Poor Boy Marries 70-Year-Old Muscular Slay Mama, 7 Days Later He Discovers Her Secret

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Poor Boy Marries 70-Year-Old Muscular Slay Mama, 7 Days Later He Discovers Her Secret

Once upon a time in a quiet village where people minded their business and news traveled faster than the Hammatan wind, there lived a boy named Musa. At just 15 years old, Musa was slim and a bit tall for his age, always having dry lips no matter how much water he drank. He didn’t talk much, but he listened. While other children chased mangoes and dreams, Musa chased nothing. His father had debts from the last planting season, and his mother had passed away during childbirth. Most times, Musa sat by the roadside near the broken well, watching villagers pass, hoping one day his life would move, too.

His clothes were faded, his school shoes had holes, and his lunch often consisted of whatever was left from the neighbor’s pot. Yet Musa didn’t complain; he had learned to keep quiet and stay out of trouble. But trouble doesn’t always wait for those who go looking for it. Sometimes, trouble comes wearing a red dress, a gold necklace, and muscles that shine under the sun.

It all began on a Thursday. That morning, Musa’s father, Barbasani, returned from the farm looking confused but excited. His voice shook as he called Musa into their hut. “Musa,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead, “you are going to marry a woman.” Musa looked up slowly, bewildered. “Sir, yes, you are getting married today.”

Musa blinked. “But I’m just 15.” His father frowned. “And so were men not going to war at your age in the olden days? This is a blessing. This woman is rich. She said she saw you at the stream last week and liked your smile.” Musa’s heart began to beat fast. Who was this woman?

“What’s her name?” he asked. “Madame Veronica,” Barbasani said proudly. “She’s the one who built that big white mansion on the hill. She’s strong, beautiful, and powerful. Look, she has already sent bags of rice, one cow, two phones, and 5 million naira.” Musa’s mouth fell open. “You signed the marriage paper without asking me?”

Barbasani placed a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t ask the rain why it falls. My son, just open your bucket.” Musa didn’t say a word after that. What could he say? That same evening, the village square was alive with drums. Women danced, men drank, and everyone celebrated the poor boy who caught a billionaire. Children made fun of Musa’s scared face, saying he had married his grandmother.

But the laughter faded quickly when Madame Veronica arrived. She stepped out of a black G-Wagon, wearing a long red dress that hugged her body tightly. Her skin glowed like she bathed in palm oil, her arms thick with muscle like a wrestler’s. She looked young and old at the same time, her face too smooth, too still, as if someone had wiped away her years but left the shadows behind her eyes.

She walked straight to Musa and smiled. “Do you accept me as your wife?” she asked softly. Musa looked up at her, smelling flowers mixed with something bitter, like burnt leaves. He nodded slowly. “Good,” she said and kissed him on the forehead. “Now, let’s go home.”

The car ride to the mansion was quiet. Musa sat in the back seat, trying not to stare at her, but she was staring at him. “Do you like meat pie?” she asked suddenly. “Yes,” Musa replied. “Good. I’ll have them make you 20. You’re too skinny. But don’t worry, I’ll fatten you up.”

They passed trees, rocks, and hills until they reached the gates of the white mansion. The gates opened by themselves. Inside, the house felt too quiet. Everything was shining—the floors, the walls, even the air felt clean and strange. Musa stepped in and looked around. Mirrors lined every wall—big ones, long ones, ones shaped like eyes. Veronica held his hand and led him upstairs. “This is our home,” she said. “You can go anywhere you like, but one rule: never open the red door at the end of that corridor. Do you hear me?”

Musa nodded quickly. “Yes, Ma.” She smiled again. “Good boy.” That night, she served him a big plate of food: fried rice, chicken, goat meat, puff-puff, and juice. Musa ate until he couldn’t move. Veronica watched him the whole time. When he finished, she rubbed his head. “Tomorrow, you’ll start your new life,” she said. “You’ll never suffer again. You’re my king now.”

She stood up and walked to her room. “Sleep well. Don’t worry about noises. This house is old. It speaks.” Musa lay on the bed in the guest room, staring at the ceiling. The bed was soft, the fan was silent, and the sheets smelled like perfume, but he couldn’t sleep. He felt too heavy, too full, too watched.

At around midnight, the air changed. The fan slowed down, the windows rattled slightly, and the mirror in the corner of the room fogged up even though the AC was on. Then he heard it—a soft, sad sound, like a baby crying. It came from far down the hallway. His heart jumped. He sat up and listened. The crying came again, a little louder, then softer, then stopped.

Musa got off the bed slowly and tiptoed to the door. He opened it just enough to peek outside. The hallway was empty, but the red door at the end was glowing faintly, as if someone had lit a candle behind it. Musa’s hand began to shake. He closed the door gently and returned to bed, pulling the covers over his head and squeezing his eyes shut. The crying didn’t return, but the silence was even worse. He didn’t sleep again that night.

In the morning, while brushing his teeth, he looked in the mirror. For just one second, his reflection blinked twice while his eyes only blinked once. Musa stood frozen in front of the mirror, toothbrush in hand, foam dripping from his lips. He stared at the glass again, hoping he had imagined it, but the mirror now looked normal. His reflection stared back like always—no blinking, no delay.

He wiped his mouth slowly and leaned in closer. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe the big bed, the strange food, and the crying last night had all mixed together to confuse his mind. He forced a smile at himself, trying to act brave, then shook his head and walked out of the bathroom. The house was quiet again—too quiet. No sound of birds, no footsteps, no voices. It didn’t even feel like a house where someone lived; it felt like a museum where no one was allowed to speak.

As he walked down the long hallway, passing big paintings on the wall, he paused in front of one. The boy in the painting had big eyes and a scared face. There was something familiar about him, but Musa couldn’t place it. The more he looked, the more the boy’s expression changed from scared to angry. Musa jumped back and turned away, walking faster.

When he reached the staircase, he saw something new. Two small boys stood by the wall near the dining room. They wore black shorts and white shirts, their heads shaved, and they didn’t blink. They stood still like statues, looking straight ahead. Musa slowed down and looked at them. “Hello,” he said. They didn’t move. “Do you work here?” he asked. No answer.

Musa walked closer. “What’s your name?” Still nothing. He reached out to tap one on the shoulder, but just as his finger got close, Madame Veronica’s voice called from behind. “Leave them.” Musa spun around. She stood by the kitchen door, holding a glass of red juice. She was wearing another red dress, but this one was tighter. Her arms looked even bigger today, like she had lifted heavy weights all night.

“They don’t talk,” she said with a smile. “They’re just house boys. I rescued them from the street.” “But they look like statues,” Musa said. She walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder. “That’s what happens when people are too silent for too long. Don’t worry; they’ll get used to you.” Musa looked back at the boys. One of them blinked finally, but it wasn’t a normal blink. His eyes rolled upward before closing, as if something inside him had taken over.

Veronica turned him away. “Come, let’s eat.” They sat at the large dining table, where more food awaited: yam porridge, fish stew, plantain, and fruit juice—too much food for two people. Musa ate slowly, watching her across the table. “You don’t eat meat?” he asked. She shook her head. “I only take what I need.”

She smiled again, showing perfect white teeth, but behind the smile, Musa saw something strange in her eyes, like a shadow, as if she were hiding something and didn’t care if he saw a piece of it. He dropped his spoon. “I want to go outside today.” She raised her eyebrows. “Why?” “I just want to walk around, get fresh air.”

“There’s fresh air in the garden,” she said. “You don’t need to go far.” “But I want to see the gate, maybe wave at my friends.” Her face changed slightly. “Musa,” she said softly, “this is your new home. You don’t need the outside world anymore. Out there, nobody cared when you were suffering. In here, you have peace.” He nodded slowly, but his chest felt tight. “Okay, good boy,” she said.

He stood up from the table and tried to walk away. “Wait,” she said. “Come here.” He walked back, and she pulled him into a hug. Her arms were warm and strong, but something about the hug felt possessive, like she was claiming him, like a snake wrapping around its food before swallowing. “You’re mine now,” she whispered. “Till your last breath.”

Musa pulled away gently and walked upstairs. He didn’t go to his room. Instead, he walked past it and headed toward the hallway with the red door. He stopped in front of it, just looking. The door wasn’t glowing today; it looked normal—plain red wood with golden carvings. But Musa could feel something behind it, like a heartbeat, slow and deep. He placed his ear against the door. Nothing. Then he turned and started to walk back.

As he passed the mirror near the stairs, he noticed something new. The hallway behind him was empty, but in the mirror, someone was standing right behind him. He turned around quickly. Nothing. His heart beat faster. He stared at the mirror again. Now it showed only him. He touched his chest. “I need to leave this place,” he whispered.

Later that evening, he sat in the guest room, staring at the walls. The room had no clock, no TV, no calendar. Time moved strangely in the house, like the day never ended. He went to the bathroom again and looked in the mirror. This time he didn’t brush; he just watched. His reflection smiled. He frowned. His reflection frowned. He lifted one hand; his reflection followed. But then for one small second, his reflection turned its eyes slightly to the right before his own eyes moved.

Musa stepped back. “What’s happening to me?” he whispered. He left the bathroom and went to the window. Outside, the sky was cloudy. The trees were still. The air looked heavy. Then he saw it—one of the small boys walking toward the garden, alone. Musa opened the door quietly and followed him. The boy walked behind the house into a small section of the garden that Musa hadn’t seen before.

There were strange plants, black candles, and wooden carvings on the ground. The boy walked into the middle of the garden and sat down. Musa hid behind a tree and watched. The boy didn’t move; he just sat there humming—a slow, deep sound, like a lullaby but sad. Suddenly, the boy stopped. His head turned slowly. Too slowly, he looked directly at Musa’s hiding spot and whispered, “Seven days.”

Musa’s body froze. The boy stood up, walked to the biggest tree in the garden, and touched the bark. Then he placed his forehead on the tree and stood still. Musa didn’t wait. He ran back into the house, heart racing, eyes wide. He didn’t tell Madame Veronica what he saw. He went straight to bed and lay down. He didn’t sleep—not even a little.

Hours passed. The fan slowed again. The air changed. The windows rattled. Then he heard the humming—soft from far away, like many voices, small boys humming. Musa held the blanket tighter. He looked at the mirror. It was fogged up again. In the corner of the fog, a small handprint appeared from the inside. He shut his eyes tight and whispered, “Please let morning come.”

But the humming got louder, then stopped. Then a soft knock—just one on his door. He didn’t move. Another knock, then silence. He opened his eyes. The mirror was clear. The room was still. He didn’t sleep again. As the sun slowly came through the curtain, Musa knew one thing clearly: something was very wrong in this house, and he was in the middle of it.

Musa sat on the edge of his bed, legs shaking slightly as the morning light spilled through the window. The red handprint on the mirror was gone. The humming had stopped, but the memory of it still lived inside his chest, heavy and loud. He hadn’t slept again. This was the third night something strange had happened. The mirror blinking, the boy whispering “seven days,” the humming, and now the knock. It wasn’t a dream; he knew what he heard.

Musa stood up and opened his door slowly. The hallway looked normal, but he could feel that something was hiding inside the silence, something watching. He walked to the staircase, trying to act brave. When he got downstairs, the same two small boys were standing beside the dining room wall, still as ever. One blinked; the other didn’t. He walked past them without speaking and found Madame Veronica already seated at the table, dressed in a tight green wrapper and blouse, her hair tied high like a queen.

She was drinking a cup of something thick and brown—not tea, not coffee. It smelled like burnt leaves. “Good morning, my king,” she said with a wide smile. “You didn’t come down for dinner last night. I waited.” Musa sat slowly. “I wasn’t feeling well.” She stared into his face, her smile still fixed. “Was it the food or the dreams?” Musa’s heart skipped. “What dreams?”

She looked away and waved her hand. “This house can confuse you sometimes, especially in the beginning. The walls remember things. Maybe you’re just adjusting.” He picked at his bread, pretending to chew. “What do they remember?” She looked him dead in the eye. “Stories, ghosts, boys.” He dropped the bread.

She laughed gently. “I’m joking, my love. Eat. You need your strength.” Musa forced a weak smile and nodded, but he didn’t touch the bread again. After breakfast, he asked for a book to read. She led him to the house library, a large room filled with tall shelves, dusty chairs, and strange statues. “Pick any book you want,” she said, “except the ones with black covers. Those are private.” She turned and left.

Musa stood there alone, surrounded by hundreds of old books. Some were big, some tiny, but one shelf in the corner looked older than the rest. He walked toward it and noticed that the wood was cracked, and one of the books was pushed halfway out. He pulled it gently. The cover was dark red with torn edges—no title. He opened the first page and gasped. “Diary of Boy Number 12.”

His hands shook slightly as he flipped to the next page. “My name was Samuel. She renamed me Number 12. I arrived here in 1992. My parents said it was for my good, that I would eat well, sleep well, and become great. But I haven’t seen the sun since then.” Musa’s eyes widened. He turned the page. “This house is a trap. Madame Veronica is not what she looks like. She is older than she claims, stronger than she shows. Every seven days, one of us disappears. The door at the end of the hallway leads to the answer, but none of us who went in ever returned the same.”

Musa looked up quickly, then behind him. Nobody was there. He continued reading. “If you find this diary, you are the next one. I was the 12th. You might be the 14th. Don’t eat her food. Don’t trust her smiles. And whatever you do, stay away from the red door or prepare to lose your name.” He slammed the book shut, breathing fast, hands wet with sweat. Was this real? Who was Samuel? Was he one of the silent boys?

Musa tucked the diary under his shirt and left the library quickly. As he turned a corner, he bumped into one of the house boys. The boy didn’t move. His eyes stared blankly ahead. Musa’s voice was low. “Do you remember who you were?” No answer. He leaned closer. “Samuel, is that you?” The boy blinked twice, then his lips moved slowly, almost like he was fighting something to speak. “A U N.”

Musa stepped back. “What did you say?” But the boy was still again. Musa turned and rushed upstairs. He shut his door and locked it, even though he wasn’t sure it would help. He placed the diary under his pillow and paced the room. She wasn’t just a rich woman; she wasn’t just strong. She was hiding something—something ancient, something evil. The house wasn’t just big; it was alive. And the red door wasn’t just a rule; it was a warning.

That evening after dinner, Musa sat with her in the living room. A large golden chandelier hung above them, swinging slightly, even though there was no breeze. She sat beside him on a velvet couch, her leg resting on his lap. “You’re so quiet tonight,” she said, stroking his hair. “Are you not happy?” “I’m fine,” he said quickly. She watched him for a moment, then smiled. “You’ve been reading?”

“Yes, books can be dangerous,” she said slowly. “They hold too many truths. Truths can break the peace.” Musa looked away. “I just like stories.” She chuckled. “Good. But remember, some stories are better left untold.”

That night, as she went to her room, Musa waited. He waited until the house fell silent. He waited until the clock in the hallway struck midnight. Then, barefoot and heart pounding, he crept out of his room. He passed the mirrors, trying not to look into them. He walked down the hallway slowly, the floor cold under his feet. And then he reached it—the red door.

He placed his palm against it. It was warm. He placed his ear against it. Nothing. He touched the handle gently; it didn’t move. He looked around. Then, with a trembling finger, he touched the golden carvings. They pulsed under his skin. Suddenly, the carvings began to glow faintly. A soft hum filled the air. The door cracked slightly. Musa gasped and stepped back. The air grew heavy. The hum grew louder. The crack in the door widened just enough for him to see inside.

It was dark. But then slowly, an eye appeared in the crack—large, black, human but wrong. It blinked once, then focused on him. Musa’s legs froze. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The eye narrowed, and a low whisper came through the door. “Musa.” He screamed and ran back to his room. He slammed the door, locked it, and crawled under the bed. He stayed there for hours, shaking, breathing fast, waiting for morning to save him.

When morning finally came, he wasn’t sure if he had survived the night or if something had followed him into it. Musa didn’t come out of his room that morning. His eyes were wide open, but he couldn’t move. He lay still under the bed, his back pressed to the cold floor, the memory of that eye staring at him through the red door burning in his mind like fire. Every sound in the house made him jump—a door creaking, a footstep outside, even the wind whistling made his chest tighten.

He stayed under the bed until light from the window told him it was far past morning. Only then did he crawl out and sit on the floor, breathing slowly. He had to leave. He had to escape before the seventh day. That eye wasn’t human; it was watching him like he was food. He stood up slowly, washed his face, and opened his door carefully. The hallway was quiet. He didn’t see the house boys. He didn’t hear Madame Veronica.

He tiptoed down the stairs and peered outside through the wide windows. The sky was gray, and the wind pushed against the tall trees in the compound. It looked like it was about to rain. Then he saw him—the old gateman, Barber Johnny. He was standing near the gate in his usual blue uniform, his cap pulled low, eyes staring forward. He never spoke. He never moved. Musa had only seen him once when he first arrived. But now Musa felt something pulling him toward the old man, maybe the way Barber Johnny stood so still, like he had been waiting for something.

Musa looked around, then quickly slipped through the back door and walked around the house. His feet stepped on wet grass, his arms brushed through tall flowers. As he got closer to the gate, he saw that the air around Barber Johnny looked strange—still, like even the wind didn’t want to disturb him. Musa approached slowly. “Sir,” he whispered. No response. “Please, I need help.” Barber Johnny didn’t move. Musa stepped closer, close enough to see the lines on the man’s face—deep and tired, like someone who had seen too much.

“I saw something last night,” Musa whispered. “Behind the red door.” Still, the old man said nothing. “I read a diary. It said I’m number 14. Is that true?” The wind blew gently. Then Barber Johnny blinked. He turned his head slowly to Musa. “You shouldn’t have opened that door,” he said in a voice so dry it cracked with every word. Musa stepped back, heart racing. “So it’s real?” The old man nodded. “You are the 14th boy to enter this house. The others are gone. Some became the walls, some became the mirrors, some became shadows that hum at night.”

Musa’s eyes widened. “Why me?” “She chooses boys with weak parents. Parents who need money. Parents who are too hungry to ask questions.” Musa swallowed hard. “My father…” “He was in debt.” The old man looked away. “That’s how she gets them. She gives money, food, cows. She buys silence.”

“Who is she?” Musa asked. “She looks human, but I know she’s not. They say she was a queen once, but she made a deal with something dark—a spirit that promised her youth and power.” “But the spirit wanted something in return,” Musa guessed. The old man nodded. “Every seven days, she must offer a soul—a young one, full of energy, full of life. The younger the boy, the longer she stays beautiful.”

Musa took a step back. “She’s going to kill me.” “Not quickly,” Barber Johnny said. “First, she drains your reflection. That’s why your mirror doesn’t follow you, right? Then she weakens your voice. You’ll find it harder to speak.” “She already has,” Musa said shakily. “I hear humming. I see hands in the mirror. I saw an eye last night. It called my name.”

Barber Johnny sighed. “You don’t have much time left. You have to run.” “I tried,” Musa said. “The gate disappears when I walk toward it.” “It’s a spell,” the old man said. “But there’s a way—a small window between dusk and midnight when her power is weakest. That’s when the spirits shift. If you reach the gate during that time, it might open.”

Musa’s eyes lit up. “When?” “Tonight,” the old man looked up at the sky. “When the sun touches the ground and the shadows grow long, that’s your moment.” “I’ll be ready,” Musa said quickly. “I’ll pack my things.” “No,” Barber Johnny said. “You must leave with nothing. If you carry anything from this house, it will follow you.” Musa’s face tightened. “But what about the other boys? Can we save them?”

The old man looked down. “Some are too far gone. Their names are gone. Their shadows belong to her now. But if you escape, her spell will weaken. She may lose control.” Suddenly, the air changed. The breeze stopped, the trees stood still, and the sun disappeared behind thick, dark clouds. Musa turned quickly. She was there—Madame Veronica, standing just a few steps away. Her dress flowed like smoke around her feet. Her eyes glowed faintly, like fire behind glass.

She didn’t speak; she just stared at Barber Johnny. The old man didn’t flinch. He stepped in front of Musa. “I warned him,” he said calmly. “I broke the rule.” “You were never supposed to speak,” Veronica said, her voice low and sharp. “You were meant to guard the gate, not open it.” “I’ve watched too many boys disappear,” the old man said. “He deserves to know the truth.”

She tilted her head. “You think you’re brave?” she whispered. “No,” he said. “I’m just tired.” Veronica raised her hands slowly. Then rest forever. Before Musa could blink, her fingers curled. Barber Johnny gasped and clutched his chest. His skin turned gray, his legs stiffened, his eyes widened. “No!” Musa screamed, but the old man didn’t cry out. He stood still and turned into stone right in front of the gate, his eyes frozen, his mouth open in mid-sentence.

Musa fell to his knees, shaking. “You didn’t have to do that,” he cried. Veronica stepped closer. “You think I didn’t know?” she asked softly. “You think I didn’t feel the door open last night?” Musa looked up, tears in his eyes. “Why me?” She smiled. “Because you shine; your soul is bright. You are the kind that tastes sweet.”

She leaned closer and whispered in his ear, “And soon you’ll be mine.” Then she turned and walked away, her steps slow and smooth, as if nothing had happened. Musa stared at the stone statue of Barber Johnny—his only help gone, his way out blocked. The mansion behind him now felt like a cage. The sky above looked darker than ever, and deep inside, Musa knew tomorrow was the fifth day. The clock was ticking, and the red door was still waiting.

Musa didn’t eat that night. He sat quietly at the edge of the dinner table, eyes fixed on the bowl of pepper soup in front of him. The steam danced slowly into the air, but the smell made his stomach turn. He could feel her eyes watching him from the other side of the table. Madame Veronica was smiling. She always smiled, but now her smile looked different—bigger, hungrier. “Eat, my love,” she said softly. “You haven’t touched your food.”

“I’m not hungry,” Musa said, trying to keep his voice calm. “You haven’t eaten all day,” she replied, reaching out to touch his hand. “I had the kitchen prepare your favorite.” Musa pulled his hand away gently. “My stomach is not feeling well.” Veronica nodded slowly, but her smile didn’t fade. “Is it because of Barber Johnny?”

He looked up quickly. “You turned him into stone.” “I did what I had to,” she said, still calm. “He broke the rules.” “He helped me,” Musa said, his voice trembling. “He told me the truth.” “The truth?” she asked, tilting her head. “And what truth is that?” Musa said nothing.

Veronica stood up and walked around the table. She stopped behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders. Her fingers were warm, firm, and strong. “You are afraid,” she whispered. “I can feel it. You think I want to hurt you, but I don’t. I chose you, Musa. Out of all the boys in this world, I picked you. You’re special.”

He forced himself to stay still. She leaned down closer to his ear. “You don’t understand what it means to be chosen, do you? To be loved by someone who can give you everything.” She stepped in front of him again and crouched to meet his eyes. “I can give you more than your father ever could. I can give you power, gold, cars, everything.”

“I just want to go home,” Musa said quietly. She blinked once, then smiled again. “You are home,” she said. Then she stood up and clapped her hands. Immediately, two of the silent house boys appeared from the hallway, each holding a box wrapped in shining gold cloth. “Bring them,” she said.

The boys placed the boxes in front of Musa and stepped back. Veronica knelt down again. “Open them,” she said softly. Musa hesitated, then slowly opened the first box. Inside was a brand new iPhone—the latest one, the kind he had only seen in YouTube videos. He opened the second box. Inside was a golden wristwatch that sparkled under the light. “These are yours,” she said. “There’s more where that came from. Anything you want.”

Musa stared at the gifts for a moment, then looked up at her. “What do I have to do?” he asked. She smiled wider. “Just stay. Be mine. That’s all.” Musa swallowed hard. “Okay,” he whispered. “Good boy,” she said, reaching out to stroke his cheek. “I knew you’d understand.”

She stood up and turned to the boys. “Take the gifts to his room.” The boys picked up the boxes and left. Veronica turned back to Musa. “Tomorrow we’ll celebrate. I’ll have the chef prepare a royal meal for you. You’ll wear something special. It’s time you start acting like the prince of this house.” Musa nodded slowly.

She walked toward the stairs, her voice floating behind her. “Sleep well tonight. Your real life begins tomorrow.” When she disappeared upstairs, Musa stood up and ran to the sink. He turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face again and again. His heart wouldn’t slow down. She was planning something. He had read it in the diary. On the seventh day, the final bonding begins. This was the sixth night. Tomorrow was the last. He had one more chance.

One night left. He had to see what she really was. That night, he didn’t touch the gifts. He placed the boxes under the bed and locked his door. Then he pulled the blanket up to his chin and lay very still, pretending to sleep. His eyes stayed open. The fan turned slowly above his head. The mirror on the wall was dark. The air in the room was too quiet. Minutes passed, then hours, then he heard it—a low humming.

Not from the mirror this time, but from the hallway. He closed his eyes halfway and turned slightly to face the door. A shadow passed under it. Then the door handle turned. It opened slowly with a soft creak. Musa didn’t move. He kept his breathing slow and steady. The shadow stepped into the room. He could feel her presence—Madame Veronica.

She stood at the foot of his bed for a long time, then moved to the mirror. He watched her through his lashes, careful not to blink. She raised her hand to the mirror and touched it gently. It glowed faintly under her palm. Then she turned around, her back to him. She pulled off her red gown. Then she did something Musa would never forget for the rest of his life.

She unzipped her skin like a dress. Her flesh peeled away slowly, revealing something underneath—something gray, something veiny, something inhuman. Her shoulders widened, her arms grew longer, and her neck cracked as she turned it side to side. She stepped out of her human skin fully now, her real form standing tall in the dark. She was a creature—not fully human, not fully spirit. Her body pulsed like it was breathing through the skin.

Her back was marked with symbols Musa had never seen. Her fingers were long and curved, her nails black and sharp. Her eyes glowed red. She turned to face the mirror, and the mirror showed both versions—her human self and her true self—but her reflection was smiling. Musa’s body shook under the blanket, but he didn’t move. She walked slowly toward the window, opened it wide, and let the cold wind inside.

Then she whispered something into the air—words Musa couldn’t understand. The wind answered her with a deep sigh. Then she stepped back and slowly put her skin back on—one leg, then the other. She zipped it up carefully, pulled her red gown over it, and smiled at herself in the mirror. Then she walked to the door, stopped, and looked back at the bed. Musa’s heart stopped.

He stayed completely still. She stared at him for a long time, then whispered, “Sleep well, my king,” and walked out. The door closed behind her. Musa waited and waited, only when he was sure the hallway was silent again did he sit up. His hands were shaking, his eyes wide with fear. Now he knew the truth—the real truth. She wasn’t just evil; she was a monster. Tomorrow she would take his soul unless he escaped first.

Musa didn’t sleep at all. He sat in the corner of his room with the lights off, knees pulled up to his chest. His hands were shaking, his eyes wide, his heart racing since he saw her shed her skin. Now he understood: Madame Veronica was not just a witch; she was something worse. She wore human skin like a jacket. She walked and smiled like a person, but inside she was a creature, and tomorrow he would be her next offering.

Today was the seventh day—the last day. Barber Johnny’s warning echoed in his head: “You don’t have much time left.” Musa waited for the sun to rise. The moment light touched the sky, he unlocked his door and crept out. The hallway was quiet. The mirrors were still. The house boys were nowhere to be seen. He tiptoed through the corridor toward the red door. He had to know what was inside. He had to understand what she was doing to the boys.

If he could find a way to stop it, even for a second, he might survive. When he reached the red door, he placed his hand on the carvings again. They were warm, pulsing under his skin like a heartbeat. He looked behind him. No one. He turned the handle. This time it opened. The door creaked slowly, revealing a long, narrow staircase leading underground. A thick smell hit his nose—earth, sweat, and something else, something sharp and bitter like blood.

Musa stepped inside. The door closed behind him. He froze, then took one step forward and another. The stairs were steep. The air got colder with each step. At the bottom, he reached a wide underground chamber. The walls were carved with strange marks, the floor made of red clay, and in the center of the room, he saw them—boys, about a dozen of them, maybe more. All wearing the same black shorts and white shirts, all barefoot, all sitting in a circle, heads down, hands chained to the ground.

They were humming that same sad, slow hum. Musa covered his mouth with his hand. He stepped forward carefully. One of the boys looked up. His eyes were white, no pupils. He stared at Musa and whispered, “You came too late.” Musa’s voice cracked. “What is this place?” Another boy looked up. “This is where she keeps us until we fade.”

Musa moved closer. “Can you be freed?” The boys looked at each other. Then one of them, the smallest, pointed toward the wall. “There,” he said softly. “The gourd. Break it, and maybe some of us will live.” Musa turned. In a corner, sitting on a raised stone platform, was a small clay gourd wrapped in red thread and cowries. It pulsed with light, like something was alive inside it. He stepped toward it slowly. “What is this?” he asked.

One of the older boys answered, “That’s her life. Her youth. The souls she eats are kept inside. That’s why she never grows old.” Musa reached for it. A voice behind him growled, “Don’t touch it.” He spun around. Another boy had stood up. His eyes were not white; they were black. He looked more like a shadow than a child. “She owns

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