Chapter 2: She has come again
The sun rose reluctantly, casting long orange streaks over the ivory walls of the university like dried palm oil on cloth. Orientation day had arrived, and with it, the buzzing of students scrambling through the courtyard—fresh faces, bright eyes, and nervous energy wrapped in branded T-shirts that read "Ivory Crest: Knowledge is Power."
Nia walked with her new friend Zara, clutching her folder of documents while still haunted by the whisper she'd heard the night before. She hadn't told anyone about the mirror. Or the reflection that wasn't hers. Or the cowries that had now disappeared completely. It sounded like madness—even to her.
Orientation was held in the Oral Heritage Auditorium, a dome-shaped building with glowing murals of ancient scholars and deities etched into the stained-glass walls. A mix of languages floated through the air—Yorùbá, Igbo, Hausa, and English—creating a strange symphony of cultures.
Dean Olanrewaju, a tall man with white tribal marks across his face, stepped to the podium. His voice was thunderous, but smooth.
"Welcome to Ivory Crest University—where the past and future collide. You are not just here to learn... but to remember."
Students clapped politely. But Nia frowned. Remember?
"Some of you carry burdens you do not yet understand," he continued. "You will be tested—not just by books, but by truths buried beneath this very soil."
Zara leaned in and whispered, "He always talks like that. Last year he made someone cry by just staring."
Then came the ritual no one had mentioned.
One by one, each student was asked to step onto the circular stage. A strange old woman dressed in white lace, face painted with chalk symbols, sat on a stool beside the podium with a brass bowl of water. She dipped a black feather into the water and held it up to each student's forehead, whispering in a language older than anyone knew.
When Nia stepped forward, the woman's hand froze mid-air. Her eyes turned completely white.
"She walks with the grove. She has come again."
The room fell silent.
Dean Olanrewaju narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
The woman slowly placed the feather on Nia's forehead. The water in the bowl hissed and bubbled like acid. A gust of wind blew through the auditorium though no door was open.
And then—nothing. The ritual continued. No one spoke of it again.
Later, in the cafeteria, Zara tried to brush it off. "Probably a glitch in the system. You know, tradition and theatrics."
But Nia's heart wasn't at ease. She noticed birds circling the same spot above the Dean's office. Not flying—just hovering.
That evening, as she passed by the Chapel on her way back to the dorm, the bells rang on their own. A deep, slow toll that vibrated through her bones.
A janitor sweeping nearby murmured, "That bell hasn't rung in ten years."
Nia looked up, and on the old Chapel window, she saw it again—the girl with pale eyes. Watching. Waiting.
And for the first time, Nia realized:
Orientation wasn't about learning the rules. It was about being watched.
***
The air in Room 206 had changed. Nia felt it the moment she opened the door that evening. It wasn't the scent—though there was a new one, like old camphor mixed with saltwater—it was the weight. The silence that pressed against her ears like cotton soaked in forgotten prayers.
Halima lay on her lower bunk as usual. Still. Facing the wall. But something about her seemed… wrong.
"Halima," Nia called gently.
No answer.
Kaira, sitting cross-legged on her top bunk and scrolling through her phone, looked up. "Don't bother. She never replies. Hasn't since she arrived. People say she's sleepwalking through life."
"She breathes, she eats, she even showers. But I've never seen her blink. Not once," Kaira added, biting into a chin-chin with dramatic flair.
Nia moved closer, curiosity gnawing at her like a mouse in a cupboard. Halima's eyes were open. Wide. Unmoving. They stared straight into the wall—but the wall did not reflect her. Her pupils were dilated as if she had just seen something terrifying... and was still seeing it.
"Has anyone told the hall matron?"
"People have," Kaira said with a shrug. "They moved her out once. She came back. They said no one else could stay in 206."
That night, Nia pretended to sleep. From the corner of her eye, she watched Halima.
The girl didn't twitch.
Didn't roll over.
Didn't even breathe deeply.
And at 2:03 AM—when the hallway light outside flickered—Halima sat up slowly.
Like a puppet being lifted.
Her eyes still wide. Her lips began to move, whispering something in a language Nia couldn't recognize.
"Aṣẹ o... Aṣẹ o... Àiyé tì mọ́... Ọrun péjọ..."
Then, Halima stood. Moved across the room. Her bare feet silent. She paused in front of the old closet—the same one with the whispering mirror. Her hand reached out and tapped it.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Nia held her breath.
The closet door creaked open—not fully, but just enough to reveal darkness inside.
And from within, a voice—not human—answered back in the same language. It was deep, gravelly, like a lion growling through a well.
Halima nodded once, then walked back to bed, laid down, and resumed her statue-like silence.
Nia finally exhaled, her hands trembling under the blanket.
The next morning, Halima was already awake. Eyes still open. Her lips dry. Her fingers twitching slightly.
"Do you ever… sleep?" Nia dared to ask.
Halima turned slowly, her eyes meeting Nia's for the first time since arrival. There was nothing in them. No recognition. No fear. No humanity.
And then she whispered, in a voice that wasn't hers:
"I only sleep in the day, when the eyes of the grove are closed."
Then she turned back to the wall.
Nia sat frozen.
Outside the window, the birds no longer hovered. They perched—all of them—on the ledge outside Room 206.
Watching.
Waiting.
Like Halima.
Like the grove.