Where the Dead Brides Gather E-Book

Nuzo Onoh

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 439

Beschreibung

A powerful Nigeria-set horror tale of possession, malevolent ghosts, family tensions, secrets and murder from the recipient of the Bram Stoker Award for Lifetime Achievement and 'Queen of African Horror'. For readers of Octavia Butler, Ben Okri and Koji Suzuki. Bata, an 11-year-old girl tormented by nightmares, wakes up one night to find herself standing sentinel before her cousin's door. Her skin, hair, and eyes have turned a dazzling white colour, which even the medicine-man can't heal. Her cousin is to get married the next morning, but only if she can escape the murderous attack of a ghost-bride, who used to be engaged to her groom. Through the night, Bata battles the vengeful ghost and finally vanquishes it before collapsing. On awakening, she has no recollection of the events. And when the medicine-man tries to exorcise the entities clinging to her body as a result of her supernatural possession, Bata dies on the exorcism mat. There begins her journey. She is taken into Ibaja-La, the realm of dead brides, by Mmuọ-Ka-Mmuọ, the ghost-collector of the spirit realm. There she meets the ghosts of brides from every culture who died tragically before their weddings; both the kind and the malevolent. Bata is given secret powers to fight the evil ghost-brides before being sent back to the human realm, where she must learn to harness her new abilities as she strives to protect those whom she loves. By turns touching and terrifying, this is vivid supernatural horror story of family drama, long-held secrets, possession, death - and what lies beyond.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

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10

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13

14

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24

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

“Nuzo Onoh is a wordsmith who has earned the moniker The Queen of African Horror. Where the Dead Brides Gather is a creepy, well-crafted thrill ride powered by Nigerian mythology, haunting imagery and an unforgettable protagonist’s otherworldly nightmares inextricably woven with her deeply human heart.”

TANANARIVE DUE, winner of the Bram Stoker Award® and Los Angeles Times Book Prize for The Reformatory

“A heady, addictive horror delight that will keep you up at night for all the right reasons.”

IRENOSEN OKOJIE, award-winning author of Butterfly Fish and Nudibranch

“At times hilarious, at times terrifying, always gripping, Nuzo Onoh’s excellent novel joins sharply observed domestic conflicts and complications with deftly portrayed supernatural menace. With the assurance of a master, Onoh brings to vivid life characters who confront a frightening menace. Where the Dead Brides Gather is the latest triumph from the ever-impressive Nuzo Onoh.”

JOHN LANGAN, Bram Stoker Award®-winning author of The Fisherman

“A powerful ghost story whose beating heart is a living girl. Bata is a character readers will fall in love with instantly—a haunted child who holds onto her kindness and gentle spirit amidst terrifying events.”

A. C. WISE, award-winning author of Wendy, Darling and Hooked

“Master of horror Nuzo Onoh deftly reaches into gruesome realms of ghost brides and family and tradition. Where the Dead Brides Gather is dark and magical, yet gripping and terrifying, as the horrors of the night seep into the day.”

CYNNTHIA PELAYO, Bram Stoker Award®-winning author of Forgotten Sisters

“Nuzo Onoh is truly an irreplaceable voice in horror, using her African heritage to give us something we have not seen before. Where The Dead Brides Gather is a brilliant, unique take on possession, ghosts and retribution with a dash of humour. This should be one for your collection!”

V. CASTRO, author of The Haunting of Alejandra and Immortal Pleasures

“Nuzo Onoh never disappoints, and Where the Dead Brides Gather might be her best yet—both moving and shocking, it’s a great work of imagination rich with supernatural terrors that will haunt you long past the final page.”

TIM LEBBON, award-winning author of Netflix’s The Silence and Among the Living

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Where the Dead Brides Gather

Print edition ISBN: 9781835410561

E-book edition ISBN: 9781835410622

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London se1 0up

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: October 2024

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2024 © Nuzo Onoh. All rights reserved.

Nuzo Onoh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This edition is published by arrangement with African Literary Agency.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

To my beautiful cousin, Mrs Monica Amuchechukwu Igbokwe, the new custodian of our stories and my beloved and cherished family whose fierce independence continues to inspire me every day.“Rock on” dearest Auntie Monica xx

1

Yesterday, our rich in-law, Bongo, brought a horse to my uncle Gabriel’s house. It was a pre-wedding gift for my cousin, Keziah, who was soon to become his wife. The horse was a truly impressive creature, big, black, and powerful. It stood the height of two grown men and the girth of five fat women. Its white-streaked mane was long and thick, just like its sleek neck and bushy tail. The muscles in its torso rippled when it neighed, and its hooves kicked with manic frenzy, keeping all away from its vicinity. Everybody that saw it said that Bongo had done well, that he had given his in-laws a gift fit for a king. They also agreed it was a good thing the horse would be killed for the wedding feast. It had certainly earned the butcher’s knife and the soup pots with its unruly behaviour.

From the time it was dragged into my uncle’s compound and tethered to the mango tree, the black horse neighed with incessant panic. It screamed and groaned so much that we all were forced to abandon it and its mesmerising beauty in order to save our eardrums. Even we village children, normally used to extreme ruckus, found ourselves unable to withstand the terrifying screams of that great horse.

And its cries were truly chilling. It was an eerie whine that was shrouded with human anguish and terror. In my ten years of existence, I had heard the voices of countless creatures, from the chirpy songs of birds to the raging howls of rabid dogs. Yet nothing prepared me for the unearthly sounds of raw terror coming from the gaping mouth of the black horse. Even from the modest distance of my father’s compound, its piercing shrieks filled our ears and chilled our hearts. My skin involuntarily gave birth to little, hard rashes that came in shuddering waves as the black horse screamed through the endless hours of the morning and afternoon.

“I swear, that horse must be infected with madness,” my stepmother, Ọla, complained later that evening as the deafening din continued. “Its screams can be heard across all the compounds in this village. Someone should do something about it.”

“Perhaps it’s been bitten by a snake and is in a lot of pain,” my mother suggested, her eyes filled with the habitual compassion that made her a target of my stepmother’s manipulations. I could hardly recall a time when it wasn’t my mother feeding my three half-brothers. Ọla was always too busy with one thing or the other to care for her triplets, and Mama never complained about being taken advantage of by her.

“We can’t let the poor children starve,” Mama would always say whenever my big sister, Ada, complained about my stepmother’s laziness and non-existent maternal skills. “It’s not their fault that their mother is a Pancake-Face rather than a nurturing mother. After all, that’s one of the reasons your father married her: to appreciate her beauty rather than her cooking skills. At least she’s done what she was brought in to do, and has given your father three sons in just one pregnancy. What else can we ask of her?”

‘Pancake-Face’ was the term used to describe a well-powdered and made-up face. It was a beauty practice peculiar to beautiful women in our village. They would coat their faces with thick powder several shades paler than their skin, slap bright blue eye shadow on their lids, and colour red circles into their cheeks with lipstick. My stepmother was one of the biggest practitioners of that beauty regime and there was no denying that she was beautiful. With her tall slenderness, smooth ebony skin, and striking features, Ọla was a sight to dazzle every eye in our village—men, women, and children. Despite her not being my blood-mother, my dream was to be as beautiful as Ọla when I grew up.

Ọla pushed her glamorous, beaded braids away from her face, frowning in irritation as the black horse continued to groan. Its screams were getting louder and more terrifying as the night drew closer, and my heart continued to thud in involuntary panic.

“I heard that horses know when they’re going to die and will cry and mourn their impending death till the minute the butcher’s knife slices their throat,” my big sister Ada said, cracking her knuckles absent-mindedly as was her habit.

“Who told you such evil?” Ọla shivered delicately, shaking her head reproachfully. “This girl! I’ve never seen anyone that tells more outlandish tales than yourself. That’s how you convinced us that Keziah’s period was stolen by a witch, only for us to discover she was pregnant, hence this speedy marriage tomorrow, huh!” Ọla screwed up her beautiful face in disgust.

“I’m not lying, this woman,” Ada retorted. “Go ask Papa if you don’t believe me. I heard Papa telling Uncle Gabriel that horses can sense their death and will kick and bite anyone that comes near them, as well as cry non-stop until they’re killed. And I wasn’t lying about Keziah’s period, either. She told me herself that a witch had stolen her period; that’s why she didn’t even know she was pregnant till her tummy started swelling.” Ada’s voice was as fiery as her eyes. My big sister was known across the clans to have a temper that rivalled the fury-wind itself.

“Whatever.” Ọla waved a dismissive hand laden with sparkling rings. “I just wish someone would stuff something into that vile horse’s mouth, so we can get some rest. I don’t know how we’re expected to sleep tonight with all that din.” She leaned down and turned up the volume of the small transistor radio by her feet. My stepmother never went anywhere without her transistor radio and Mills & Boon book.

Instantly, the familiar happy lyrics of the FESTAC ’77 song filled the air: “Festac ’77, 77 is here; Festac ’77, 77 is here!” Over and over, the song repeated the joyful chorus in a never-ending loop.

“I’m sick of this useless song,” Ada bit out viciously, glowering at the radio. “That’s all they ever play these days, wretched ‘FESTAC ’77’ non-stop, as if there’s no other song in this world.”

“What is FESTAC ’77?” I asked from my mat. Ọla looked down at me and patted the empty space beside her. I quickly scrambled from the floor to sit next to her on the wooden bench.

“FESTAC ’77 is the festival of arts and culture currently taking place in the big city of Lagos,” Ọla said with that wistful tone of voice she had whenever she spoke of her beloved Lagos City, our country’s capital. “Every famous African from the world is taking part, even Miriam Makeba; you remember Miriam Makeba, don’t you?”

I nodded eagerly. “She’s the one that sang ‘The Naughty Little Flea’.”

“Exactly! She’s in Lagos City even as we speak. Heaven knows I’d give an arm and a leg to visit Lagos City again for this festival and—”

“What will you do there when you visit, eh?” Ada cut in with a voice dripping with mockery and spite. “Perhaps you’ll dazzle them with your Pancake-Face and read them a stupid story from your precious books, eh?”

Ọla gave her a withering look of disdain and coolly returned her attention to me.

“Bata, I told you I schooled in Lagos City before I married your father, didn’t I?” My stepmother smiled at me. I nodded enthusiastically again. I couldn’t recall the number of times Ọla had drooled about Lagos City to me and everybody that cared to listen. “Lagos City is like nothing you’ve ever seen,” Ọla continued, her eyes glowing dreamily. “The houses are so big and tall they cover the skyline. As for the roads, they’re so wide that ten cars can drive on them and still have space to spare. And come see the cars, Jesus Almighty! You’ll think you’re in New York in America. Everywhere you look are white people and rich people.” Ọla sighed wistfully.

“What’s the big deal about white people, eh?” Ada snapped. “If I want to see a white person all I have to do is wait for Christmas when Engineer Tip-Toe returns with his German wife and almost-white son,” she hissed loudly, cracking her knuckles angrily.

Engineer Tip-Toe was the only man in our village who had visited the white man’s country and got a university degree under the government’s sponsorship for gifted students. Since his return from Germany with his white wife and little son, he had been working in Lagos City and rumoured to be almost as rich as our village chief. He owned the second storey-building in our village, with the first one belonging to our chief.

In the background, Uncle Gabriel’s black horse released another chilling screech, instantly drowning out the FESTAC ’77 song.

“That’s it! I’m done with this blasted horse. I’m going to complain to Our-Husband right now about it.” Ọla stood up from the bench and sauntered away with her trademark slow and swaying walk. She left a heady scent of her perfume behind.

My stepmother was the only woman in the entire village that used perfume. It was in a bottle hidden inside a pale blue package with the bold title of ‘Charlie’. She told me that it was how white women smelled and that only the rich African women living in Lagos City used that powerful scent. I had once sneaked my way close enough to Engineer Tip-Toe’s German wife to smell her body, but she smelled nothing like Ọla’s perfume. She just smelled of breastmilk. When I told Ọla my observations, she explained that the African hot weather had likely drained the scent from her. It seemed every white woman that came to our country soon sweated away their natural perfumed odour. This discovery created a natural pity for Engineer Tip-Toe’s German wife in my heart. If only she knew what would happen to her, maybe she wouldn’t have followed Engineer Tip-Toe back to our village after all. I promised myself that as soon as I became educated and rich like my stepmother, I would acquire the white women’s body scent in its special Charlie bottle.

I watched Ọla head over to Papa’s parlour. I wanted to follow her to see what Papa might do, but I knew I would get a scolding from both my big sister and my mother, not to mention my father.

“Huh! Let’s see what the foolish woman will achieve,” Ada muttered, eyeing my stepmother’s departing back with icy malevolence. It was no secret that my stepmother and my big sister heartily despised each other. “Does she expect Papa to tell Uncle Gabriel to kill the horse before tomorrow’s wedding, eh? Well, she’ll soon find out that this is one time her beauty can’t perform miracles for her, huh!”

“Ada, watch your mouth,” Mama admonished gently, eyeing my three half-brothers as she spoke.

Not that Mama needed to bother. The three little hogs were too busy stuffing their faces with boiled corn and coconuts to notice either their mother’s departure or my big sister’s insults. Even at their tender age of five, the triplets, or Ejima as they were collectively called, had already built a fearsome reputation in the village for unrivalled gluttony. The clanswomen knew to stuff their faces to get them to behave, and Mama never let them leave her presence with empty stomachs, as rare as it was to encounter them with non-protruding tummies.

I knew Ejima once had individual names, but I was sure neither they nor their mother remembered those names. They were called Ejima from birth, meaning twins or triplets. Much worse, they were so identical that it was impossible to tell one from the other. They even managed to confuse their own mother at times. When they heard their name called out, they would answer with uniform synchronicity, knowing that whatever occasioned the call related uniformly to them, be it a new shirt, a sweet treat, a warm bath, or bedtime stories. Being their constant playmate, I was the only one they couldn’t trick in the entire village. There was a special glint in their individual eyes that revealed their very soul to me, coupled with the tone of their voices. Ejima-Three cried constantly while Ejima-Two giggled with irrepressible mischief. The big bully, Ejima-One, the oldest of the triplets, already walked with the puffed-arms swagger of a midget dictator, as if he ruled the entire world and heaven.

We waited for several minutes for Ọla to return to the communal space where the family was gathered for our usual evening meal. I didn’t really expect her to come back anytime soon, as Papa was known to enjoy her company to the exclusion of all else, save Ejima’s. So, we were all pleasantly surprised when Ọla returned within the space of minutes.

“So, what did Papa say?” Ada asked before Ọla could sit down. “Did he get rid of the horse? I swear, I can still hear the horse’s screams, can’t you, Bata?” She turned to me for confirmation, her eyes brimming with malevolent humour.

I quickly nodded, before turning to Mama for affirmation. I figured Ọla wouldn’t be displeased with me if Mama agreed with my sister and me. Despite her gentle nature, Mama was still Papa’s first wife and Ọla owed her respect, especially when Ada was around. Ada would kill anyone that disrespected our mother in her presence.

“Your father is a fool,” Ọla muttered with uncharacteristic viciousness.

“Don’t call my father a fool, you stupid woman,” Ada raged, squaring up to Ọla. Mama got hurriedly to her feet too. She placed herself between Ada and Ọla, as ever determined to prevent another fight between her first daughter and her sister-wife.

“Our-Wife, watch your words around the children,” Mama admonished, shaking her head at Ọla. “How can you insult their father in their presence, eh?”

“I wasn’t insulting him,” Ọla snapped. “I was only speaking the truth. Where his big brother, Gabriel, is involved, that man will never see reason. Anything Gabriel wants, Gabriel gets. And now that his daughter is marrying into wealth, he expects the world to bow down to him; not minding she’s marrying a man old enough to be her father, and even worse, a man whose two wives died funny deaths. You know I speak the truth, Our-First.”

Ọla hissed loudly, her red lips pursed in vexation. “Now, Our-Husband has asked us to go and spend the night in Gabriel’s compound, to help with the wedding preparations. I don’t know about you, Our-First, but I’m telling you now, I’ll only spend an hour there before coming back to my own bed.” Ọla kissed her teeth as she motioned her sons over. “You three pigs, come along now. Time to sleep, and don’t you dare ask me for anything else to eat tonight. I’m too tired for your nonsense, so be warned.” Ọla turned back to Mama. “Our-First, will you ask Ada to keep her eyes on Ejima and Bata while we’re gone?”

Mama nodded. “Of course she will.” She turned to me. “Bata, follow your brothers to bed and don’t give your big sister any trouble tonight, alright?” There was a significant tone in her voice which I recognised with a sinking heart. “We’ll be back very soon from your uncle’s house.”

I nodded slowly, rising from the floor where I’d been sitting eating boiled corncobs and coconuts. Ada looked mutinous, but there was nothing she could do about her new responsibilities. At sixteen years, she was the oldest child in the family and the one usually lumped with the childcare duties whenever both Mama and our stepmother were simultaneously absent.

“Before I forget, make sure Bata doesn’t sleep with her head towards the door,” Mama said to Ada, before turning to look at me pointedly. “We don’t want you having more nightmares and waking up everybody when we’re gone, do we?”

I lowered my head in embarrassment. My nightmares were legendary in our family. Rarely did a night go by without my waking our household with my screams. I would start off sleeping on my thin mattress on the floor, and end up outside our L-shaped bungalow, shouting and gasping for air, my face drenched in terror-sweats. No matter how much Mama prodded, I could never recall my dreams in detail. All I was left with was the impression of a thick forest shrouded in mist, and chalk-coloured women who smelled horribly, ghastly in their unearthly paleness, chasing after me with unbelievable speed. They sprinted on all fours like dangerous beasts of prey, shrieking rage into my ears as they drew nearer, reaching for me with their white claws… closer…closer…

I would stumble into wakefulness, screeching and running like somebody chased by a pride of lions. It was the same dream night after night, and all the rosaries Mama placed around my neck before I slept failed to keep away my sleep tormentors.

Mama said the nightmares arrived on the day I survived the fall into the deep ravine along the route to the village stream at the age of five years. According to the witnesses, I stopped breathing for so long they were convinced I had died from my head injuries. I woke up just as they arrived back to our compound, bearing my prone body in readiness for a burial. Save for a slight grogginess, I seemed to be just fine, speaking normally and recognising faces. And apart from the bump on my head and some small cuts and bruises, there were no other visible signs of my terrible accident. In no time, I was back to my boisterous play.

My recovery was declared a miracle from God, and Mama purchased several candles for thanksgiving prayers at our local Catholic church.

Her gratitude was short-lived.

That same night, I experienced the first attack of the nightmares that would go on to blight my life and the tranquillity of our home.

2

When I was six years old, just slightly older than Ejima were now, Papa took me to the shrine of the village medicine-man, Dibia, to cure my nightmares. That was after our local priest, Father David, had exhausted all his holy water and novenas on me following Mama’s entreaties. Papa, who wasn’t a believer of the Christian faith, dragged me to the medicine-man’s shrine after one particularly bad week of shrieking and sleep disruption.

Dibia had discarded Mama’s rosaries with a contemptuous snort and replaced them with a string of charmed cowrie beads. He also prescribed that I lie on my mattress with my head facing the wall instead of the bedroom door.

“If the child sleeps with her head facing the door, she will absorb the negative auras of all the wandering supernatural entities that walk the roads at night while the rest of humanity sleep,” Dibia said, massaging powerful oils and herbs into my head. “However, if she sleeps with her legs facing the door, it’ll allow her to run, and even fly, should her dreaming-self encounter other itinerant spectres with malevolent intentions.”

Papa and I left the medicine-man’s shrine with little hope and great anxiety. After all, we had tried every other remedy possible to no avail. There was no certainty that Dibia’s juju would work.

The same night following the visit to the medicine-man, I slept with my feet facing the door as instructed. And for the first time in my life, the pale spectres did not torment my sleep. Mama was so happy that she prepared a celebratory feast for the family and even took baskets of food gifts in secret to Dibia to avoid offending Father David. For several weeks afterwards, I continued to sleep peacefully with my feet facing the door, while the rest of our household enjoyed untroubled slumber as a result.

My respite expired three months following the visit to Dibia’s shrine. I went to sleep with no thoughts of my erstwhile ghostly tormentors. Halfway through the night, I woke up shrieking, running, and flailing my arms wildly as if to push away something unwholesome and terrifying. Once again, our household was in turmoil and Papa was threatening again to send me away as a domestic servant in a big city, a dire fate normally reserved for difficult children such as myself.

The older I grew, the worse my symptoms became. With each attack, Papa’s irritation with me increased till the previous tender indulgence he had for me vanished, gradually replaced with frowning impatience. Save for my stepmother’s intervention, Papa would have surely carried out his dire threat. Thankfully, Ọla needed my errand-girl and playmate duties for her triplets. So, she used her Pancake-Face magic on Papa, thereby ensuring my salvation from expulsion. In gratitude, I redoubled my efforts to keep Ejima busy with all types of games and foodstuff, leaving their mother free to pursue her numerous interests. Ọla was only happy when she shopped for clothes in the big city and kept company with her horde of fawning female friends, especially her best friend, Teacher Uzo, the village spinster. I knew that as long as I carried out my nanny duties well, my stepmother would ensure my security in our home. Ọla was the only person with the powerful magic to bend Papa’s iron will.

Later in the evening, Mama and Ọla left for Uncle Gabriel’s house to assist with my cousin Keziah’s wedding preparations. I followed Ada into the house and was soon curled up on my mattress in the same old position, with my feet facing the door. Everybody knew it was now a futile ritual, but we kept hoping that one day, the medicine-man’s magic might be reignited and bring us a peaceful night again. Ada ensured I recited my ‘Hail Mary’ nightly prayer before leaving our shared bedroom for Ejima’s bedroom, where she was to remain till our mothers returned.

As always, my heart started racing as soon as my head rested on my thin pillow. I clutched my charmed cowries with desperate fingers, mumbling prayers underneath my breath—“Oh please, Mother Mary, don’t let the raging ghosts come to my dreams this night. Please don’t make me wake up and wake Papa up; please… please…”

I kept my eyes wide open for as long as I could, fighting sleep with desperate grit. Even when my lids became heavy, I used my fingers to prise them apart. I held them open till my fingers grew as weak as my eyes, and my brain grew as foggy as Ọla’s smoky kitchen. The last thing I remembered was yawning for the umpteenth time and thinking, I’m soootired…

Then sleep came; and once again, they came for me.

*   *   *

When next I regained wakefulness, I was sitting cross-legged in front of my cousin Keziah’s room, with my back pressed hard against her shut door. The wide corridor leading to her room heaved with stunned kinsmen and clanswomen, and the din was mind-stealing. Beyond them, Uncle Gabriel’s black horse continued its infernal shrieks, magnifying the mayhem in the place. My mother was amongst the horde gathered around me, and she wailed the loudest.

“What has happened to my child? Who has done this evil to my poor child? Oh, Jesus! Oh, Holy Mother!” Mama’s voice was a pitiful dirge that quickly roused the wails of the gawping clanswomen. She rushed over to scoop me up in her arms.

I pushed her away, fighting her embrace. My actions were instinctive, a strange rejection of a mother I loved beyond all humans. Before I could dwell on my odd act, something else grabbed my attention.

I saw my hands—my very white hands—Oh,Mother Mary, save my soul!

I shrieked and raised my arms up. My mouth formed a wide O. I stared slack-jawed at my thin arms coated with white paint, right from my shoulders to my fingertips. A quick scan showed me that I was as naked as the day I exited my mother’s womb. Not even a pair of knickers covered my nudity. Every bit of my slight body was coated in a brilliant white paint that contrasted sharply with the rest of my gloomy surroundings, lit up by kerosene lamps held high by the gathered kin. When I tried to wipe the paint, it stuck firmly to my skin.

I started rubbing my body with manic frenzy, whining softly like a whipped puppy. Soon, the women joined me, using their wrappers and headscarves to wipe me down. Their actions were as desperate as my frantic fingers and beads of sweat quickly glistened on their skin.

All to no avail.

The more they wiped my skin, the whiter I glowed. It was as if somebody had dipped my body into a pool of white diamond molasses and brought me out in my unearthly, crystalised whiteness.

“Oh, Jesus, save us!” a woman screamed. “It isn’t white paint on the child’s body! It’s her real skin. Look! Even her hair and eyes have turned white! What evil is this?” She rapidly weaved the sign of the cross, flinging the demon over her shoulders with her arms as she shrank away from me.

The crowd in the corridor quickly imitated her actions with terror-widened eyes. Mama was wailing inconsolably, while Ọla stared at me with goggled eyes. In my entire life, I had never seen my usually unflappable and indifferent stepmother so stunned. Ọla’s face, more than anything else, sent limb-quaking terror to my heart.

I began shaking violently. Visions and images started whizzing through my mind in a kaleidoscope of vivid and terrifying colours—Oh,Mother Mary, save my soul! The raging ghost-women! They finally caught me in my nightmare! But why am I here instead of our house? And my white skin; oh, Mother Mary, have pity! Am I now a ghost?

“Bata, come, my child.” Mama tried again to lift me from the floor where I remained with my back pressed hard against Keziah’s door. “Let’s take you to Father David at once. Our holy priest will know what this evil is and help us return you to your proper colour.”

Again, I shoved my mother away with such force that she stumbled. I stared at my arms, as stunned as the rest of the crowd—Wheredid such power come from? Why am I pushing Mama away? I want to go with Mama. I want Father David to remove this horrible white skin. I want to leave this place and return to our house.Please… somebody,please…

Even as the thoughts ran through my mind, I tried to rise from the floor. I pressed my palms to the ground, trying to heave myself upright. But it was as if I had been moulded into the flooring with concrete. No matter how hard I tried or pushed, my body remained glued to the ground.

I started to cry. Great balls of tears crawled down my face, and my whole being heaved with the force of my sobs. But no sound came from my lips. It was as if my tongue had been sealed inside my mouth by the same invisible force that held me prisoner on the floor outside my cousin’s bedroom. My terror almost stole my sanity, and my heart pounded so hard I thought I would surely die—ButI don’t want to die! I want to go home… I want to go with myMama…

“Somebody send for Dibia at once,” I heard a deep male voice command. My eyes flew towards the direction of the voice—Papa!Oh my wicked luck! Papa will kill me for causing more trouble! Oh please…please…

The terror in my heart was so great it killed my tears. Slowly, with great determination, I forced myself to calm down. The effort hurt the back of my throat where the sobs bunched up in a hard knot. Even my hiccups felt like hammer blows crushing my chest—It’sokay, Bata. It’s okay. Don’t cry so that Papa doesn’t get angry and send you away as a house-servant in the big city. Maybe Papa might even sort out this evil skin you wear. Papa is strong and wise. He’ll take care of everything. Please, please, don’t let Papa be angry withme… please. Slowly, with great effort, I gradually swallowed my tears and stopped my panicked arm-flapping, fixing my eyes solely on my father’s strong and harsh face. I willed myself to take strength from his strength.

“Hello? What’s going on out there? Can someone help me open my door? I’m stuck inside the room and the door won’t open.” My cousin Keziah’s whiny voice pierced the night air.

Once again, pandemonium ruled as the crowd resumed their panicked shouts, triggering the horse’s frantic neighs.

“Mama-Ada, get your cursed child away from my daughter’s door,” Keziah’s mother screamed at Mama, her eyes wild with rage and terror. Everybody, save Ọla, called my mother by the name ‘Mama-Ada’, since her first child was my big sister Ada. But to my stepmother, my mother was simply ‘Our-First’, a respectful title to recognise Mama’s status as Papa’s first wife. In return, Mama called Ọla ‘Our-Wife’, to show she was welcomed warmly and without resentment into the family as a sister-wife. Otherwise, everyone else called Ọla ‘Mama-Ejima’, the exalted mother of triplets.

“Shut up, woman!” Papa’s voice brimmed with repressed rage as he glared at Keziah’s mother. The knife scar down the side of his right cheek pulsed with menace. “Can’t you see that we’re all dealing with something beyond our human experience? This is no time for your woman-foolishness.” He turned to the gathered crowd. “Everybody, just calm down till Dibia arrives. He’ll soon sort this evil out. Keziah, be patient and wait inside your room. We should have everything resolved soon.”

Papa’s voice was the magic that was needed to bring sanity to the unruly crowd. And when his eyes caught my terrified gaze, I saw an unexpected gentleness in their familiar hard glint that brought unbidden tears to my eyes once again. The last time I had seen that look in my father’s eyes was a few years after my fall, when I was six or seven years old perhaps, before the nightmares killed his affection for me. Papa broke away from the men and strode towards me. From his great height, he stared down at me, his face grim. Then he stooped low and took my hands in his, my white-paint hands that trembled as violently as my father’s large hands.

“Be strong, my daughter.” Papa’s voice was the gentlest I had ever heard, and his eyes were filled with unfamiliar pity and kindness. “We’ll soon fix this evil that has possessed you. Dibia will be here in no time, and I promise, I’ll give your mother money to buy you a new dress tomorrow, alright?”

I nodded, letting my tears run freely down my cheeks. Papa wiped them with the same uncharacteristic gentleness and my heart flowered—Idon’t care if I remain white forever if Papa will continue being kind tome…

Dibia arrived with the delegation that had gone to summon him, armed with his familiar juju-bag that contained all the divination tools of his trade. As soon as they saw his trademark blood-splattered face and feather-littered body, the crowd parted for him, drawing back in alarm. It was a known fact that malevolent entities clung to the medicine-man’s body as a result of his astral journeys to the realm of the dead. Nobody wanted to risk body contact with him in case a mischievous spirit jumped from the sorcerer’s body into their own.

Dibia sat down in front of me, adopting the same cross-legged lotus position as myself. Like the rest of the crowd, I shrank back from him instinctively, terror widening my eyes. I was aware of his fearsome reputation and the rumours surrounding his supernatural exploits. As a result, I now suffered the same terror his presence invoked in the villagers.

“Child, do you know who I am?” Dibia asked after staring silently at me for several intense minutes.

I nodded. I opened my mouth to speak, but once again, no words came from my lips. The medicine-man’s eyes suddenly squinted into hard flints.

“You have lost your speech, am I correct?” His voice was as hard as his eyes. Again, I nodded, my heart racing like an antelope.

“Hmm; just as I thought,” Dibia murmured under his breath. He reached into his raffia bag and brought out a red Kolanut, the famous Ọji-Ikéngᾲ used for divination with the ancestors and spirit-world. With a stentorian voice, he chanted invocations in an unknown tongue that layered my skin with sudden goosebumps. He rolled the Kolanut on the ground, flung it into the air, bounced it between his palms before finally coating it with the fresh blood dripping from his shaved head.

“Here, hold this Kolanut,” he commanded, reaching for my right hand and pressing the Ọji-Ikéngᾲ into it. Then he fixed me with a terrible gaze that reached beyond my soul and began to shout commands into my face. He shook the iron bell gripped in his hand with the violent frenzy of a possessed human.

“Whoever, whatever you are, I command you to show yourself,” Dibia shrieked at me, sprinkling salt and white Nzu powder on my head. “If you are a malevolent spirit, show yourself now or face my wrath. There is no hiding place for you. The charmed Ọji-Ikéngᾲ will reveal your hidden evil and devastate you before the eyes of mortals and spirits. However, if you are a good spirit, then release the child’s tongue and reveal yourself. I command you in the mighty name of Amadioha, the greatest of gods, and in the fearsome names of our ancestors whose powers you cannot withstand. Speak, now. Speak! Speak! Speak!”

The medicine-man’s shrieks pierced my ears, filling my body with an indescribable heat that brought sudden swoons to my head. My breathing came hard and fast, and I struggled to inhale air into my lungs. Everything around me was swimming and I found it difficult to hold onto the faces of the people around me. Even Papa’s face refused to show his features to my terrified and blurred gaze.

From a distance, I heard the screeches of the crowd as doors and windows started to slam with violent force. A great wind swept through the house, winking out the lights from their wick-lamps and plunging the compound into instant darkness. Inside my head, an unearthly presence observed the chaos with icy detachment, an ancient and powerful presence that sent the real me, my Bata-soul, cowering in a dark space in my overheated body. All sounds started to slowly die; the screams of my kinsmen and even the frenzied neighs of the black horse, which now resembled the fading whines of a mouse. The fury-wind withered into stale air, till suddenly, all was darkness and silence.

3

When the lights of consciousness returned to my eyes, I found myself all alone. The crowd had vanished, together with my parents and the medicine-man. Save for the shrieks of the black horse, a deathly silence shrouded my uncle’s hamlet in creepy solitude. There were no sounds of laughter, chatting, or singing, not even the barking of the rowdy Ekuke-hamlet dogs.

I noticed that I was still sitting in the same lotus position before Keziah’s bedroom with my back pressed against her door. The air was now cold, an unnatural chill that turned my breath into white smoke. Yet, I did not shiver despite my nakedness. My body trembled in neither cold nor terror. My heart was calm and my breathing steady. It was as if I were looking at myself with a third eye, a cold eye that observed my insignificant human form with icy detachment. I was no longer the Bata I knew, the snivelling little girl who was terrified of her own shadow. This was a different me, a calmer and stronger me that neither cried nor feared her unearthly transformation. My skin was still chalk-white, and I clutched tightly to the red Kolanut that Dibia had pressed into my palm before I sank into the dark.

I inhaled deeply and exhaled with a loud whoosh. Once again, I watched the smoky air whirling around my face with fascination. It was a strange phenomenon for me, one I had never witnessed in myself or anyone else in all my ten years of existence. I exhaled again, transfixed by the wonder of my smoky breath—Doesit mean that everything in me is now white, from my skin to my breath? Maybe my blood is white as well, and my piss and pooand…

I didn’t have time to finish the thought.

A figure materialised before me, a ghoul from the deepest depths of Satan’s hell. It glowed with a terrible light that should have blinded me. But my ice-white gaze calmly held its gliding form in its ghoulish monstrosity, my heartbeats steady and calm—Whyam I not afraid? Why am I not shrieking and scrambling up from this floor and running from this unspeakable horror?

Even as the thought left my mind, a new thought superimposed it—Wemeet again, foul spirit!

The abomination gliding with silent menace towards me was no stranger. It wore the familiar ghastly mien of the raging spectres that had terrorised my dreams for as long as I could remember. From the top of its head to the tips of its toes, it gleamed a dazzling white colour that imitated my own skin. The red gash of its lips stretched in a malignant smile that promised me instant death. I flexed my neck and eyed the ghoul with cold detachment as it steadily advanced. And I noticed something I had never seen in my previous dream-encounters with its kind—It’sa bride! It’s the ghost of a dead bride!

The spectre was dressed in a long, white wedding gown which was made of a sequined lace material with flowered motifs. The gown was stained with mud and flecks of blood. It trailed to the Ghost-Bride’s feet, exposing silver-tipped shoes underneath. The veil on its head was longer than the gown, its lush organza falling all the way to the ground behind it. A strange odour seeped from its body, a vile stench that reeked of a combination of raw chicken, wet dog, rotten eggs, and bad breath. I would have gagged from the stench before my transformation.

When our gazes clashed, I was stunned to see that its eyes glowed a normal human black. Somehow, I had expected it to have eyes the same colour as its skin, just as my new crystallised eyes. As it drew closer, I felt rage and hatred emitting from every invisible pore in its translucent body. It bred an icy resolve in my heart. I held its angry gaze as I began to address it.

“Anene Eze! Abominable spirit!” I thundered, my voice an unfamiliar deep timbre that resonated beyond the walls of my uncle’s house. “Prepare for your annihilation, foul being!” I held my sitting position before my cousin’s shut door as I spoke. Raw power emitted from the deep resonance of my voice, forcing the Ghost-Bride to pause its glide in mid-air.

Something rustled by my side. I looked down and saw a sea of red silk flowing past my feet. In that instant, the magnet holding me chained to the ground broke. I rose from the floor in a fluid motion, like one pulled effortlessly by a puppet-master’s strings. I raised my arms and stretched.

Then I stretched again—and again. With each stretch, my body lengthened and grew until it almost tripled my normal height. Had my stepmother stood before me in her tall slenderness, I would have stared down at Ọla with eyes set three feet above hers. I noticed that I was now dressed in a long red kaftan of dazzling beauty. The gown covered every part of my chalk skin, and on my head a red gauze veil covered my face, making me a blood-bride in my terrifying redness. The veil extended past my feet as it flowed down the wide corridor, crawling and swishing with a life of its own. A dazzling red light shrouded my body, illuminating the corridor with its intense hue. With grim determination, I stood sentinel before my cousin’s door with my arms outstretched, blocking the malevolent Ghost-Bride from gaining entrance.

The sight briefly awakened the cowering Bata-me from my dark space. Terror gripped my heart, sending shudders to my body. Suddenly, I wanted to see my face underneath the dense veil—Surely,this tall bride can’t be me? But if not, then where am I? Who is this tall, new person? Is she a Ghost-Bride too? Where am I? Oh, Mother Mary, where am I?

“Anene Eze! I repeat, prepare for your annihilation!” the tall-me roared, pointing a threatening finger at the slowly advancing Ghost-Bride. “You cannot have this bride. No matter your greed, you can never steal another bride’s groom. Everything ends here for you tonight, foul spirit! Have you forgotten the past already? Have you forgotten your debt to me, accursed spectre?” My voice echoed down the long corridor, a drumful of fury and power.

In a blink, a reel of dazzling images started spinning inside my head like a Technicolor film on Papa’s television set during the rare occasions we had electricity in our village. I felt another mind intruding into the vision, a foul mind I wanted to reject and eject. I didn’t need to be told that it belonged to the evil Ghost-Bride. But the other-me, the blood-bride, allowed it in, letting it share the ghastly visions she weaved inside my mind-screen.

I saw the evil Ghost-Bride as she once was in her lifetime, a beautiful mistress to a rich man unwilling to end his marriage. Determined to marry her lover, she hired assassins to kill his wife in a staged robbery-murder that went unsolved for many years.

The Ghost-Bride gasped softly as more pictures reeled in rushing sequence, exposing the dark secrets of her old life. She remained suspended a few feet from Keziah’s door, her head cocked, black eyes blazing with pain and rage as she followed her life’s story. More images flashed inside my head. I saw the Ghost-Bride dancing inside a dingy little room, laughing wildly and toasting her imminent rise to wealth and status once she married her rich, newly widowed lover. Her black eyes glittered with arrogance and desperate greed.

As the images grew fainter, I saw the Ghost-Bride on her final day on earth, dressed in a white wedding dress of flowered organza lace. Her veil trailed softly behind her as she walked down the long flight of stairs to join her waiting groom for their wedding. Her face beamed with pride and smug triumph. The beautiful bouquet of flowers she clutched enhanced the dazzling beauty of her wedding trail.

Halfway down the stairs, a bright red light suddenly materialised behind her. In a blink, it slammed hard against her, a powerful force that instantly unbalanced her.

She tripped, stumbled, and started falling—Oh,Mother Mary!

I shut my mind’s eye from the ghastly vision, my heart pounding. After several panicked seconds, I opened my eyes once again when my curiosity overcame my fear.

I wished I hadn’t.

The Ghost-Bride was still in free-fall. Down endless marble stairs she fell, screaming, head crushing, limbs breaking, blood spurting, staining and painting everything a cheery red colour—veil, dress, stairs, and her once beautiful face. The final image I saw was the pale ghost of the dead bride, separating violently from her crushed and bloodied body sprawled at wrong angles at the bottom of the stairs.

With a shriek of rage, her spectre flew across the vast hall with the fury of a hurricane wind. Her long veil billowed behind her like the white wings of a great bird of prey and blood dripped heavily from her smashed head.

“Why? Why? Why?” she screamed with raised fists, as she cursed the fates that had denied her the chance to become a bride.

She dived down from the ceiling and floated towards her grieving groom. Instantly, a bright red light repelled her, shrouding him in an impenetrable shield. It was the same red orb that had pushed her down the stairs to her untimely death. From my hidden space, I felt an icy chill clutch my heart, squeezing terror into my soul.

Over and over, the Ghost-Bride tried to get close to her devastated groom still in his smart white suit, now bloodied, as he crouched next to her crushed corpse, weeping inconsolably. But she could not reach his side. The dazzling red light kept repelling her, and within its bright glare, I saw a sight that brought a soft gasp to my Bata-lips.

The glowing ghost of the groom’s late wife stood sentinel over her husband. Her mien was fierce and terrible. Garbed in her traditional red Bubu kaftan and sparking fiery eyes, she was a fearsome sight to behold in her sizzling fury.

“Anene Eze! Vile murderer! Fear for your accursed soul!” the ghost-wife shrieked at her murderer. “Bongo will never be your husband in this life or the next. Despite his infidelity, I’ll not send him to his death; at least, not yet. His innocence in your vile crime, coupled with our two young daughters, has saved him from my rage—for now. As for you, vile creature, only your soul-obliteration will quench my thirst.”

A bolt of deadly red flames spun towards the terrified Ghost-Bride. She ducked and took to the ceiling once again in panicked flight. The vengeful ghost rose in swift chase. Pulsating with righteous rage, she flew after her killer, shooting deadly bolts of sizzling flames from her hands, lips, and eyes. Their fierce battle took them over the high ceilings, as they flew and crashed against the walls, chairs, and balustrade in their bitter combat. The punishing bolts of red flames continued to torment the evil Ghost-Bride, and her shrieks sent shudders of icy chills to the Bata-me still lurking inside the tall sentinel standing guard before my cousin’s door; a terrible sentry I finally recognised with bone-crushing terror—Oh,Holy Mother, save my soul! I’ve been possessed by a dead woman!

In the midst of my new terror, another sudden illumination hit my panicked mind—Bongo!The groom my cousin Keziah will marry tomorrow is the same Bongo as this grieving groom! In that instant, I knew that Keziah’s hope of marrying Bongo was a doomed one unless the imposing sentinel guarding her door kept her safe from his dead mistress’s ghost.

Then, the pictures winked out, just as unexpectedly as they had started. The Ghost-Bride shook her head like one in a daze. Her body jerked violently as if stunned by an electric shock. I could see that the vision of her tragedy had deeply affected her. Fiery sparks flew from her black eyes as she let out an unearthly howl in a discarnate voice that instantly curdled the relentless screams of the black horse. Once again, she resumed her furious glide towards Keziah’s door, intent on possessing my cousin’s soul. The malodorous stench oozing from her pervaded the entire corridor like Satan’s hell-funk.

The tall sentinel-me smiled coldly at her. I flexed my neck, every muscle in my body rippling in readiness for our supernatural battle. The Ghost-Bride dived towards me with a suddenness that would have taken me by surprise had I not been ready for her. The flash of a red bolt from my left hand sent her stumbling backwards. In a furious backward flight, she wheezed out of the corridor, instantly disappearing through the thick walls. I followed her, gliding out of the house with the speed of the fury-wind. I was just in time to see the vile ghost vanish into the body of Uncle Gabriel’s great black horse, sending it into a screeching frenzy as it bucked and shuddered in manic terror.

The horse turned a terrifying white hue that brought loud screams to the lips of the gathered villagers already grappling with my unearthly transformation. A second bolt from my hands sent the Ghost-Bride scrambling out of the tortured body of the great horse in panicked flight. The animal collapsed to the ground, foaming from the lips as its life rapidly ebbed away. Still, even in its death-throes, the great horse continued to shriek with relentless grit as had been its habit.