Hidden Ritual

Episode 1

Sleep abandoned me completely that night.

Ever since I discovered my wife, Nneka, secretly leaving hot jollof rice outside our gate every midnight while whispering the name of our dead son my soul had not known peace. Daniel was gone. I buried him with my own hands in my father’s compound back in the village. I saw the grave. I poured the sand. I cried until my eyes went dry.

So why was my wife still feeding him?

I lay on the bed, pretending to snore, my eyes barely shut. My ears were sharp, waiting. Waiting for the sound that had been haunting me for weeks.

Then, just like clockwork, the wall clock ticked loudly.

12:00 AM.

Nneka slowly rose from the bed. Her movements were careful, deliberate like someone afraid of waking the dead. She wrapped a cloth around her waist and reached for the pot on the floor. The moment she lifted the lid, the familiar smell of freshly cooked jollof rice flooded the room.

Hot.

Too hot for midnight.

She scooped the rice into a plate, covered it with black nylon, and tiptoed toward the door.

My heart slammed against my chest as I followed her quietly, barefoot, every step heavy with fear.

Outside, the night was unusually still. No dogs barking. No crickets. Even the wind seemed to be holding its breath.

Nneka got to the gate.

She knelt slowly and placed the plate on the ground with care like a mother setting food before a child. Then she bowed her head and whispered in a trembling voice:

“Daniel… my son… come and eat before it gets cold.”

My blood turned to ice.

She stood up, wiped her face, and walked back into the house without looking back.

I stayed behind.

I hid behind the old mango tree beside the gate, my whole body shaking. Minutes passed. Then more. The rice sat there untouched, steam still rising into the night air.

Suddenly, the ground began to smell… like wet earth.

Then I heard it.

A sound that made my heart almost stop.

Scrrrr… scrrrr…

Like fingernails dragging through sand.

The gate creaked open by itself.

From the darkness, something began to rise from the ground just beside the plate.

First, a hand.

Small.

Dirty.

Rotten.

Then another.

The soil cracked open slowly, and my knees buckled when I saw him.

Daniel.

My son.

But not the Daniel I remembered.

His eyes were hollow, dark pits crawling with worms. His skin was pale and cracked, patches of grave sand still clinging to his hair. The deep mark on his neck the one from the sickness that killed him was still there, black and swollen.

I bit my hand so hard to stop myself from screaming that blood filled my mouth.

Daniel crawled fully out of the ground.

He stood up.

His neck twisted unnaturally as he sniffed the air, drawn by the smell of the rice. He picked up the plate with shaky hands and began to eat.

Greedily.

Rice spilled from his mouth back onto the sand. Bones cracked as he chewed. Tears rolled down my face as I watched my dead child eat like an abandoned animal.

Then… he stopped.

Slowly, his head turned.

Straight toward the mango tree.

Straight toward me.

His mouth opened.

And in a voice that sounded like dirt being shoveled onto a coffin, he said:

“Daddy… why did you follow mummy?”

My soul left my body.

Before I could move, Daniel dropped the plate and pointed behind me.

I felt warm breath on my neck.

I turned slowly.

Nneka was standing there.

Her eyes were completely black.

She smiled a smile too wide for her face and whispered:

“You were not supposed to know.”

The ground beneath my feet began to sink.

And the last thing I heard, as hands dragged me down into the earth, was my wife’s voice saying:

“He eats every midnight…

and tonight, he needs fresh meat.”