The trapdoor

Title: The Trapdoor’s Hunger

Story:

Nkemele had never been one for silence. She loved Lagos, loved the chaos, the endless noise. But after her grandmother’s sudden death, she found herself standing at the edge of Ikpashi village, staring at the house she had inherited — a sagging, ancient building with peeling paint and windows like tired, watching eyes.

She told herself this was temporary. Clean up the house, sell it, leave. But the first night already felt wrong. The stillness was too complete. It was as if the house was listening.

The second night, she heard the sound.

Scratch.

Pause.

Scratch.

It came from under her bed, slow and deliberate. Her stomach turned. She grabbed her torchlight, peered under the bed — nothing. Then she noticed the rug in the center of the floor was covering something.

When she peeled it back, her heart dropped. A trapdoor. The wood was old, swollen with rot, but the lock was new — polished, strong. Someone had gone to great trouble to keep it shut.

The next morning, she asked the villagers about it. Most of them ignored her, their eyes darting away. Finally, an old man outside the palm wine shed muttered,

"Your grandmother kept it quiet. She kept it fed. Now it’s your turn."

"Fed? What are you talking about?" Nkemele asked, but the man just walked away.

That night, the sounds came back. Louder. The scratches became knocks. The knocks became whispers.

“Nkemele…”

She froze. It wasn’t just noise anymore — it was calling her name.

By the fourth night, the whispers came in broad daylight. At first faint, like a thought at the back of her mind, then louder, like someone standing behind her.

"Let me out… I am so hungry…"

Nkemele started jumping at shadows. When she looked in mirrors, she sometimes saw her grandmother’s face staring back — only the eyes were black and bottomless.

Her reflection smiled at her one afternoon and whispered,

"You’re wasting time. It won’t wait forever."

Nkemele dropped the mirror, smashing it into pieces.

When she went into the village the next day, she felt their eyes on her — accusing, expectant. One woman hissed as she passed,

"You’re going to doom us all if you keep pretending."

By the sixth night, the lock snapped on its own.

The trapdoor creaked open, and something crawled out.

It looked like her grandmother — but the skin was pale and sagging, the mouth stretched too wide, and the black eyes gleamed with hunger.

“You should have fed me,” it rasped.

Nkemele ran for the door, but every exit slammed shut. The thing dragged itself closer, joints bending the wrong way.

“One soul a year,” it whispered, “or I walk the earth.”

The truth hit her like a stone. Her grandmother had been sacrificing someone — once every year — to keep this thing trapped. And the villagers had helped her.

They expected Nkemele to take over.

Her laughter broke the silence, sharp and cracked. She grabbed a lantern and smashed it on the floor. Fire roared, consuming the rug and creeping toward the trapdoor. The thing screamed, writhing.

Nkemele bolted out into the night. The villagers were already gathered, their faces calm and resigned as the house burned.

“You’ve killed it?” the old man asked.

Nkemele didn’t answer. She just stood there, soot-streaked, heart pounding.

Then, from deep inside the burning house, she heard it — faint but clear.

Scratch.

Pause.

Scratch.

She dropped to her knees, sobbing.

The whispers didn’t stop. They followed her home, filled her dreams, grew louder each day. She stopped going into the village. She stopped eating.

One night, she woke up standing over the trapdoor — which shouldn’t have been there, because the house had burned to the ground. But there it was, solid under her feet.

Her reflection appeared in the dark wood, grinning.

"It’s your turn," it said in her own voice.

The next morning, the villagers found her sitting calmly on the ashes of the house, her dress streaked with blood.

When they asked what she had done, she smiled — a wide, too-wide smile.

"I kept it fed," she said softly.

No one asked who she had fed it with.

But that night, every villager heard it.

Scratch.

Pause.

Scratch.

And for the first time, they swore they heard Nkemele’s laughter under the floorboards.