The campus gates close at midnight. A student
vanishes after attending a prayer meeting in the
old chapel. The next morning, his body is found
in the river, hands bound with red thread, eyes
open, mouth sewn shut. The police inspector
arrives, summoned by the dean. He wears a suit
too clean for the dust of the campus, a badge
too new for the weight of the case.
The inspector interviews the student’s roommate,
who speaks of dreams about a woman in a white
dress, her face hidden behind a veil of smoke.
The roommate’s voice cracks when he says she
whispered, “You will be next.” The inspector
notes the words but does not write them down.
A second body surfaces near the library. This
one is marked with symbols carved into the skin—
lines that pulse faintly under moonlight. The
inspector traces the markings to an old
anthropology thesis on Yoruba ritual magic. The
thesis is missing from the archives. The campus
librarian is found dead in his office, a single
red thread around his neck, his eyes wide with
terror.
The inspector discovers a hidden chamber beneath
the dormitory, sealed by a rusted iron door.
Inside, a shrine made of broken mirrors and
dried herbs. At its center, a jar filled with
black sand and human hair. The inspector touches
it, and the walls begin to bleed. The sand
shifts, forming a name: Ngozi. The name is
familiar—he once saw it on a wanted poster for a
woman accused of witchcraft during the civil war.
He returns to the dean, who admits the
university was built on a former village site.
The villagers were displaced when the campus was
expanded. The dean whispers that the curse began
when a priestess was buried alive in the grounds.
The inspector demands a list of students who
lived in the dormitory during the 1960s. One
name stands out: Ngozi Okoro, a theology student
who disappeared without a trace.
The inspector visits the village, now a slum on
the edge of Lagos. The elders refuse to speak. A
child points to a grave in the bush, unmarked.
The inspector digs, finds a coffin wrapped in
cloth, the lid sealed with red thread. Inside, a
woman’s body, dressed in a white gown, her hands
clasped in prayer. Her eyes are closed, but the
inspector feels her gaze.
Back on campus, a third student is found
unconscious in the chapel. Her lips move, but no
sound comes out. The inspector presses his ear
to her mouth and hears a whisper: “They have
come back.” The campus lights flicker. The air
grows heavy. The inspector pulls out his
flashlight, shines it on the walls. Shadows move.
They form shapes—figures in traditional garb,
their faces obscured.
The inspector steps forward. The shadows stop. A
voice, deep and hollow, says, “You do not belong
here.” He raises his badge. The voice laughs.
“You cannot arrest what you cannot see.” The
inspector turns, sees a woman standing in the
doorway. She is young, her face familiar. She
says nothing. She only nods.
The next day, the campus is empty. No students,
no staff. The inspector walks through the silent
halls, past the library, the dorms, the chapel.
He finds the woman in the courtyard. She is
sitting on a bench, reading a book. She looks up,
smiles. “You came back,” she says. The inspector
does not answer. He takes out his notebook,
writes the word curse and flips to the next page.
He draws a line through it. Then he writes break.
The woman stands, walks toward him. The
inspector steps back. She stops. Her face fades.
The campus begins to dissolve. The inspector
closes his notebook, tucks it into his pocket.
He walks out of the gates, the sun setting
behind him. The campus is gone. The curse is
broken. The inspector does not look back.
