on a plain white trouser—simply because he tried to avoid the clichéd black on black outfit—walked up to Judas.

"Excuse me, Sir,’ he said and strolled up beside the balding man, "may I have a moment of your time?"

Judas, who'd been engrossed in a movie poster, suddenly turned to see who was addressing him. It was the devil and he knew it; everyone knew the devil when they saw him. The thin and frail looking frame was unmistakable and that pleasant smile always got your attention.

"Sure," he answered with a flashy smile which showed off a row of stained teeth. "I have all the time in the world."

The devil smiled and shook his head. "That's quite curious."

"And why is that?" Judas asked, rubbing a dirty palm on the seat of his faded jean shorts.

"Well, it is quite curious because the reason I need a moment of your time is because you will die today."

Judas wiped his eye brows and stared intently at the devil. It was common knowledge that this guy was something of a trickster but sometimes there was truth in his seemingly rubbish talk.

He decided to play along and see where this went. If he truly was going to die today he would simply run to his lawyer's firm, SALVATION Inc. and complain to pastor Theophilus. But first, the devil.

"I see. I don’t think that will be very convenient for me."

The devil shrugged coolly and adjusted his shirt. ‘Life and death is never convenient.’
Judas remained silent for a while and then looked up at the thin man.

"Okay." He nodded.

"Good,’ the devil replied and dipped his right hand into his pocket, producing an old watch.
Judas stretched his neck in a bid to catch a better glimpse of the glistening metal trinket.
"What is that?" He asked.

"Ah, but it is your life, you see,’ the devil answered with flourish’, handing the stopwatch over to Judas.

Judas held the silver trinket in his dirty palm and turned it over in the sun. It had his name carved on the back of it. Judas was a bit worried now.

"My life?"

The devil shuffled his feet on the concrete pavement, hardly bothered by the strange looks people shot at him as they passed by.

"Yes, your life, as a timer which ends in…" He placed his palm over his eyes and stared at the sun, a thin smile on his lips. ‘less than twenty-four hours."

Judas gulped and fingered the carvings on the metal trinket. He then looked up at the devil. "I guess you want me to do something, like sell my soul or…?"

The devil hissed and frowned for just a split second. Sell his soul? that was a stereotype. He wasn't always after souls although that could be an option. We'll see, he thought.

"Tempting but I doubt your soul would be worth much,’ he said and his gaze strayed over Judas' battered taxi—a green and white metal junk that had obviously seen better days—and then he looked him over from his faded brown shirt to the stained jean shorts he had on. Definitely not his soul. He'd chosen him for a different reason.

The devil shook his head.

Judas heard a beep on his watch. He checked it and saw it was 13:30, lunch time was over. He turned to his taxi, a beauty he was proud of, and then looked at the devil.

"Time for work, Judas?" The devil asked in a tone which seemed to suggest 'if you leave you'll die."

Judas looked more nervous now. Sweat formed on his forehead and he licked his dry lips. He didn't want to die, not yet. The movie poster he was staring all so longingly at before the devil showed up was of a movie he anticipated, one that would not be out until the year’s end.

"What do you want?"

The devil looked across the street and saw a glimmering light. His lips tightened. Death was around the corner, the bastard.

"Walk with me,’ the devil said and began treading the path that led towards Middletown, away from the grim and filth of the poor slums of lowertown. Judas followed him.

After a while of walking in silence, the devil spoke.

"I really don't need your soul, Judas."

"You mean you can't have it?" Judas asked, remembering what pastor Theo had Said:

"The devil moves about like a roaring lion seeking whom to devour. He can't have your soul, not unless you trade it."

'"Technically, " the devil answered, "but I shouldn't have to worry about that, you already offered yours earlier."

Judas scratched the back of his head and then considered if it would be rude to bite his fingers again, a nervous habit. He shrugged and dipped his hand into his pocket. The devil was up to something, maybe he should play it safe.

"Do I need to call my lawyer?"

The devil paused in his stride and scoffed. "You mean those scrawny-necked bastards at SALVATION inc.?" he shook his head and chuckled, muttering some words to himself.
Judas opened his mouth to answer but stopped. The devil continued.

"I have no respect whatsoever for those so-called lawyers. Although their boss, God, now that's someone I respect. We have a sort of hate-hate relationship; you see I once worked for..." He stopped and shook his head. "I think we're getting besides my point here."
He tugged at the cuffs of his starched shirt. "I want to help you and as I've said before you've got less than 24 hours to live."

Judas sighed.

"What do you want?"

"It's not what I want but what I can give you."
Judas watched a taxi drive by, it shared an awful resemblance with his—spurting out smoke and backfiring constantly.

"So what can you give me?"

"Hope and an existence." The devil replied and plucked a paper out of thin air.

Judas looked closely at the paper, it was a contract of some sort–he knew better than to sign that.
"What do you mean by existence?"

The devil spotted that glimmer again and focused on Judas.

"You barely exist; in fact, nobody knows you."
"That's a lie. Nosa knows me; he always shouts 'my friend' whenever I come to his shop."

The devil scoffed and then chuckled.

"You mean the guy from that DVD shop you always hang out in? He doesn't even know your name. That's why he keeps calling you 'my friend'."

The devil was suddenly reading from a small book in his hands, his lips pursed like a parent reading through their child’s report card.

"You've got no ambitions or dreams and you live your life as one sorry, dreary routine." He scoffed and said to himself, "and he thought I wanted his soul."

Judas frowned. That explains it; maybe he didn't exist after all. He looked up.
"But you're the devil.’ He said this with a weak apprehension.

"Yes, I am the devil so automatically I'm the bad guy. Do you need my help or not?"

Judas thought for a while and then shook his head. "I don't need your help and I don't care if I don't exist or if I die."

The devil shrugged again and brought out the ticking stopwatch from before. Judas searched his empty hand when he saw the watch with the devil.

"Time is not on your side."

Judas groaned and stormed off. The devil smiled as he watched him walk away and then his smiled faded when that glimmer caught his attention again.

"You had to show up, didn't you?" He turned to the dark individual standing before him. His name was Junior, the grim reaper's apprentice. He currently wielded the staff of power. The staff with its metal blade, the one they called 'the scythe', was what glimmered under the sun.

"You called me, so here I am."

Unlike the devil, Junior was old fashioned in the sense that he dressed in a flowing dark robe, the one typical of death. His master had technically made him wear that, but he liked it eitherway.

"You can have him; I'm done with him." The devil said and they both stared at Judas who'd walked quite a distance. He stopped before a busy intersection, ready to cross.

Junior looked at the devil. "He did have twenty-four hours, didn't he?"

The devil’s smile widened. "Even more, he had a rich life ahead. That's why I chose him. He is nothing but a chaffy mess now, stripped of his ambitions and will to live. I’m satisfied."
Junior whistled and shook his head.

"What can I say, the devil is a liar.’ The devil chuckled and started to walk away.
Junior looked at him and then at Judas, "But he'll die now because he thinks he's got nothing to live for."

"That's the idea. Now go do your job."

Bob Damian AKA the devil began his roaming again. He stopped by a crowded shop and turned to the woman next to him. With a big smile, he spoke: "Excuse me, ma'am, may I have a moment of your time?"

STORY 6: WITCHING HOUR



"Ye tho I walk through the valley of the shadow of...." I paused, my breathing heavy and my fingers locked together. I was beginning to find it increasingly difficult to finish this simple prayer.

I kept my eyes shut, afraid to open it without finishing my prayers. Mother had once said that if I opened my eyes without finishing the prayers I would be inviting the devil. I believed her. I still did.

"In the name of the father, and the son and..." I tried to start my prayers all over again and still couldn't get past the first lines.

My breathing increased and I felt the sharp pain of my heart hammering against my chest.
I freed my fingers and slowly opened my eyes. The wooden floor creaked as I stood up from it. My knees hurt slightly and my head ached, as it did every night.

I looked around the tiny room, it was dark save for the tiny rays of moonlight hitting the metal bowl on the floor.

The room was also quiet except for the consistent dripping of water on the wooden floor and its splashing on the bowl.

I moved up towards the bowl and bent to adjust the position, the ceiling had been leaking after the rain yesterday.

The small window creaked as a draft of air rushed past it. I walked a few steps to the window and pushed it open.

The window was not so big; in fact, it was exactly the size of my head. I closed my eyes and sniffed the cold air; it would rain again, and soon. I did every night, placing my head by the window and looking out. That was the best I could do.

I stood back from the window and tried to remember why I was still awake at midnight.
Oh yes, the voices in my head. The voices that were always talking to me. No, it wasn't my thoughts, I can easily tell my thoughts apart. The voices were always whispering quietly, telling me what to do.

At midnight, these voices got louder, and sometimes more aggressive.

They'd even taken over my body once, when I had been dreadfully ill. I heard mother say I had been sleep-walking and that maybe it was the medication.

But then, there had been other instances. One time, when I had been going home from school, I'd decided to take a dark corner street. The street had been empty as I knew it would, but I took it anyways.

It was shorter I liked the nice smell of jollof rice and chicken I was always perceived from the fast food restaurant just a block away, the one mother never took me to.
I was walking quietly, aware of the honking and rushing of cars fading behind me and then the voices came up again.

"What will you do?" They asked.

I ignored the voice. I always did.

"What will you do?" It raged on and I got distracted and stepped on a puddle of brown water, soaking my black sandals. I groaned and yelled, "what!"

The voices calmed down.

"The man coming behind you, he wants to harm you, what will you do?"

I felt my heart skip a beat and then I clutched my school bag, the leather creaking subtly.

I didn't turn back yet, I just listened. I suddenly became aware of the thudding of boots behind me. That was when I turned.

"Hey, little girl," The man called out.

I groaned and then grimaced at the sight of him. He wore a faded, grease stained brown shirt and an equally faded jean shorts. I could smell him from where I stood, and he was still a good distance away.

He kept walking towards me, exposing his rows of yellow teeth in an awkward grin and looking around him. The street was dark, so he had no worries.

"Nice body you have there,’ he muttered and licked his lips, his eyes twitching. Oddly, I stood still, transfixed.

"What will you do?" The voices beckoned. I let go of the straps of my bag and squeezed my hands into fists. I felt angry.

I was out here because of mother, I hated her for that; I hated this man for creeping up on a young girl like me, and I hated the presence of those voices in my head and how I felt alone when they weren’t there.

I noticed that the voices grew louder the moment I got angry, and when they were loud they usually took control.

"You should kill him," a tiny, distinct voice said. I gasped and shook my head, trying to rid myself of those voices.

The man was close now and he had a greasy hand on my shoulder.

"Want to play a game?" He said, I looked away and felt my stomach churn. If the game was let's-see-who-smells-the-most, then he’d won for sure.

I got hold of my thoughts and remembered what mother always said about strange men: run, scream and never look back.

That was what I wanted to do; that was what I asked the voices to let me do, but the man touched me.

He let his hand move down to my face and he used his other hand to rub my chest, grinning the whole. I felt my body recoil at his touch, and then they took control.

My eyes burned and tears streamed down. I tried screaming but I couldn’t; all I could do was watch, through them, as they made him float in the air.

He looked confused at first, then scared…really scared, his eyes wide and his lips shaking.

But I was angry, and my anger fueled the voices. The man soon clutched his neck and started to groan and gasp, his legs dangling in the air. His eyes turned white and thick foam filled his mouth.

‘Finish it,’ a voice said, except this time it was my voice.

Snap! His neck bent to the side and his body eyes rolled inwards. He fell to the ground and crumpled up, dead. I picked my bag and ran away, the voices silent at that moment.

So, you see, those voices were not my thoughts. They were something else…something powerful.

I moved around the dark room and sat on the iron bed which creaked under my weight.

Thunder rumbled and then it suddenly began to rain. I looked up at the window, seeing just a slight part of the moon from my angle.

The rain beat down on the glass pane around my window.

I thought of home and I felt empty.

And then I felt enraged. They'd locked me here. They had no faith in me at all.

They called me mysterious, strange…witch.
I looked around the small dark room and heard that distinct mocking voice again.

"Witch!" It cried.

"I am not a witch!" I cried, slamming my fists on the bed. The floor shook slightly and the bed creaked loud.

My eyes opened wide as I saw the room light up, blue streaks of light dancing around me. I'd done it again. Maybe I was a witch after all.
Like I said, I'd done it again. Meaning this was not the first time I'd summoned those light things.

A few months ago, before my parents brought me to this cursed place, just a few weeks after discovering those voices in my head, I discovered something else.

Mother always said I was a stubborn child by nature and that stubborn children needed to be handled roughly. She always had a bible passage to back each of her theories. "Spare the rod and spoil the child" was her favorite.

This was the reason why I hated father less than I hated mother. Father didn't beat me, but I hated that he was under the control of mother. He had been against them bringing me here but had done nothing. A pitiful weakling, he was.

On this occasion, mother had me kneel in front of her, a long cane in her hand and a bible in the other.

Her voice was blurred out in my ears, drowned out by the voices speaking in my head. I couldn't hear myself think. Literally.

I watched mother's mouth move steadily and seriously, not making out a word.

She closed the bible and said something to me, I nodded and said yes. I had no idea what it was but I've learnt to always say yes to mother. I had the scars from that lesson.

Mother stood on her feet, gripping the cane tightly and gesturing with all her fingers. I guess that meant I was to receive ten lashes with that cane.

She began lashing out at me. The first stroke landed with a loud twip. I winced as I felt the cane burn into my skin and then suddenly, just as it'd come, it died down.

The voices grew louder in my head.
"Kill her, stop her, fight back, don't cry!!" So many voices, so much that I didn't know when mother dropped the last stroke.

She stood back, breathing heavily and watching in surprise as something weird happened.
My face became darker and my eyes went white. The voices, they were driving me crazy. I shook my head rapidly, unaware of mother and focusing only on the voices.

"Enough!!" I yelled and the voices fell silent.
I blinked rapidly and listened to my own voice. The voice I'd just yelled in. It hadn't sounded like me, instead I felt like I'd channeled all the voices and yell with them all at once, like a mighty echo composed of a thousand voices.
I also heard a loud crash as I noticed mother fly back from where she stood and crash into our plate cupboard.

Father rushed in immediately.
"What happened?!" He yelled, but I just stood there and watched, feeling my breathing calm slowly.

The words and the sound were all blurred out as I tried to comprehend what had just happened.
That was really the first time I had actually 'manifested'. The first of many to come.


Thanks for reading ☺

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