He inherited his uncle’s cursed house. 

He inherited his uncle’s house. No one dared to enter there for 20 years. Fiona’s African Stories. Quamé had always been the son model. He who studied seriously, who found stable employment, who sent money to his mother every month. But in the capital where he worked, the rents devoured the half of his salary.

 He shared a two rooms with two other colleagues, slept on a mattress in the living room, dreamed of having his own space. So when the notary called for him announce that he inherited the house family of his uncle Daouda, who died without descendants, Quamé believed that his life was finally going to change.

 A whole house free in a neighborhood residential on the outskirts. It was unexpected. Yet when he announced the news to his mother by telephone, there had a long silence. Then she said simply, “This house, you should not Don’t go there, my son.” She didn’t want nothing to add, but in his voice, Quamé had heard something that he didn’t didn’t know. Fear.

 The notary asked again with a strange look. “Your uncle left the house to provided that she remains in the family, sir. But no one has entered it since the funeral. 20 years old, smiles. The superstitions, he didn’t believe in them. He was a modern, educated man, a abandoned house. It is a house renovate, nothing more.

 This that he didn’t know yet was that some houses keep the secrets of those who inhabited them and that some secrets don’t want to stay buried. The house stood at the end of a street quiet, surrounded by a high wall of parpin. The neighbors had built all around modern buildings with gates automatic and satellite dishes.

 But the Uncle Daoua’s property seemed frozen in time as if the last 20 years didn’t have it touched. Cué pushed the rusty gate which squeaked violently. The garden was invaded by weeds. The fruit trees were crumbling under the rotten fruit that no one was picking up. A smell of damp earth and of decaying vegetation floated in the air.

 The house itself was a two-story building, late colonial style with a wide veranda and wooden shutters. The paint was peeling off in patches, revealing the grayish crackle in underneath, but the structure seemed solid. Approaching the door At the outset, Quamé noticed something strange.

 Despite twenty years of abandonment, there was no window broken, nor trace of break-in, as if no one, even thieves or the squatters, had never dared enter. He inserted the key in the lock. She turned with difficulty then gave way with a snap dry. The door opened into darkness dusty. The interior smelled contain, but also other thing. A smell that is difficult to identify.

Sweet, vaguely sweet, like wilted flowers mixed with cold auction. The furniture was still there, covered with white cloth that sounded like ghosts in the half-darkness. Kuame walked into the living room. His footsteps echoed on the tiles. He opened the shutters of a window, letting in daylight.

The dust danced in the rays of the sun. Everything remained in place. the biblot on the shelves, the frames on the wall, even yellowed newspapers on the coffee table, as if his uncle was simply out for a race and was never income. On the main wall of the living room, featured a large photographic portrait in black and white.

 Uncle Daouda, young, the severe look, dressed in a three-piece suit. Quamé does not had only seen him sometimes in his childhood. A taciturn man who rarely received visitors, who lived alone. Next to the portrait, another photo, a woman beautiful with an enigmatic smile wearing traditional jewelry. Uncle Daouda, older, stood near from her, but did not touch her.

 Their body formed a strange distance on the photo. Kuamé did not know not this woman. His mother had never mentioned that the uncle had married. He explored the ground floor. The kitchen still had dishes in the cupboards, canned goods expired for decades. The room to eat, with its long solid wood table, looked like it was prepared for a dinner which had never happened.

 Three cutlery was laid out. Covered in dust. Three place settings. Why three? For a man who lived alone. The staircase led to upstairs. The steps cracked under his weight. At the top, a corridor served four doors. Three were ajar. The fourth at the very back was closed. Kouamé pushed the first door.

 A guest room, a staff, the bed made square. The second door, a library, the shelves crumbling under the dusty books. The third, an outdated bathroom, tiled floor sky blue, clawfoot bathtub. Remained the door closed. He approached. The handle was different others in solid worked copper with geometric patterns.

  He wanted to open it but something stopped him. A presentiment, a intuition that it was better to wait. He came back down, deciding to start by cleaning the ground floor. Tomorrow he would take care from the floor. Before leaving, he took one last look at the living room. The portrait of his uncle seemed follow with your gaze.

 And for the first time, Quamé noticed a detail disturbing. In the background of the photo, we vaguely distinguished a door, the same copper door upstairs, it was sure of it. The next day, Kuamé returned with cleaning equipment and a friend, Marcus, who had agreed to help him in exchange for some tickets and a beer.

 “Frankly, she Your place isn’t bad”, said Marcus. inspecting the premises. “You will be able to fix it up, rent it, make you a good income supplement or settle there, replied Quamé. save my rent, put money aside. Marcus pouted doubtful. Are you going to live here? It’s far from your job, right? A hour of transport, is it okay? And then look at this space, a garden, several rooms.

 I could even bring my mother from time to time. They began by taking out the sheets which covered the furniture. Below, everything was surprisingly well preserved. Leather sofa barely cracked, polished wooden tables, old but intact chandeliers. The uncle Daouda had taste and money.

 Around noon, while he was taking a pose in the garden, an old A woman appeared on the other side of the wall. She was watching them from the neighboring property, standing on a chair to see over. “Hello,” said Quamé politely. “I am the nephew of the owner. I inherited the house.” The woman does not smile. She had a face wrinkled like a walnut, piercing eyes.

 “You will live here?” she asked in a hoarse voice. “Yes, it’s planned.” She shook slowly head. “You should sell, sell and leave.” Kamé frowned eyebrows. “Why? There is a problem with the neighborhood, with at home?” she replied. Then she got down from her chair and disappeared without another word. Marcus bursts: “The old people of neighborhood and their stories.

 She wants probably buy the land cheap.” But Quamé didn’t laugh not. He remembered the voice of his mother, from the silence of the notary. In the afternoon, they attacked upstairs. Quamé cleaned the library while Marcus scrubbed the bathroom. The books of his uncle revealed interests varied, colonial history, botany, but also many works on spiritual traditions, rituals, mystical practices.

 Some titles gave goosebumps, blood pacts, invocation and protection, the price of power invisible. Your uncle was in the mysticism?” shouted Marcus from the bathroom. “Apparently”, replied Quamé while leafing through a book on the dog-eared page annotated in the margins in tight writing. A sentence was underlined three times.

  “Everything Power demands a price. What is given must be returned.” The door closed from the end of the corridor attracted his look like a magnet. He approached, placed his hand on the copper handle. The metal was cold, almost icy. “You Don’t open this room?” asked Marcus as he joined him, hands still damp. Not today.

I don’t have the right key. It was a lie. The handle had no lock, just a mechanism to turn. But something inside him refused to cross that threshold. Not yet, not until you understand. In going back down, Marcus stumbles into the stairs, barely caught himself the ramp.

 I believed that I was going to freak out. How are you ? Yeah, yeah, but I felt like weird, as if someone had pushed me. He laughs nervously. I’ve watched too many horror movies. They finished late. Before to leave, Kam wanted to close the shutters of the living room. It was then that he saw three people from the window the other side of the still street who was looking at the house.

 Of neighbors probably curious to see someone finally enter the remains abandoned. But he didn’t move not. Even when Cué looked at them directly, they remained there, planted on the sidewalk, their faces indistinct in the fading light dusk. He closed the shutters of a sharp hit, feeling a thrill unpleasant for him to browse the chines.

Kuam decided to move in for the weekend next. He had given his notice for the accommodation that he shared, invested in a few occasional furniture and something to repaint certain parts. Marcus had found an excuse not to help him this time. I have a family thing, sorry dude.

 The first night in the house was strange. The silence was oppressive. In his old accommodation, we always heard the neighbors, the street, life. Here, nothing. As if the outside world no longer existed once the door closed. Quamé settled in the guest room upstairs, the one that seemed the most neutral to him.

 He avoided always the door closed at the bottom of the hallway, thinking he would open it later when it would be really installed. Around three o’clock morning, he was awakened by a noise, a cracking like a step on a blade of parquet. He stood up in the dark, strained his ears. Nothing. The silence had returned, total, suffocating.

He turned his phone back on to illuminate. The room was empty. He lay down again heart beating, forcing himself to believe that he had dreamed. The old houses crackle, it’s normal. But he did not go back to sleep until dawn. The next day, he decided to take care of the garden.

 The vegetation was become a miniature jungle. He put on of old clothes and started to pull weeds, prune dead shrubs, pick up the rotten fruits that attracted flies. At the bottom of the garden, near the wall pregnant, he discovered something strange. A small, half-hidden cement hotel by vegetation.

 On it, traces of candle wax, pottery shards broken and dark spots that looked like dried blood. Quamé squats down to examine the hotel up close. He was not old. The candles were not from 20 years old. Someone had come here recently, despite the walls, despite the gate closed. He returned to the house, uncomfortable.

  It’s as he noticed something else. In a corner of the garden, the earth formed a light rectangular mound approximately 2 m long. Exactly the dimensions of a tomb. His blood is froze. No, it was impossible. He was just an old one. start with flowers or compost or anything else.

 But he doesn’t could stop himself from taking a shovel the garage and dig just a little to reassure yourself. The earth was loose, easy to remove. After a few minutes, the shovel hit something hard. Quamé stopped. Shortness of breath. He spread the earth with his hands. It was fabric, white fabric.

 Like a linen only stained with earth and mold, it backed away suddenly, let go there, something we wanted hide. He rushed out from the garden, went out into the street, looked for his phone to call the police, but his hand shook. What was he going to tell them? I found a fabric in my garden.

 They were going believe he was crazy or worse. They were going to search, investigate and if there really was a body, it I will become suspicious. No, he had to first know how to understand what had happened past here. He realized that he knew almost nothing about his uncle Daouda, just that he had lived alone, that he had died of a seizure heart at the hospital and that no one in the family spoke never from him. He called his mother.

 What my son, how are you? Mom, he you have to you tell me about Uncle Daoua. Silence. Mom, why you want to know? Because I live in his home now and he Things are happening that I don’t understand not. a long sigh at the other end of the wire. Then in a resigned voice, your uncle was not a good man coamé.

 He wanted wealth, respect, power and he made terrible things to get them. What a thing! He consulted a very powerful marabou, a man that we said capable of changing the destiny. Your uncle gave him a lot money and in exchange, the marabou gave him perform a ritual. A pact. Quamé felt his throat tighten.

 What kind of pact? I don’t know exactly. But after that, your uncle prospered. He got an important position in administration. He got rich. He built this house. But he has changed. He became dark, suspicious. He chased away all his friends, family. He married a times but his wife disappeared a few months later. Disappeared ? Yes.

 She is gone on a so-called trip, but no one ever saw him again. Some say she fled. Others Others whisper more things dark. Cuamé closed his eyes. The mound in the garden, the fabric white. Mom, what was her name? Adjois. Her name was Adjois. The name reasoned in his mind. Adjois, the woman in the living room photo.

Listen to me carefully, Quamé replied to his mother. in a trembling voice. The pacts with invisible forces do not die out with death. He continues. They seek to feed. If you stay in this house, what? The pact could claim you. You carry the blood of the family. For the spirits, you can replace the one who broke the contract.

 Broken how? Your uncle died before to have paid the final price. The marabou said that after 20 years of prosperity, it would be necessary to renew the pact, make a sacrifice. Your uncle has refused, he wanted to run away. But we don’t run away from these things, my son. She catches up with you.

 Communication cut off abruptly. Kamé tried to call back messaging as if something thing had intentionally interrupted the conversation. He looked up at the house. The upstairs windows looked at him like empty eyes and deep down, in the invisible corridor, he knew the closed door was waiting. That night, Quamé did not sleep a wink.

He remained seated in the living room, all lights on, phone on hand, ready to flee at the slightest sign. But nothing happened. The silence usual, the suffocating immobility, dawn, exhausted but determined, he took a decision. He had to open this door, know what she was hiding, understand his uncle’s pact to find a way to escape it.

 He went up slowly up the stairs. The corridor of the upstairs was bathed in gray light. The sun is not yet really lifted. The copper door gleamed faintly in the darkness. He placed his hand on the handle. The metal was freezing as always. He took a great inspiration and turned. A click.

 The door opened without resistance. A smell hit him immediately. The same smell sweet and tart that he had smelled entering into the house, but 100 times stronger, withered flowers, in and something organic, The room was immersed in the darkness. The shutters were closed but even without light. Quamé felt there was something abnormal in this space.

 He searched the finger switch, found it, pressed. The light revealed a piece that took his breath away. The walls were covered in symbols drawn with red paint, circles, triangles, signs that he did not recognize but who seemed vibrate before his eyes. In the center of the room, a large old mirror placed against the wall in a wooden frame carved with ritual scenes.

 And in front of the mirror, a covered table of objects, burnt out black candles, cups containing dried liquids, feathers, bones animals, coins old and in the center a photo framed, the photo of Ajo, the wife of portrait of the living room. But here she was alone, smiling, alive, luminous, approached, fascinated and horrified at once.

 It was a ritual chamber, a sanctuary dedicated to his uncle’s pacts. He looked the mirror. His reflection returned his exhausted face, his eyes surrounded. But there was something strange, something in the reflection which didn’t quite fit. Behind him, in the mirror, he saw a shadow move.

 He turned around abruptly. person. The heart beating, he faced again the mirror. The shadow was still there, in the reflection, but not in the reality. A dark silhouette indistinct outline that stood just behind him in the mirror world. Then slowly, the figure took form. It was a woman tall, elegant, wearing clothes traditional.

 His face became visible. Adjois, but not the smiling assistant in the photo. An assistant with hollow eyes, with skin gray, with parted black lips with a silent cry. Kamé stepped back, hit the table, made it fall the cups which broke on the ground. In the mirror, Adjua slowly raised his hand and pointed a finger towards him.

 His lips moved, no sound came out, but Kouamé could read his mouth. Free me! He runs away from the room, slammed the door behind him, ran down the stairs. His mind was screaming. It was not possible. He had hallucinated the lack of sleep, the stress. But deep down, he knew it was real. Adjua was prisoner.

 The mirror was a prison. Her uncle had given her as a gift sacrifice to the pact. He had it imprisoned between worlds, neither dead nor alive, to nourish the forces he had invoked. And now, she wanted to go out. The rest of the day passed in a fog. Quamé could no longer stay here, but he couldn’t leave either.

He felt, without knowing how, that leave the house now wouldn’t change anything. The pact would follow him. He carried his uncle’s blood. He was linked. When evening came, he searched the library, looking for answers in books of his uncle. He found a newspaper intimate hidden behind a row of books.

 The first pages recounted the rise to power of Daouda, how the marabou had promised him 20 years of prosperity. in exchange for a tribe living at the end of the pact. How Daoua had married Adjo knowing that she would be this tribe. The following pages described the guilt, remorse. Daoua ended up liking Adjois, but he could no longer go back.

 The pact should be honored. So he had found a solution. Instead of the kill, he had imprisoned him in the ritual mirror in between, neither dead nor alive. So, technically the tribe was paid. But adjo still existed somewhere. The last pages were inconsistent, written with a trembling hand.

 She tells me speaks at night. She wants to go out. She says she forgives but I don’t can’t. If I free her, the pact will will turn against me. If I don’t nothing, it will drive me crazy. I’m trapped. Trapped like her. The last entry dated a few days before his death. The marabou is dead. Nobody can’t undo what I’ve done.

 Adjois will remain a prisoner forever and I I will die with this weight. May God forgive me. That the one who will inherit this house never do the same error as me. Power has a price too high. Kuamé closed the newspaper, hands trembling. His uncle hadn’t broken up the pact out of courage, but through buy it.

 He had fled into death, leaving Adjois eternally prisoner. And now Kamé was there, the last of the line, the only one who could still act. This that night he heard footsteps in the upstairs corridor, slow footsteps, regular, who came and went in front of his bedroom door. He didn’t go out. He curled up under his sheets like a child, waiting for dawn to come save.

 But deep in his mind, a voice whispered, a voice that he recognized without having it never heard. Free me, Quamé, free me and I will free you. The next day, Cuamé made the decision most important in his life. He could not not live like this. He couldn’t not leave Adjois prisoner. He doesn’t could not perpetuate the cowardice of his uncle.

 He was going to break the mirror, released to joy, whatever it may be that the consequences, he passed the day to prepare. He told an old priest that his mother had mentioned to him, a man who understood the spiritual things. The priest listened to him without interrupting, then says simply: “If you break the mirror, she will be free.

 But the pact will seek to complement each other differently. He will want a price. Your uncle must give a life. If you free this life, another will have to be given. You want tell me? not necessarily, but a sacrifice must be made blood for blood, life for life. What if I don’t do anything, it will enter you until you become crazy.

 Then it will consume you the interior. The imprisoned spirits become hungry entities. She no longer just wants be free. She wants revenge on you uncle, but he died. So on you. Quamé knew what he had to do. At nightfall he went up in the ritual chamber armed with a hammer. He had taken a decision.

 He would break the mirror, would free Adjois and offer him something his uncle didn’t give him never given, the truth, forgiveness and possibility to leave in peace. But first, he had to speak. He sat down in front of the mirror. Sound reflection looked at him. Behind, the shadow d’Adjo immediately appeared as if she was waiting for him.

  “Ajois!” he said out loud. “I am Quamé, the nephew of Daoua. I know this what he did to you. I know you are prisoner for 20 years. In the mirror, Adjois approached. His face spectral was distorted by rage and pain. I will free you. Continue to coamed with a trembling voice. But you have to promise me something.

When you are free, you will leave. You don’t you will not take revenge. You will leave this house, this family and you will go where souls go when they find that peace. Adjois stared at him. His lips moved. This time, Quamé heard his voice like a whisper coming from afar. Why should I leave? He took everything from me.

 Because the revenge will do you nothing. She tells you will keep her prisoner in another way. You deserve better than that. You deserve to find what you loved. A long silence. Then Adjois raised a hand, placed it against the surface interior of the mirror. One hand translucent, almost phosphorescent. If you free me, I will let you live.

It’s not enough. I want you go in peace. And the price? The pact demands a price. Kuamé had thought about it all day. He took a knife from his pocket, cut his palm, let the blood flow on the floor in front of the mirror. My blood to seal the end of the pact. A voluntary offering, not a forced sacrifice.

 It’s all I have to give. Adjois looked at him at length. Then for the first time, his face softened. She smiles. A sad but peaceful smile. You’re not like him. No. and I refuse to perpetuate his mistakes. Quamé stood up, hammer in hand. He took a deep breath, then he knocked. The mirror exploded with a crash of broken glass.

 The shards flew in all directions. A blinding white light flashes of the frame flooding the room. Kouamé closed eyes, felt a past presence near him, a cold breath like the winter wind, then a warmth sudden like a summer sun. When he opened my eyes, the room was returned to normal. The symbols on the walls had turned as white as erased by an invisible hand.

 The ritual objects on the table were reduced to dust and amidst the debris of the mirror, only one One thing remained intact, the photo of Ajua. But this time, she smiled differently. A real peaceful smile. Kuam picked up the photo, slipped into his pocket. He knew without know comment was gone.

 really gone. He went down the stairs, went out into the garden. Dawn was breaking. The birds were singing for the first time since he was arrived here. He returned to mound of earth, the one he had started digging. This time, he dug to the end. He found a body, bones wrapped in a white linen, added, his body physics buried there for 20 years.

 Kué anonymously called the police, telling them the location. Then he left the house. He knew that he would be questioned, that there would have an investigation, that the scandal would splash his family. But at least Adjois could have a funeral worthy. At least the truth would be known. Two weeks later, after the interrogations, after the revelations about his uncle Daouda, after Ajua’s burial in the cemetery family, Quamé returned one last times at home.

 She was empty now. The police had everything seized as evidence. The walls naked, the rooms emptied, the atmosphere different . He went up to upstairs. The ritual chamber did not exist not really anymore, just a regular room with a broken mirror frame against the wall. But on the windowsill, something had grown.

 A small plant with a single white flower. Quamé smiled. He took the flower, put it in a glass of water and placed it on the exterior edge facing the sun. Then he closed the door of the house for last time. Six months more later, Quamé lived in a small apartment in town. Nothing luxurious, but it was his.

  Gagne honestly, without debt to any invisible force. The house had been sold at auction. A young family had bought it back, had redone everything, repainted, modernized. Quamé had passed in front by chance one day. She seemed different, alive. Children’s laughter escaped from garden. He never returned to the interior.

 Sometimes at night he thought of Adjoa, of her smile in the last photo. He hoped that she had found peace wherever it was now. His mother had him forgiven for revealing the secret of family. “You did the right thing,” she had said. “You broke the curse. no one anymore in our family will not be linked to this. Kuamé had kept only one thing from home, the diary of his uncle.

 He sometimes reread it to remember that power, wealth, success achieved by crooked means always end up demanding a terrible price. One evening, coming home at home he found an envelope slipped under his door. No stamp, no sender. Inside, a simple card with his words written on the hand. Thank you for freeing me.

 You have paid the price of the truth. Some people don’t have this courage. That your life may be long and peaceful. Ah! Kuame placed the card on his table, it looked for a long time, then he smiled, turned off the light and sleep. For the first time in months, he had no nightmares. But in the neighborhood where there was his uncle’s old house, neighbors were telling a story strange.

 He said that sometimes at night, we could see a woman in clothes traditional walk quietly in the streets as if she was looking for his way. She didn’t do harm to anyone. She just smiled, greeted politely then disappeared around a street corner. Some said it was a ghost. Others wiser said that it was a soul finally freed who visited the place one last time from his captivity before leaving for always.

 Nobody really knew but everyone agreed on one point. Since it appeared, the house cursed had stopped being scary. She had once again become a simple house where a family lived happily. And it was maybe that’s the real miracle. If this story made your blood run cold, subscribe and like. See you soon for a new story. Mr.