Peace didn't last long.

For the first few weeks after our wedding, everything felt like a quiet dream, the kind that comes after too many storms. I woke up every morning to the warmth of Ayo's breath on my neck and the soft hum of his morning prayers. Sometimes I'd just lie there and watch him whisper to God, grateful that we had finally made it through everything - through Andrea's madness, through the chaos, through the shame.

But peace, I've come to learn, never lasts long in stories that began in blood and pain.

It started subtly. Ayo began waking up drenched in sweat. Some nights he'd sit up suddenly, breathing hard, his eyes wide and lost. When I touched him, he'd flinch like I was fire.

"You're safe," I'd whisper, holding him. "You're home."

But he'd only stare at the wall, muttering something I couldn't understand. One night I caught the words clearly - he was calling Andrea's name.

I froze.

It was the way he said it, not in desire, but in fear. Like he was begging her to stay away.

I told myself it was trauma. Maybe guilt. Maybe nightmares. Andrea was behind bars, and we were free, that's what I kept telling myself. But freedom doesn't come when you share your house with shadows.

A week later, strange things began happening around the house.

The light in the corridor started flickering every night around midnight. The air felt heavy, like smoke that refused to leave. Once, while doing laundry, I found a dead pigeon on the doorstep with its wings tied together by a red thread.

My stomach turned cold.

That night, while Ayo slept, I went through his things, searching for something - anything - that could explain what was happening. That's when I found it: a small black stone wrapped in a piece of white cloth under his pillow.

I threw it into the bin, but the next morning, it was back on the bed - neatly folded, as if someone had placed it there while we slept.

I began to lose sleep.

At church, I told my pastor's wife what was going on. She held my hands and said softly,

"It's the spirit of revenge. The girl's mother has tied your destiny to hers. You need serious prayer."

I nodded, pretending to believe, but deep down, I wasn't sure what to believe anymore.

That night, I dreamt of an old woman. She had red eyes and skin wrinkled like dried fish. She was stirring something thick and black in a pot. When she looked up, she smiled - that kind of smile that makes your bones cold.

> "If you think marriage will save him," she said, "you're wrong. Blood still calls blood."

I woke up screaming Ayo's name.

He was sitting at the edge of the bed, shirtless, sweating, his hands shaking.

> "She won't let me go," he said, his voice distant.

"Who?" I asked.

"Andrea's mother. She said if I don't return, she'll bury us both."

I stared at him, unable to breathe. "Return where?"

He didn't answer. He just looked at me - eyes dark, lips trembling - and said,

> "She calls me in my dreams. Every night. I can't resist anymore."

I prayed that night like I had never prayed before. I poured anointing oil on the doorposts, on the bed, even on Ayo's shoes. I played worship songs till dawn. But in the middle of one song, the speaker stopped - the power went off - and I heard a woman laugh softly in the dark.

That was when I realized this wasn't just about dreams or trauma. Something ancient and wicked had entered our home.

The next day, Ayo refused to eat. He sat outside under the mango tree, staring at nothing. When I called him to come inside, he said,

> "I can still hear crying from the cell. She said I betrayed her."

I lost patience. "Ayo! She's in prison. You're my husband now. You need to stop saying her name!"

He looked up slowly, and for a second, his eyes didn't look like his.

> "Then why does she stand behind you every night?"

My blood froze.

I couldn't speak. I turned to look behind me , there was nothing. But the fear stayed. That night, I didn't sleep in our room. I locked myself in the sitting room and cried until dawn.

The next morning, a strange woman came to our gate. She said she was selling herbal soap, but her eyes never left my face. Before she left, she said something that made my heart skip:

> "Tell your husband's sins to the river, before the river comes to collect."

When I rushed to tell Ayo, he was nowhere to be found. His phone was on the bed. His wedding ring was gone.

I ran to the backyard, shouting his name. Then I saw footprints in the sand - barefoot, deep, leading toward the bush path behind the house.

I followed them.

They led me to the stream - the one the villagers said no one should cross after midnight. It was early morning, yet the air was cold, and the water looked black. On the other side of the stream, I saw him - Ayo - standing still, his shirt soaked, eyes closed.

> "Ayo!" I screamed. "Come back!"

He turned slowly, and the smile on his face didn't look human.

> "She's waiting for me," he said.

Before I could say anything, I heard the sound of anklets, soft, rhythmic, coming from behind him. And then I saw her.

Andrea's mother

She was wearing white. Her feet weren't touching the ground.

I screamed and fell backward. My head hit a stone, and everything went dark.

When I woke up, it was afternoon. I was back in our room, with neighbors hovering around. They said a farmer found me by the stream, unconscious. I asked about Ayo they said they didn't see him. His slippers were found at the edge of the water, but no one saw him cross.

For the next three days, I didn't eat. I didn't talk. I just sat by the window waiting for him. Every night, the same dream returned - Andrea's mother stirring her black pot and smiling at me.

On the fourth day, my phone rang. It was a strange number.

> "Madam," a woman's voice said, "your husband is here."

> "Where?" I whispered.

> "General Hospital, emergency ward. He was found by the roadside - naked, shaking, and calling your name."

I rushed there immediately.

When I saw him, my knees gave way. His eyes were open, but empty. He didn't recognize me. He just kept mumbling,

> "She took my shadow... she took my shadow."

The doctor said there was nothing physically wrong with him - no head injury, no fever, nothing. They said it looked like shock or possession.

That night in the hospital, I sat beside his bed, holding his hand. I wanted to pray, but my voice wouldn't come out. The room felt cold. Then, slowly, the lights began to flicker again.

I looked up - and there she was.

Andrea's mother.

Standing by the window, her head wrapped in black cloth, her eyes burning like fire.

> "I told you," she said softly. "Blood still calls blood. You stole him from my daughter. Now, I'll take what's yours."

I tried to scream, but no sound came.

She moved closer to Ayo's bed and placed her palm on his chest. His body jerked violently, and all the monitors started beeping. Nurses rushed in - but when they did, the old woman was gone.

They said I imagined it. But I know what I saw.

Ayo has been in a coma since that night. Every day, I sit by his side, praying, hoping, waiting. But each time I close my eyes, I see that same dream - the old woman stirring her black pot, smiling, whispering something I can never hear clearly.

Until last night.

Last night, I heard her words.

> "Your turn."