Landlord Sleeps With ALL His Female Tenants in Their Dreams and Does This to Them…

The Whispers of Dyke’s Court

The story of Dyke’s Court Apartments was a whispered legend in the heart of Lagos—a compound where the flowers were always vibrant and the security lights never failed. It was beautiful, peaceful, and had one strange, strict rule: only female tenants. People assumed the landlord, a calm, soft-spoken man named Dyke, simply preferred neatness. But the truth was far darker. Every lovely, young woman who lived under his roof was entering a silent, terrifying covenant.

The Heartbreak and the Pact

Dyke hadn’t always been the well-dressed, gold-rimmed man he was now. Years ago, he was poor, and his fiancée, Ora, left him for a wealthier man. That heartbreak didn’t just break Dyke; it shattered something within him. Standing alone as the sun set, he swore a dark vow: he would never be the weak one again.

His years of absence were spent acquiring wealth through a terrifying pact. Dyke found a way to use a sinister ritual to bind any woman who entered his space to him spiritually. He could possess them in their dreams, taking their energy, their youth, and their very emotions—a parasitic feed that made him stronger and wealthier while appearing completely normal.

When he built Dyke’s Court Apartments, he designed a gilded cage. It was immaculate, affordable, and safe—the perfect lure. But every tenant who signed the lease was signing away her spiritual freedom.

The Pattern of Loss

As the months passed, the compound became known for a chilling pattern. Every woman was attractive, successful, and perpetually single. Linda, who joked about sleeping alone, hadn’t found love a year later. Another tenant’s fiancé broke off their wedding just three weeks before the ceremony, claiming he didn’t know “what was wrong,” only to move out and find a new man immediately. Dyke would feign surprise, but deep down, he knew the truth: ownership.

Then came Ma. She arrived with her two small travel bags, excited for a fresh start before her wedding to her fiancé, Rona. Dyke greeted her with a warm smile, his eyes lingering for a second too long. In his office, their hands brushed, and Ma noticed his palm felt strangely cold. She mentioned her engagement, and for a fleeting second, Dyke’s eyes darkened, though his smile immediately snapped back. As she left, she heard him murmur under his breath: “You’ll see.”

The Shadow in the Room

That night, the torment began.

Ma woke past midnight to a thick, heavy air. She was in her room, but it was foggy, strange. She felt a soft hand slide across her shoulder and a deep, strange whisper: “You’re mine now.” She jolted awake, drenched in sweat, but noticed a faint, hand-shaped mark on her shoulder.

The dreams returned nightly, growing clearer. A tall, shadowy figure would stand beside her bed, and though she was paralyzed, she felt its cold touch, the presence, and the horrifying, violating intimacy. She would wake up soaked, not just from sweat, and on one terrible morning, she found faint scratches on her thigh.

She couldn’t tell Rona; she knew he’d think she was mad. Instead, she grew quiet and withdrawn. Rona noticed the distance, the fear in her eyes, and the way she flinched from his touch.

The final realization hit her when her neighbor, Vicki, confessed to hearing footsteps in her room. Then, Ma overheard two other tenants whispering by the tap: they, too, were having real-feeling dreams of a man they couldn’t see, waking up tired and weak. The secret spread like wildfire. The pattern was identical: the shadow, the drain, the sudden collapse of their relationships. It all led back to Dyke.

The Proof and the End

Convinced the polite landlord was the source, Ma set her phone to record one night while she slept. At 2:47 a.m., the camera blurred with smoke, then cleared to show a shadow standing by her bed. The figure, faintly resembling Dyke’s broad build, bent over her for five minutes. The truth was undeniable.

The women huddled in Ma’s room, watching the video with gasps of fear and rage. They knew they had to act. That night, Ma lay in bed, heart pounding, pretending to sleep with her phone recording.

The air grew heavy. At 3:00 a.m., the door opened silently. Dyke stood in her room, his eyes open but vacant, like a sleepwalker. He moved to her bed, sat on the edge, and leaned close, his breath whispering the rhythmic, strange words of his ritual. The dizziness of the spell washed over Ma, but she fought it, adrenaline burning away the enchantment.

As he leaned closer to whisper, “You belong to me now,” Ma’s voice tore through the quiet night: “What are you doing here, Dyke?”

He froze, his eyes widening in human panic. He stammered and bolted for the door, but Ma’s scream had already brought the other tenants out. They surrounded him at the gate, their fear replaced by unified fury.

The Shrine and the Freedom

The police arrived, and Ma insisted they search Dyke’s room. The door opened to a thick blast of incense and candle smoke. The living room was a terrifying shrine, where a wooden box held photos of every tenant—some asleep—and small personal items, each labeled with a woman’s name.

Dyke collapsed, finally confessing his weakness: “I just wanted them to love me… I thought if I could make them stay in my dreams, maybe they would stay in real life.”

Two weeks later, Dyke’s Court Apartments was empty, sealed with police tape. The women relocated, and as the curse was broken, their lives were instantly restored: job offers, engagements, and, for the first time in months, peaceful sleep.

Ma, in her new apartment, lay in bed, waiting for the fog and the shadow. But the night was only silent. She woke with the morning sun, her heart filled with relief, knowing she was finally free—a powerful lesson that evil sometimes hides not in darkness, but in the facade of comfort and calm.