The house had never been quiet—walls groaned like old men, floorboards creaked with every breath of wind. But tonight, silence held its breath. Lwandle's mother, Thembeka, sat hunched on the couch, Bible clutched tightly in hand, mumbling verses to herself. She hadn't slept since the night the mirrors bled.
Upstairs, Lwandle stood barefoot on the wooden floor, staring at the trapdoor in the hallway—the one they had always kept locked. Until now.
The padlock lay twisted, snapped as though something from beneath had forced its way up. Dust floated in the air like ghostly snow as the door creaked open, revealing the yawning black beneath.
He heard it again. That voice.
*"Come closer... I want to see your eyes."*
It was Lwandle's voice—but distorted, hollow, like someone wearing his skin but not his soul.
He climbed down slowly. The ladder groaned under his weight. The air grew colder with each step. The basement smelled of burnt wax and iron. His foot touched the dirt floor.
Symbols, drawn in chalk and smeared with blood, glowed faintly on the walls. Animal bones formed strange patterns, and in the center—an old rocking chair.
It rocked slowly... by itself.
Suddenly, a hand clutched his ankle.
Lwandle screamed.
But when he looked down, there was nothing there.
Then the whisper came again—this time from *inside* his head.
*"They buried me... but I never left. You opened the door, child. Now we are one."*
His eyes turned black for a moment. He stood frozen. Then smiled—slowly, cruelly, as if someone else had taken the wheel.