THE NIGHT SHE NEVER RETURNED

A short story

The rain had stopped, but the streets of Lagos Island were still wet, shining like broken mirrors under the streetlights. Chiamaka’s footsteps echoed as she hurried home, clutching her phone like a lifeline. She had taken a shortcut she never dared to take before.

Halfway through, she realized the silence was too heavy. No dogs barking, no cars honking, no night traders shouting. Just her breathing. Then came the whisper.

“Chiamaka…”

She froze. Her name, spoken from the shadows. Slowly, she turned. Nothing was there. The road behind her stretched empty, the air thick with dread.

She ran. Faster than she ever had, never daring to look back. But the whispers followed—closer, sharper—until they weren’t whispers at all, but screams.

That night, Chiamaka never returned home. And some say, if you take that same road after midnight, you’ll still hear her running… just behind you.