MYSTERY BEHIND THE HALLWAY
CHAPTER FOUR: Torchlights & Testimonies
The rain had stopped, but the shadows it left behind still lingered in the cracks of the university walls. Dara felt it in the heaviness of the air that settled over Obafemi Awolowo University that morning. The tension of unsaid truths clung to the corners of her room, the long halls of Moremi Hall, and most especially to her thoughts.
She sat on her bed, wrapped in a thick shawl despite the muggy heat. Zainab was still sleeping, her soft snores punctuating the silence. Dara stared at the old timetable they had found, the red-stained one, now sealed inside a transparent folder and tucked inside her locker. She had barely slept since that discovery. Her mind wouldn't stop racing.
Something wasn't right. Something hadn't been right for a long time.
That day, she made a decision. If the faculty wouldn't talk, if the lecturers brushed it off as superstition, and if the administration remained conveniently forgetful, then she'd go to those who remembered. People who had nothing to lose now. People who had been here before.
The Hunt for Stories
Armed with a notepad, her phone, and a heart thumping like war drums, Dara set out for the Alumni Resource Centre. It was a little building nestled beside the central library, often overlooked by most students. Few current undergraduates ever ventured in—it was mostly filled with archives, rusted shelves of old research papers, and the occasional nostalgic ex-student browsing through faded memories.
She entered and was hit by the scent of old paper, damp wood, and mothballs. An elderly woman with low-cut grey hair and horn-rimmed glasses looked up from behind a glass counter.
"Good morning," Dara said politely.
"Morning, dear. Looking for something specific?"
"I'm… I'm trying to find any records of past students from the Faculty of Science," Dara began, choosing her words carefully. "Specifically, those who studied microbiology or biochemistry. Preferably anyone who graduated ten to twenty years ago."
The woman arched an eyebrow. "That's a wide window."
"I know, but it's… important."
After a moment, the woman nodded. "Check the alumni visitor logs. Some people leave contact info or journals when they come visiting."
She led Dara to a shelf near the back—lined with visitor books going back as far as the 1990s. Dara pulled on a pair of dusty gloves and began flipping through the brittle pages.
The First Clue: The Notebook of Akin Omotayo (Class of 2003)
Tucked inside one of the 2005 volumes, Dara found something strange. A small, spiral-bound journal labeled "The Things We Don't Say." It wasn't official university property. It had been left anonymously, she guessed, or simply forgotten.
Inside were dated entries. Memories of someone who had clearly lived through something disturbing during their time at OAU.
February 18th, 2003 — The lights went off again during our lab practical. They keep saying it's just NEPA, but why is it only our building affected? Why always around midnight?
April 12th, 2003 — Damilola is gone. Just like Bolaji before her. Her things were still in the room. Her roommate said she went for her practical after prep. Didn't return. Security said she was never logged out. I'm afraid to talk too much. They don't want us asking questions.
June 5th, 2003 — We all got a timetable with practicals listed that none of us remembered registering for. That was the night I stopped sleeping peacefully. The hallway outside the lab was breathing.
Dara's hand trembled as she took photos of each page. It wasn't just her imagination. Others had experienced this. Others had noticed. And others had vanished.
The Lab Attendant Who Remembered
Later that week, through a contact from Uche—who was still digging through faculty logs—Dara arranged to meet a retired lab technician named Mr. Samson Bakare. He had worked in the science complex for over 30 years and retired just three years ago. They met under the shaded mango trees behind the DSA building.
"You say you're doing a project on academic disappearances?" the old man asked, a knowing smirk tugging at his wrinkled face.
"Something like that," Dara said, voice low. "I need to know what happened to students like Ifeanyi Nnaji. And… others before him."
Samson's smile vanished. His eyes clouded over. "You children don't know. You think OAU is just books and politics. But this land… ehn, this land carries memories."
He looked around, then leaned forward.
"I used to see them. Every few years. Same thing. One student—always hardworking, always staying late. Always during blackout season. And every time, the same story. The student disappears. No footprints. No struggle. Their file goes missing, like they were never admitted."
Dara's throat tightened. "Why?"
"Some say it's the land. Some say the building wasn't supposed to be constructed on that soil. I just know this—every time, it starts with one thing."
He pulled something from his satchel. A photo—faded, cracked at the corners.
It was a shot of the hallway.
Taken in 1997.
In it, under the flickering light, sat a single folded lab coat.
Exactly like the one Dara had seen.
An Unnatural Pattern
Back in her room, Dara covered her wall with printouts. Photos of the timetable, copies of Akin's journal, testimonies from Samson, and printouts from Uche's dig into archived timetables.
She circled dates. She underlined names.
Every six years. Every six years, someone disappeared. Always after midnight. Always on a day they supposedly had a "make-up" practical they didn't recall registering for.
And the next date? Another six years later…
2029.
But then Dara noticed something chilling.
The current year was 2025.
That meant—this disappearance cycle wasn't every six years. It was every four years. Her earlier pattern was wrong.
Suddenly she gasped.
2025 was the next in the sequence.
She was in the center of the cycle.
Tolu's Doubt and Dara's Obsession
"You're becoming obsessed," Tolu said, sitting across from her at SUB. "This isn't healthy. People vanish for lots of reasons. Sometimes the school just covers it up for reputation. It doesn't mean the building is haunted."
"I'm not saying it's haunted," Dara replied, sipping her tea. "I'm saying there's a pattern. And every time it happens, the victim had a practical scheduled that wasn't real."
"You sound mad."
"I have proof, Tolu. I have names. Files. A timetable that was never issued. Rooms that don't exist in the updated records."
Tolu sighed. "So what now?"
"I need to go back into the hallway."
Tolu dropped her spoon. "You're insane."
"I need to know what it wants. Why it's choosing people like Ifeanyi. Or me."
The Echoing Voice
That night, Dara returned to the hallway.
She brought a torchlight, two fully charged power banks, and her phone set to record audio.
It was just past 11PM.
The hallway was colder than she remembered. Her breath misted. The shadows seemed alive.
She walked slowly, torch in one hand, phone in the other.
And then she heard it.
Whispers.
First faint. Then stronger.
"...turn back..."
"...it's not your time..."
"...remember your name..."
Dara froze.
And then she saw it.
On the wall, scrawled in what looked like red ink:
Dara Ajayi. ANA 204. Practical Rescheduled: 12:00AM.
Her blood turned to ice.
End of Chapter Four