Precious had just plopped his bag onto the couch with a thud that echoed my inner turmoil. "Questions?" he asked, his voice light and teasing, like he was daring me to spill whatever nonsense was bubbling up in my brain.
"Yes, a lot," I blurted out, my words tumbling over each other like clumsy puppies. He walked a little closer, eyeing me with that trademark smirk of his—the one that said he knew I was about to drop something epic or epically stupid.
"Ok, what are your questions?" Precious prompted, leaning against the arm of the couch, arms crossed casually. But inside, my mind was a whirlwind. Sixteen years of friendship hung in the balance here. One wrong word, and poof—gone. Like that time in fifth grade when I accidentally told him his new haircut looked like a porcupine's bad day, and we didn't speak for a whole week. Except this was worse. This was about her. That ethereal woman at the school gate, with eyes like forgotten secrets and a smile that could curdle milk.
"Well..... Hmmm..... I just wanted to..... Hmmm," I stammered, my tongue tying itself into knots. Precious's face twisted into confusion, his eyebrows knitting together like they were auditioning for a frown emoji. "Well, please, the question I'm about to ask—please don't be offended. It's just that...." My voice trailed off into a squeak. My palms were sweating rivers, and my knees? Jelly. Absolute jelly. What if he thought I was crazy? Paranoid? The guy who sees ghosts in his best friend's family photos?
My mind ached, a throbbing headache of indecision pulsing behind my eyes. Ask or don't ask? Speak or swallow? I was trembling now, full-on shivers, like I'd just stepped out of a freezer. Precious noticed— of course he did. His expression softened, and he stepped forward, placing his warm hands on my shoulders. The touch was grounding, like an anchor in a storm. "Divine," he said gently, his voice a low rumble of concern, "hope everything is fine, because I can see on your face that you are really worried."
I forced a little smile, the kind that's more grimace than grin, and finally, the dam broke. "Precious, I was about to ask you... that lady we met at the school gate—who is she? Is she really a ghost? Cuz I asked your mom; she said the lady was her step-sister."
For a split second, silence hung heavy, thicker than the humidity outside. Then Precious burst into laughter. Not a polite chuckle—a full-body, belly-shaking guffaw that echoed off the walls and made his eyes water. I blinked, utterly confused, my fear twisting into bewilderment. Was this hysteria? Denial? Or... oh god, what if he was possessed and this was his evil twin cackling at my doom?
"Eve, Eve," he managed between gasps, wiping at his eyes, "she isn't a ghost. But yes, she's my mom's sister. The reason I called her 'ghost' was because she's usually a shadow in the family. Cuz no one usually sees her presence in the family—she's become our usual ghost she's usually… invisible in the family. Like a shadow. No one notices her, no one sees her around. So she became… the ghost."
That was his explanation? I stared, stunned, half-convinced, half-doubting.
"Well, that's… a pretty convincing wordplay," I muttered, scratching my head.
Precious leaned closer, grinning. "Wait. Divine, did you actually think she was a real ghost?"
My face heated. "No… not really. I mean… maybe a little."
Precious chuckled again, shaking his head.
Before the conversation could go further, Precious's mom's voice floated in from the kitchen.
"Precious! Your food is ready!"
"Coming, Mom!" Precious shouted back. He glanced at me, smirking. "We'll continue upstairs."
He disappeared into the kitchen. I sighed, shoulders slumping. That explanation… could it really be that simple?
"Divine, why don't we discuss more in my room?" he suggested around a mouthful, nodding toward the hallway. I nodded back, grabbing his bag from the couch like a loyal sidekick, and trailed after him. The house smelled of spices and home—comforting, familiar. But as Precious twisted the doorknob to his room, a chill slithered down my spine, uninvited and icy.
The door creaked open, and there she was. Eve. Lounging on Precious's bed like she owned it, legs crossed, flipping through an old comic book with the casual grace of a cat in a sunbeam. Her dark hair cascaded over one shoulder, and those eyes—sharp, knowing—flicked up to meet mine. Suddenly, I was struck with a scared aura rolling over my body, heavy as a thundercloud. My feet rooted to the doorpost, every instinct screaming run, you idiot, run. Ghosts didn't lounge. They floated. They wailed. They didn't read Spider-Man reruns.
"Divine, aren't you coming in?" Precious asked, already shrugging off his jacket and tossing it toward the hamper (and missing, naturally—it draped over his desk chair like a defeated flag).
I met eyes with Eve, and something electric zapped between us—curiosity? Warning? Or just my overactive imagination on a caffeine bender? "Yes, I'm... coming in," I muttered, forcing my legs to obey. One step, two, into the lion's den. Precious, oblivious as ever, dragged over a rickety wooden chair from his desk—the one with the wobbly leg that always threatened to pitch you into the void—and plunked it down for me. "So, Divine, make yourself comfortable."
Comfortable. Right. As if I could relax with a potential spectral auntie eyeing me like I was the plot twist in her favorite horror flick. I sank into the chair, the wood creaking in protest, and tried to look anywhere but at her. Posters of soccer legends stared back from the walls—Ronaldo mid-goal, Messi with that eternal smirk—mocking my discomfort.
And then, without warning, Eve jumped. Not a subtle shift—a full-on pounce, launching herself at Precious like a missile guided by pure chaos. He yelped in surprise, but it dissolved into laughter as she tackled him onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and giggles. "Gotcha!" she crowed, her voice a melody of mischief, pinning his arms down with surprising strength for someone who looked like she lived on moonlight and mystery.
Precious wriggled free, his face splitting into a grin that made him look ten years younger. "Oh, it's on now, Eve!" he declared, counterattacking with a pillow he'd snatched from behind him. It connected with a whump, feathers threatening to escape like tiny avengers. Eve squealed—actually squealed—and rolled away, grabbing her own pillow as a shield. What followed was a war epic for the ages, a pillow fight that escalated from playful swats to full tactical maneuvers, turning Precious's room into a battlefield of fluff and fury.
It started simple enough: Eve swung low, aiming for his knees, but Precious dodged with a dramatic leap onto his desk, nearly toppling the lamp in the process. "Ha! You missed, shadow lady!" he taunted, lobbing his pillow like a grenade. It sailed wide, smacking the wall with a sad poof and sending a framed photo of us from last year's school trip—grinning idiots at the beach, sand in our hair—askew. Eve capitalized, charging with her pillow held high like Excalibur, feinting left before striking right. Precious blocked with his forearm, the impact muffled but mighty, and they both staggered back, laughing so hard breaths came in hiccups.
"Not fair! You're using Jedi mind tricks!" Precious accused, diving behind the bed for cover. Eve, undeterred, vaulted over the footboard in a move that would make an acrobat jealous—her skirt flaring like a cape, hair whipping wildly. She landed with a bounce on the mattress, pillow at the ready, and unleashed a barrage: left hook, right jab, an uppercut that grazed his ear. Feathers exploded in a mini blizzard, coating the air in white confetti. Precious retaliated by grabbing the blanket and whipping it like a matador's cape, trying to ensnare her. "Ole!" he shouted, but Eve ducked under it, popping up behind him and smacking his back with a solid thwack. He spun, feigning outrage—"Betrayal! From my own blood!"—and they collapsed into a heap, pillows forgotten as they resorted to tickle torture.
I sat frozen, torn between confusion and disbelief. Was this really the same Eve who terrified me at the school gate?
Finally, the two calmed down, collapsing onto the bed, both giggling. Eve wiped tears of laughter from her eyes, then turned her gaze on me.
"I'm really, really sorry for scaring you like that at the school gate," she said gently.
I blinked. "…Huh?"
"I didn't mean to," she continued. "The reason I did that was because I had just finished watching this horror movie called IT. It was so good, I couldn't hold back—I started acting out my favorite character."
My head spun. A horror movie? That was her excuse?
I scratched my head, a cocktail of emotions mixing in my skull—relief, embarrassment, a dash of intrigue. "Ok, no problem. So anyway...."
Precious, ever the interrupter, cut in with a devilish gleam. "Can you believe that Divine thought you were a ghost? Because I jokingly told him that you were a ghost."
Whaaaaaaat? My jaw hit the floor. Traitor! Saboteur! Why was he spilling my deepest idiocy like it was yesterday's lunch menu? Heat flooded my face, a full crimson blaze. "Ghost me?" Eve echoed, her eyes widening in mock horror before crinkling with delight.
And then it happened—the laughter tsunami. Both of them burst into hysterics, clutching their sides as if I'd delivered the punchline of the century. "Ghost!" Precious wheezed, pointing at me. "Ghost!" Eve chorused, her voice pitching high in exaggerated wails. They chanted it like a mantra—"Ghost! Ghost!"—falling back against the pillows, tears streaming. I was mortified, a volcano of annoyance bubbling up. I wished I could punch Precious right through his throat, watch him choke on his own betrayal. But no—deep breaths, Divine. Play it cool. Or at least fake it.
"So," I cut in sharply, desperate to derail the clown car, "Precious, did you notice the work Teacher Sam gave us?"
He stopped mid-cackle, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Yeah, I did. But it was really a bit confusing," he admitted, sitting up and rubbing his chin like a philosopher pondering the meaning of algebra.
"Right," I agreed, seizing the lifeline. And just like that, we dove in—me and Precious, hunkering down over his bag like miners unearthing fool's gold. The assignment was a beast: a 2,000-word essay on "The Socio-Economic Impacts of Colonialism in West Africa," complete with primary sources and a timeline that spanned centuries. Teacher Sam, with her wire-rimmed glasses and voice like cracking whips, had dropped it on us Friday like a guillotine, smirking as half the class groaned in unison.
"Where do we even start?" I groaned, pulling out my notebook, pages already scribbled with half-baked notes. "The timeline alone is a nightmare. Like, 1492—Columbus sails the ocean blue, but then what? Gold, slaves, and a side of syphilis?"
And just like that, the conversation shifted. We discussed the assignment in detail, flipping from formulas to forgotten notes. Eve, of course, couldn't resist butting in with playful jabs.
"Divine, are you sure you're even in that class? The way you're struggling, it's like you skipped the entire semester."
"Ha-ha, very funny," I muttered, glaring at her.
At one point, she even grabbed my pen and scribbled nonsense equations on the page. "There—now it looks more professional."
Precious laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink.
Despite my annoyance, I found myself laughing too. Eve's humor was sharp, sometimes irritating, but undeniably infectious. I had never expected her to be… funny.
Time passed quickly. The discussion drifted from the assignment to random school events, jokes about strict teachers, even the ridiculous cafeteria food. Laughter bounced around the room, mixing with an underlying current of unease I couldn't shake.
Finally, as the sun dipped lower, casting golden bars across the floor, Precious leaned back, exhaling. "Divine, I have a some request."
"Request? Ok, what is it?" I asked, capping my pen.
"Well, are you free this Friday?"
"Hmm, yeah, I'm free. Anything?"
He hesitated, a rare flush creeping up his neck. "Well, I don't know if we can book a theater room for the upcoming romance event. I want to tell someone my feelings that day."
Woooooow. My best friend, the king of chill, gearing up for a confession? Heart swelled—pride, envy, a pang for my own unspoken crush. Rejoice's face flashed in my mind, her smile a secret sunrise. But me? Pathetic. Couldn't string two words without tripping over "hey." "That's a nice step," I said, clapping his shoulder. "But don't worry—I will support with all my heart."
His face lit up, pure joy, and he pulled me into a bear hug that smelled of jollof and brotherhood. "Thanks, man. You're the real MVP."
Time slipped away like sand—too soon, the clock ticked toward evening. I said goodbyes to Precious's mom (her hug lingering, warm as her cooking), and stepped out into the cooling air, curiosity about Eve a stubborn burr under my skin. Was she really just the fun aunt? Or something more... shadowy?
My mind replayed the afternoon in loops: pillows flying, laughs echoing, that electric zap in Eve's eyes. Then, at a quiet roadside bend, I spotted her—Rejoice. Walking alone, her school bag slung over one shoulder, hair catching the last light like spun copper. My heart skipped—thud-thump—a frantic drumbeat. Shit, she's here. What should I do? Say hi? Hey? 'Rejoice, what's up?' No, that's weird. I'm weird. Would she even talk to me?
Paralysis gripped me, feet glued to the pavement. But then—my name. Soft, like a secret. "Divine?"
I raised my head, and there she was, right in front of me, concern etching her perfect brows. I was shocked, trembling like a leaf in a breeze. "Rejoice, hey, what's up?" Shit, same weird stuffs.
"Divine, where are you going? And why are you still in your uniform?" she asked, tilting her head, that smile blooming slow and sweet.
"Well, I'm heading home. I just went to see someone nearby," I replied, cursing my lame delivery.
"Ok," she said, smiling wider. Damn, she was so cute—eyes like warm chocolate, laugh lines hinting at secrets I ached to know.
"So, where are you going? Home, or visiting friends?" I ventured, falling into step beside her as we resumed walking. The road stretched ahead, lined with acacia trees whispering in the wind.
"Well, I went to visit my mom at the hospital. She's very sick, so I'm helping her with stuffs."
The words hit like a gut punch. Hospital? I hadn't heard—gossip mill must've skipped my station. "I'm really sorry to hear about your mom. I didn't know she was at the hospital."
"No problem," she said softly, but her eyes dimmed a fraction. "She's just breaking down because of the stress she's having. You know, my dad divorced my mom, and now she's caring for me and my two siblings. The load for her isn't easy. Though we try to help, she always keeps pushing herself."
"I see. Moms are always like that," I said, empathy swelling. "Even my own mom—she loves us so much she can do anything for our needs. Since my dad left us, she's been the head and the pillar of the family. I respect her for that, and I promise I'll try my best to always make her smile."
"I'm really, really sorry," she murmured, but then her gaze met mine, and something shifted—vulnerability bridging us. "Well, moms are always like that. They usually work hard to make their family smile. God just gave them a special strength."
I nodded, offering a warm smile, and she returned it, a mirror of light. We fell into an easy rhythm, walking side by side, the space between us shrinking with every step. Conversation flowed like a gentle river, meandering from heavy to light, pulling us closer.
"Strength, yeah," I agreed. "Like in those movies—remember The Pursuit of Happyness? Will Smith's character, hustling for his kid while the world's kicking him. Moms are the real superheroes—no capes, just coffee and grit."
Rejoice laughed, a sound like wind chimes in summer. "Totally! But let's talk fun—movies. What's your go-to escape? Mine's La La Land. That ending? Gut-wrenching, but the dances... swoon."
I grinned, heart fluttering—romance alert. " La La Land? Bold. I'm team Inception—dreams within dreams, Nolan twisting my brain like pretzels. But yeah, those jazz scenes? I'd tap-dance with you in a heartbeat. Minus the heartbreak."
Her cheeks pinked, and she bumped my shoulder lightly—electric. "Tap-dance? You'd trip over your feet, Mr. Dreamer. But okay, challenge accepted. Next movie night, we're doing The Notebook—rain-soaked confessions and all."
"Deal," I said, voice husky. "But only if you promise not to cry on my shoulder. Or do—I'll lend you my sleeve."
her love for romantic dramas, my obsession with thrillers. We joked about teachers, shared embarrassing school moments, even argued playfully about which superhero was the strongest. Every laugh, every glance, every small brush of her hand against mine made my chest tighten in a way I couldn't describe.
By the time she waved goodbye, I was floating.
"Bye, Divine!"
I waved back, grinning like an idiot. As I walked, my mind spun with romantic daydreams. Maybe we were the perfect couple. Maybe… maybe it was time to tell her how I felt.
But before I could sink deeper into fantasy, a familiar presence chilled my spine.
a prickle—familiar presence, like eyes in the dark. The bus stop ahead: empty, desolate. No cars humming, no buses rumbling, no pedestrians chattering. Just shadows and silence. And her—Rebecca, perched on the bench like a raven in human form, legs crossed, expression a mask of ancient secrets.
I sighed, steeling myself. Cult recruiter round two. Walked up, sat with deliberate nonchalance. "Long time no see, little brat."
She turned, slow as a curse. "Brat? Brat? Me...?" Her face twisted—scary, serpentine, eyes narrowing to slits that promised pain.
"No, I'm just kidding," I backpedaled, humility flooding in. She would chop my head off—loved ones don't forget.
"Better," she hissed, lips curling. "I could have chopped your head off."
I knew it—bone-deep. "So, why this visit?"
Silence, thick as fog. She stared into the void, unblinking. "Ok, if it's about your cult or whatever, my answer remains the same. I'm not interested. So you can go back and tell your old man Rin that he should stop stalking me."
I stood, ready to bolt—end this farce. But her voice sliced the air: "You saw the lady, right?"
I paused, spine icing. Turned slow. "What lady?"
Rebecca smiled—cold, knowing, a predator's gleam. "That lady who claimed to be your friend's sister."
As she spoke, I closed the distance, heart hammering. "What do you mean?"
"Your friend Precious," she purred, "that lady with him. You must be careful with her. She's Eve, a descendant from the Garden of Good and Bad."
"What? Eve—Eve, like she's from the Bible scripture about the Garden of Eden?" Fear choked me, throat dry as dust.
"Yes," she confirmed, voice velvet over steel. "You have to kill her. Or she will slowly wipe out Precious's memories. I know you noticed how weird he changed his character at the school and when he got home. He's living as if they are two people within him. Eve has taken over their memories and now she's using Precious."
"Wait—Precious's memories would be wiped out?" Terror clawed my gut, visions flashing: Precious's laugh fading, eyes glazing blank.
Before I could press, Rebecca rose, fluid as smoke. "If you want more answers, come to that same place where we rescued you." She snapped her fingers—once, sharp. A veil shimmered between us, reality rippling like water disturbed by a stone. Snapped again, and the world rushed back: cars honking, buses groaning, people materializing like ghosts in reverse. Rebecca? Vanished. Poof.
I stood alone, pulse thundering, the road alive but me—frozen. So I was right about that Eve. The plays, the laughs, the too-perfect wit—it wasn't just family fun. It was infiltration. Possession. A biblical curse in modern sneakers. Now, I had to be careful. Protect Precious. Unravel this before his soul slipped away.