Episode 1: The Ritual of Cleansing

At first, I thought it was just her way of feeling clean.

My wife, Amaka, had always been soft: soft in her movements, soft in her voice, soft in the way she placed things carefully, as if they could break with harsh words. We had been married for five months, and every night followed the same rhythm: dinner, a little laughter, checking her phone, and then she would head off for her second bath of the day.

Even on days when she hadn’t gone out.

Even on days when we didn’t make love.

Even when I begged her to stay.

She would emerge from the bathroom smelling like a perfume commercial—skin damp, towel wrapped snugly, and that same scent of hibiscus and vanilla trailing behind her. She would slip into bed, always facing away from me, saying, “Goodnight, love,” and fall asleep before I could touch her.

I told myself not to rush her. Maybe she needed time.

The truth was—I was afraid of ruining what we had.

My name is Femi. Thirty-one years old. I design kitchens for a living. I’m not rich, but I know how to make a woman feel secure. That was all I ever wanted—someone to come home to, someone who wouldn’t make me feel like I was too much or not enough. When Amaka came into my life, I thought I had finally reached my destination.

We met in a furniture store. She was looking for a new reading chair, and I was fixing a broken drawer. Her first words to me were, “Why are you sweating so much?”

I told her it was the price of honest work. She laughed. In that moment, I knew I wanted to be near her laughter for a long time.

Loving her was easy. She enjoyed old Nollywood movies, yam mash with too much spice, and sleeping with socks on even when the power went out. Her smile held peace within. But it was her silence that lingered the most—not the angry kind of silence, but the kind that makes you wonder what she’s thinking.

I started noticing the second bath in our second week together. At first, it didn’t bother me. A woman has her habits, right? Some snore, others talk in their sleep. If hers was bathing again before bed, so be it.

But gradually… it began to seem like she was washing away something more.

Something more than sweat. More than stress.

Something she didn’t want to lie next to me.

She never told me no.

But she also never told me yes.

Just soft smiles. Light touches. And silence, wrapped in the scent of hibiscus.

Then one night, I heard something.

Just as she came out of the bathroom—the wet hair, the towel clinging to her body—something fell from her.

It wasn’t loud. Just enough to make me turn.

It rolled under the bed.

She quickly bent down and picked it up, too quickly, like someone who didn’t want to explain.

And in that brief moment… I saw it.

A small dark bead. It wasn’t part of her jewelry.

Something older. Rougher.

Something that didn’t belong in our bedroom.

Episode 2: The Hidden Truth

The bead was black, small, and dull-looking. The kind of thing you’d find sewn into the waistband of old handkerchiefs or tied with red thread and hidden under pillows in village homes. It didn’t seem like something Amaka would use, not with her silk scarves, her perfume, and her Instagram turbans. But she picked it up quickly, as if hiding something, and acted as if nothing had happened.

She slipped into bed beside me, said her usual, “Goodnight, love,” and turned away.

I stared at the ceiling for a long time. Something felt… off. The air she brought with her was icy, as if she had stepped out of a freezer. The hallway lights flickered once and stabilized. I told myself I was overthinking it. Sometimes kids her age are strange, right?
Wrong.

The next night, the same thing. She didn’t return until 1:00 AM again. And once more, she entered as if she lived in another time zone, offering no explanations. Same words. Same tone.

But this time, I noticed.
She passed by the dining room wall lamp… and her shadow didn’t.

It simply wasn’t there.
No outline.
No shape.
Nothing.

I thought I was hallucinating. I turned on all the lights in the house and made her stand under them. Nothing. The light illuminated her face, but the floor behind her remained empty. She noticed me watching.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” she asked.
I blinked. “Nothing. Just tired.”
She nodded and walked away.
And I watched her once more as she walked away. Her body moved… but no shadow followed her.

The next day, I called the school and asked why they were letting her out so late every day. The woman on the phone hesitated. Then she said:
“Ma’am, your daughter hasn’t been to school since the last midterm… over three weeks ago. We sent several notes, but you never responded.”

My heart stopped.
“She leaves every morning,” I whispered. “She puts on her uniform. She even takes her water bottle.”

I went to check the fridge after the call. Her water bottle was still there. Intact. Exactly as I had left it the day of the last midterm.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I turned off all the lights. I sat by the living room window. And I waited.

Exactly at 1:00 AM, the front gate opened by itself.
And she walked in.
Zina. But not Zina.

On the outside, she looked the same. But her eyes didn’t blink like before. Her breathing had a strange rhythm. She looked at me and tilted her head.

“Why are you awake, Mom?” she asked.
I faked a smile. “Waiting for you.”
And then I said something I hadn’t planned:
“Where is your shadow?”

She smiled.
But not with her mouth— with something colder.
“It stayed behind.”
And she passed by me.

But I swear—when she passed in front of the wall mirror, something did appear for an instant.

Something taller than her.
Something with eyes too big… and a smile too thin.

I turned away, my heart pounding, my hands trembling.

Now she’s in her room.
Sleeping in her bed.
Breathing.
Silent. Calm.

But her shadow…
Her true shadow?

I think it’s still outside.
And I think it’s waiting to come in.

—

Episode 3: The Voice Behind the Door

1:00 AM.
The clock hand made its familiar click.
And then: the front door opened by itself.

I was in the living room, sitting with the note still in my hand, my heart pounding as if it were trying to break my ribs and flee without me.

But I didn’t go to greet her. Not this time.
I hid behind the curtain, with the phone silent and the lights off.

I heard the footsteps.
One. Two. Three.
They weren’t the light steps of a teenager.
They were heavier. As if she were carrying something. Or as if she were not entirely human.

Then I heard her voice.

—Mom… I’m home.

But it wasn’t her voice.
Not entirely.
It was too deep, with a strange echo, as if two mouths were speaking at the same time.
One higher, trying to sound like Zina.
The other… dragging syllables like claws on glass.

—Mom… are you awake?

The doorknob turned.
I didn’t breathe.

She didn’t enter. Not yet.
She just leaned her forehead against the door.
And began to cry.

But the tears didn’t sound like tears.
They weren’t soft or wet.
They were dry, cracked, as if something inside her was splintering.

—Mom… I’m cold. Let me in…

I wanted to do it. I wanted to run to her.
It was my daughter’s voice.
At least, part of it.

But then something inside me remembered the note.
“This isn’t me. Don’t let her in tomorrow.”
And although that thing was inside the house… I understood what it meant.

The real Zina was outside.
And what was inside… was something else.

At 3:33 AM on the dot, the footsteps faded away.

I heard the front door open again.
Then silence.
And finally, the air returned to my lungs.

At dawn, I went to Zina’s room.

Empty.
But not entirely.

On her bed, there was a box.
Wrapped in black cloth, with a bow made of human hair.

Inside… a doll.
An exact replica of me.

And behind the head, something was carved with a knife:

“You will be next.”

—

Episode 4: The Mirror That Doesn’t Reflect

The next day felt unreal.

Zina didn’t return to school. She didn’t answer her friends’ messages.
Her phone remained off.
And the doll on her bed… was still there, with my eyes, my clothes, my expression of frozen fear in fabric.

I tried to burn it.
It wouldn’t catch fire.
It only smelled like burnt flesh.

 

At 12:55 AM that night, I did something stupid.

I placed a mirror in front of the front door.

It wasn’t superstition. It was desperation.
If what entered every night wasn’t Zina, I wanted to see it. Confirm it.

1:00 AM.
The lock turned.

I was in the dark, sitting on the hallway floor, holding my breath.

The door opened slowly.
A figure entered.
It was Zina.

Dressed in her blue jacket. Backpack slung over her shoulder.
Hair tied back.
Pale skin.

—Hi, Mom —she said, as always.

But she didn’t look at me.

She looked at the mirror.

And didn’t reflect anything.

 

—What is that? —she asked, pointing at the mirror with a cold smile.

—Nothing, sweetheart —I replied, my voice breaking—. How was school?

—Very good —she replied—. Today we learned about photosynthesis.

But I knew that lesson had been two weeks ago.

Zina (or whatever it was) passed by the mirror without casting a shadow, or image, or any presence at all.

Just a cold breeze brushed my feet.

 

I slept with the door closed.
Barricaded.
With the doll in a bag, buried in the backyard.

But at 3:00 AM, I heard laughter.
Not from the hallway.
From my closet.

I opened it slowly.
The doll was sitting there, with a new expression:
Smiling.

And between its tiny fingers, it held a strand of my hair.

 

The next day, I went to the school. Talk to someone. Anyone.

But when I arrived…

The principal told me something that froze the air around me:

—Ma’am, your daughter Zina hasn’t been here in weeks.

—What do you mean? I drop her off here every night!

She looked at me with sadness. Or fear.

—Zina died two months ago. You… came to the funeral. You don’t remember, do you?

 

I ran home.

Zina was there.

Playing with a doll.

—What are you? —I shouted.

She didn’t respond. Just smiled.

And in her eyes… I didn’t see my daughter.
Just emptiness. And darkness.

 

I looked in the mirror one last time.

And I understood.

I never left.

I am the one who stayed trapped.
The one who now lives behind the glass.

The one who observes.
Useless.
Invisible.

And that thing that lives with my daughter… is not her.

 

Zina—the real one—died.
I died with her.

And now this house…
Doesn’t belong to anyone.

—

Episode 5: Shadow Over Shadow

The truth was no longer a straight line.
It was a labyrinth.
And I was lost in it.

Because if I was dead…
If Zina was dead…
Who were we then, these versions of ourselves that continued to breathe?

Or pretending to.

 

Zina’s doll began to speak on its own.

—Mommy is gone —it said in a squeaky voice—. But someone stayed…

I threw it against the wall.
Its head broke.

But inside, there was no cotton.
Only a human eye.

 

The house was falling apart.
The walls dripped shadows.
The clocks spun backward.

And at 1:00 AM on the dot…
The door always opened.
Zina entered.
Soaked. Shivering. Smiling.

—I’m home, Mommy.

But every night…
It was another Zina.
With a different gesture.
A new scar.
A hollower voice.

 

One night, I decided to follow her.

I saw her cross the forest behind the house.
Barefoot.
Without a shadow.

Until she reached a clearing where there was a giant mirror…
Stuck in the ground like a tombstone.

She stood in front of it.

—Can I come in now? —she whispered.

And a voice answered from inside:

—Only if your mother stays in your place.

 

It was a trap.
A dark offer.
A body swap.
A betrayal.

 

—No! —I shouted, and grabbed her by the arm.

But it was too late.

The mirror sucked me in.
I saw my face stretch, break, dissolve into liquid silver.

And on the other side…

They were all there.

All the “Zinas” from all the nights.
Walking in circles.
Whispering:

—Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy…

 

Suddenly, everything stopped.

And a figure emerged from the depths of the mirror.
Tall.
Covered in shadows.

It had my face.
But no soul.

And it said:

—Now I take care of her.
—Who are you? —I whispered.

—The perfect mother.

 

I tried to run.
Escape the reflection.

But the ground opened beneath my feet.

And as I fell… I heard Zina’s last voice.
Her real voice.
Distant. Pained.

—Mom… why didn’t you save me?

 

I woke up.

In the house.

Empty.

Without furniture.
Without photos.
Without Zina.

Just me.
And my shadow… finally moving.

But not at the same time as me.

It was ahead.

Leading me to something.

A second chance?
Or just the next mirror?