My name is Collins, and I never imagined fear could live inside my own house, breathing softly through familiar walls, wearing the voice of a woman I once trusted with my soul…-phuongthao
My name is Collins, and I never imagined fear could live inside my own house, breathing softly through familiar walls, wearing the voice of a woman I once trusted with my soul.
Three years ago, I married Nkechi, known in church as Deaconess Nkechi, a woman everyone admired for her modesty, discipline, and tireless devotion to prayer and fasting.
She was the Head Usher, always dressed in white, speaking gently, correcting younger sisters with Scripture, kneeling longer than anyone during midnight prayers and church vigils.
On our wedding day, my pastor held my shoulders firmly and smiled, telling me I was blessed to marry a woman who would pray me into greatness.
At first, it seemed like prophecy fulfilled. My business grew rapidly, contracts flowed effortlessly, and money entered my life with frightening ease and speed.
Within two years, I built two houses in Abuja, bought a Prado Jeep, and became a respected man among friends who once looked down on me.
Every success, Nkechi attributed to prayer. She fasted more, prayed harder, and encouraged me never to miss night devotion, even when exhausted.
Every night, exactly at midnight, she woke up like an alarm clock. She would quietly leave the bedroom and kneel in the parlor until morning.
From twelve until three, she prayed aggressively, sweating, shaking, shouting tongues that rattled the windows, calling down fire and binding invisible enemies.
I admired her dedication. I believed I married a spiritual powerhouse. I slept peacefully, trusting that her prayers were building a hedge around our home.
But last night, everything changed. I went to bed with a crushing headache, unable to sleep, my mind restless and strangely alert.
At exactly 1:30 AM, I heard Nkechi praying in the parlor, but something was different. There was no shouting, no tongues, only whispers.
The whispers carried weight, sharp and deliberate. I stood quietly, my heart racing, and moved closer to the parlor door to listen.
She was calling names slowly, reverently, like offerings laid carefully on an altar hidden from the world’s eyes.
“Lord, thank you for the soul of Brother John,” she whispered calmly, almost affectionately, as if thanking someone for a gift received.
“Thank you for the soul of Pastor Mike. Thank you for the soul of Mr. Benson,” she continued, her voice growing colder with each name.
My stomach tightened. I knew those names. They were not strangers. They were men from her past, men who once courted her openly.
And they were all dead. Brother John died in a mysterious car crash. Pastor Mike collapsed on the altar. Benson died from sudden poisoning.
My breathing became shallow. Fear crept into my bones as her whisper changed tone, no longer sounding like prayer but like a transaction.
“Father,” she said softly, “accept the soul of Collins today. Let his blood seal the contract. Let his death bring more wealth.”
My name echoed in my skull. I covered my mouth to stop myself from screaming. My legs trembled violently as survival instinct took over.
She stood up abruptly. I ran back to the bedroom, diving under the covers, pretending sleep, forcing my breath into shallow, steady rhythms.
She entered the room silently and stood over my side of the bed. I could feel her presence, heavy, watching, measuring my breath.
For ten minutes, she stood there. I didn’t move. I didn’t blink. Sweat soaked my back as terror pressed down on my chest.
She finally left and went into the kitchen. I lay there until morning, my eyes wide open, praying silently for daylight.
At dawn, she acted normal. She sang worship songs, swept the floor, and smiled sweetly, as if nothing happened during the night.
She kissed my cheek and said she was going to the market. The moment she left, I ran to the parlor shaking uncontrollably.
I went straight to her prayer corner. There sat her old Bible, black and worn, pages loose, corners folded from years of handling.
I opened it to Psalm 91, seeking protection, but the pages felt strange, too light, too hollow between my fingers.
The Bible was just a shell. The inside was carved out carefully, creating a hidden compartment soaked in dark, unsettling energy.
Inside lay a red notebook and a small bottle of oil that smelled like rot, metal, and something ancient.
I opened the notebook with trembling hands. It contained a list titled “Sacrifices,” written neatly, methodically, without emotion.
Each name had a date, a reward, and a confirmation mark. My heart pounded as I read line after line.
John, delivered 2020, reward promotion. Mike, delivered 2021, reward new land. Benson, delivered 2022, reward chieftaincy.
Then I saw my name. COLLINS. Due date: today. Time: 6:00 PM. Method: “The Zobo of Sleep.”
The notebook fell from my hands. Reality crashed down violently. The success, the wealth, the speed—it all had a price.
And that price was blood. My blood. Today.
I locked myself in the guest room immediately, my hands shaking so badly I could barely turn the key.
Not long after, I heard her return from the market. I heard the blender. I heard her singing hymns joyfully.
“There is power mighty in the blood,” she sang as she prepared the Zobo drink, my favorite, the one she made perfectly.
Then she knocked on the door gently, her voice sweet, familiar, terrifying in its calmness.
“Honey, baby, open the door. I made your favorite Zobo. It’s chilled,” she said softly.
I checked the time. 5:55 PM. My heart slammed against my ribs. I knew what would happen if I drank it.
I heard keys jingling. She was trying the spare key. Her voice changed, deepened, losing its softness.
“Collins, why have you locked the door?” she asked. It no longer sounded like her voice.
I backed toward the window. We were on the third floor. The ground below looked far, unforgiving, but alive.
The door began to open slowly. I saw her eye through the crack. It was red, glowing, unhuman.
In one hand, she held the glass of Zobo. In the other, a calabash carved with symbols I couldn’t recognize.
I had seconds. I prayed. I screamed internally. I chose life.
I smashed the window with a chair, ignoring the glass cutting into my skin, and jumped.
Pain exploded through my body as I hit the ground, but I rolled, screamed, and ran as neighbors shouted.
I didn’t look back. I ran until my lungs burned, blood dripping, fear driving every step forward.
I am hiding now. I don’t know where my wife is. I don’t know if she is human.
If I survive tonight, I will tell the rest.
If I don’t, please, learn from my story.
Not everyone who shouts “Hallelujah” serves God.
SHE WHISPERED S