Kpantinga Senior High School was the kind of place that looked harmless during the day. The wide football field, the tall neem trees swaying lazily in the harmattan breeze, and the chatter of students made it look like any other school. But when night fell, everything changed.
Yaw Mensah, a fresh Form One student, lay on his iron bunk bed, listening to the rustle of mosquito nets and the low murmurs of boys around him. He was still adjusting to life in the boarding house—the early morning dawn bell, the tasteless porridge at the dining hall, and the long queues for the bathroom. But nothing unsettled him as much as the whispers that always came after lights out.
"Have you heard it before?" a voice would whisper.
"They say it comes from the dining hall…" another would reply.
"Shhh… Don't say her name too loud," a third would cut in.
Yaw kept hearing the same name: Madam Moak.
Curiosity gnawed at him until one night he finally asked, "Who is Madam Moak?"
The whole dormitory fell silent. A few boys exchanged uneasy glances. Then Alhassan, a tall, bony senior with a serious face, leaned down from his top bunk.
"Fresh boy," he said in a hushed voice, "don't ever mention that name carelessly. Unless you want her to follow you into your dreams."
The younger boys shivered. Yaw tried to laugh it off, but the fear in Alhassan's eyes told him it was no joke.
The next evening, during prep, Yaw sat with Alhassan and two other boys. The dim classroom bulb flickered as the harmattan wind whistled through the broken louvre blades. Alhassan finally spoke.
"Long before you came here, there was a teacher. Madam Afua Moakye. People called her Madam Moak. She was the strictest teacher this school ever had. No student dared break rules when she was around. She carried a wooden moak—a clapper—that she struck whenever she wanted silence. The sound was so sharp it could freeze your blood."
The boys leaned closer.
"One night," Alhassan continued, "she caught some students sneaking out after prep. She punished them until midnight, making them kneel and recite multiplication tables under the moonlight. But the next morning… Madam Moak was gone. No one saw her leave the compound. Her room was empty. All they found in the staffroom was her wooden moak."
Yaw's heart thumped. "So… what happened to her?"
"They say her spirit never left," Alhassan whispered. "At midnight, when the compound is silent and only crickets sing, the sound of the moak echoes… clap… clap… clap… It grows louder with every step. If you follow it, you'll see the shadow of an old woman in uniform, carrying the moak that strikes itself."
Yaw tried to swallow, but his throat felt dry. "And if she calls you?"
Alhassan's eyes narrowed.
"Then you'll never sleep peacefully again. Some say she enters your dreams, calling your name. Others say those who hear the moak too close… disappear."
Just then, the classroom light went off. Darkness swallowed the room. And from somewhere outside came a faint sound—
Clap… clap… clap…
The boys froze.
Yaw tried to convince himself it was nothing. Maybe the security man was clapping, or maybe a student had dropped a bucket. But the sound grew sharper, deliberate.
Clap… clap… clap…
The boys huddled together. Some whispered prayers under their breath. Others pressed their palms against their ears.
Yaw, however, could not resist. His curiosity burned stronger than his fear. Slowly, he tiptoed to the classroom window.
The compound outside was bathed in moonlight. The shadows of neem trees danced across the dusty ground. Near the abandoned dining hall, Yaw saw something move.
A tall shadow. The shape of a woman. Her uniform looked old, faded, but unmistakably that of a teacher. And in her hand… the moak, striking itself with each step.
Clap… clap… clap…
Yaw's heart slammed against his chest. He stumbled back, nearly tripping over a chair. His eyes met Alhassan's, wide with terror.
"You saw her?" Alhassan whispered.
Yaw nodded, unable to speak.
That night, Yaw couldn't sleep. He pulled his blanket over his head, but the echo of the moak followed him. And when he finally drifted off, he dreamed of an old woman standing at the dormitory door, whispering his name.
Days passed, but the memory of that night haunted Yaw. Every time he walked past the dining hall, he felt the urge to glance over his shoulder. Seniors laughed at him for being jumpy, but some juniors believed his story.
One Friday night, during entertainment, Yaw gathered with his closest friends—Kwame, Kofi, and a girl from the girls' dorm named Adjoa.
"We have to find out the truth," Yaw said. "Who Madam Moak really was, and why she haunts this place."
Kwame shook his head. "You want to die? Haven't you heard? Those who follow the moak never return."
But Adjoa leaned forward, her eyes sharp. "Not everyone believes that. Maybe it's just a story seniors made up to scare us. I say we go and see for ourselves."
Kofi groaned. "Ei, you people. Midnight is not a time for jokes. Me, I value my life."
But Yaw's curiosity was like fire. He couldn't let it rest. "Tonight," he whispered, "we follow the sound. We must know if Madam Moak is real."
The others exchanged uneasy glances. Finally, Adjoa nodded. "Then I'm coming with you."
Kwame and Kofi hesitated, but they knew they couldn't leave their friends alone.
That night, as the compound fell silent and the crickets sang, four students lay awake, waiting for the midnight call of the moak.