RaymondMuhimbise
I’d lived here alone since my parents moved to Kampala, tending to the small garden and repairing the creaky floors. That day, as rain battered the tin roof, I noticed the mirrors. While washing dishes, I glanced at the hallway mirror and froze. For a split second, my reflection wasn’t mine—a gaunt face with sunken eyes and a crooked smile stared back. I blinked, and it was gone. Fatigue, I told myself, rubbing my temples. But the unease lingered.
That night, the storm raged on. At around 11:00 PM, a faint whisper drifted from the attic—my name, spoken in a child’s voice. My heart thudded as I grabbed a flashlight and climbed the narrow stairs, the wood groaning under my weight. The air turned frigid, my breath visible in the dim beam. There, hanging from a rafter, was a shadowy figure no taller than a ten-year-old, swaying gently. Its head jerked toward me, revealing glowing red eyes and a mouth stretched too wide. A shriek pierced the air, sharp and guttural, like nails on glass. I stumbled back, tumbling down the stairs, my ankle twisting painfully. The sound echoed in my skull long after I hit the floor.
The next morning, the house felt different. Doors began slamming shut on their own, trapping me in rooms with no visible locks. The kitchen knives rattled in their block, once lifting an inch before clattering down. I checked the windows—nailed shut from the inside, though I’d never done it. The living room floorboards creaked as if something heavy dragged itself beneath, and a sour, decaying odor seeped through the walls. I found black mold spreading across the ceiling, forming crude letters: “You can’t leave.” Panic set in. I tried my phone—no signal. The landline was dead. I was trapped.
Sleep offered no escape. Each night, I dreamt of my grandparents, their faces gaunt and gray, skin peeling like old wallpaper. They stood in the garden, pointing silently toward the basement door—a place I’d always avoided due to its damp, musty stench. On the third night, driven by desperation and lack of sleep, I limped down the rickety stairs at 5:00 AM, armed with a rusted crowbar from the shed. The air grew colder with each step, and the beam of my flashlight flickered. At the bottom, I found a hidden chamber behind a loose panel, its entrance barely wide enough to squeeze through.
Inside, a circle of cracked bones—human, I realized with a shudder—surrounded an ancient mirror, its surface pulsing with a sickly yellow light. The figure from the attic emerged, its form more solid now, wearing my grandmother’s faded dress. Its voice, a warped version of hers, rasped, “We’ve waited for you, child.” My stomach churned as memories flooded back—stories my grandmother told of a curse tied to this land, a child’s spirit wronged by her family decades ago. I hadn’t believed her then. But in that moment, I remembered something else: my grandmother’s warnings that every thirty years, during the fiercest storm of August, the curse would awaken if left unresolved. I realized this storm wasn’t a coincidence—it was the catalyst.
Terror fueled my actions. I swung the crowbar with all my strength, shattering the mirror. A deafening wail erupted, shaking the house’s foundation. Shadows lashed out, coiling around my legs like cold hands. I fought, clawing at the dirt floor, my nails breaking as I dragged myself toward the stairs. A blinding flash silenced the chaos, and I blacked out.
When I awoke, the house was still. The mirror shards lay scattered, but as I gathered myself, I noticed my reflection—my eyes weren’t mine. They glowed faintly red, mirroring the figure’s. A chill settled in my chest, a presence that wasn’t me. I tried to leave, but the front door vanished, replaced by a blank wall. The windows showed only darkness, no matter the time of day. Footsteps echoed from the attic, descending slowly, stopping at my bedroom door each night. I hear my name whispered, not in anger but in expectation.
Days blurred into a haze. I stopped eating, my body weakening as the presence grew stronger. I found old journals in the basement, written by my grandfather, detailing rituals to appease the spirit—a child buried alive under the house after a family dispute. He’d failed to complete them, and the curse lingered. The journal mentioned a final step: offering myself to break the cycle. The thought gnawed at me. Was this my only escape?
Last night, as the footsteps paused outside, I felt its breath through the crack under the door—cold and rancid. I sat clutching the journal, knowing I couldn’t outrun it. The presence isn’t just in the house—it’s in me now, a second heartbeat thudding in my skull. I see its face in every reflection, its voice in my thoughts, urging me to the basement. Mbarara Hollow isn’t just my home anymore; it’s a tomb, and I’m its unwilling guardian. The spirit wants me to join it, to end the torment by becoming part of its eternity. I don’t know how much longer I can resist.
As I write this, the clock reads 2:17 AM. The doorknob rattles. I hear a child’s giggle, too close. The lights flicker, and the mirror across the room shows not my room, but the basement circle, waiting. My hands tremble, the pen slipping. I don’t want to go, but the choice feels gone. This is my story, my horror, etched in the walls of a house that owns me. If you find this, burn the house. Burn it all.
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