Chapter 1: The Arrival / Room 206
The sun burned like judgment on the cracked highway, casting long, distorted shadows of the rickety campus shuttle as it rattled down the final stretch toward Ivory Crest University. The driver, a stoic man with tribal scars etched deep into his cheeks, hadn't spoken since they left the main motor park. The only sounds were the groan of the engine, the distant chirping of cicadas, and the low hum of anxious students murmuring about their expectations.
In the third row, window seat, sat Nia Olamide, her face pressed against the glass, eyes wide with wonder and unease. Her entire life had existed within the boundaries of her dusty village in Kwara—where people fetched water from ancestral wells and dreams rarely left the soil. But today, she had crossed those invisible lines.
Clutched tightly in her palm was the admission letter that changed everything. Her name printed in black and bold, stamped with the golden seal of the university. Her late grandmother's prayer cloth tied around her wrist. And underneath her shirt, the weight of a small wooden pendant carved by her father the night before he vanished.
"Welcome to Ivory Crest," the driver finally announced, his voice rough like broken bricks.
As the bus turned the final bend, the university revealed itself in layers. At first glance, it was majestic—tall colonial buildings with vine-draped walls, towers that pierced the clouds, and a massive iron gate adorned with the sigil of a phoenix bursting from the roots of a tree.
But Nia noticed something else—an unease in the air, like the place was holding its breath. The students laughed and shouted, dragging boxes and oversized bags across the courtyard. Yet the shadows beneath the trees seemed darker than they should be. A statue near the administrative block appeared to blink for just a second. And behind one of the glass windows on the third floor, Nia was certain she saw a woman dressed in white—floating.
She shook her head.
"Maybe the heat is getting to me," she muttered.
A tall, bubbly girl with dreadlocks dyed blue stuck out a hand. "You new too? I'm Zara. Science faculty. You?"
"Nia. Social sciences." She smiled, grateful for the normalcy.
"You got that village energy," Zara teased with a grin. "Don't worry. You'll fit in fast. Just avoid the Chapel after midnight and never ask about the Old Grove."
"The Old Grove?"
Zara froze. "I didn't say that. Never mind."
As Nia was handed her dorm key—Room 206, Aderonke Hall—she felt the hairs on her arms rise. Something about the number tugged at her, like it had lived in her dreams before.
Later that night, after her roommates fell asleep, Nia unpacked slowly. Her hand brushed against the bottom of her box, pulling out the strange pendant her father gave her. It pulsed once. Faintly. Like it recognized the soil beneath her feet.
She glanced toward the window. A girl in the next building was staring at her. Pale eyes. Lips unmoving. Then she faded—like mist in the wind.
And Nia knew: she hadn't arrived alone.
***
The heavy wooden door creaked open like a throat clearing after centuries of silence. Room 206, third floor, Aderonke Hall. The brass numbers above the door shimmered faintly in the afternoon light, though no one else seemed to notice. Nia stepped inside cautiously, the scent of old rain, disinfectant, and something vaguely metallic filling her nose.
The room was spacious enough to house three students. Two bunk beds stood against opposing walls, and a small window overlooked the heart of the university—the Phoenix Courtyard—where a fountain eternally poured water that shimmered like moonlight even in the sun.
But what caught Nia's attention wasn't the view or the neatness of the room. It was the empty bed with the folded sheet that looked too perfect, too untouched. As if it had been made by hands that hadn't been alive in a while.
"Left side's yours," said a tall girl already lying on the top bunk of the right side. Her accent was sharp, like she came from Port Harcourt. "I'm Kaira. And down below is Halima. She hasn't spoken since morning. Maybe she's shy. Or cursed. Who knows?"
"Cursed?" Nia blinked.
Kaira laughed. "Joking… maybe."
Halima, a petite girl with obsidian skin and too-quiet eyes, lay motionless on her lower bunk, her head turned to the wall. Nia offered a shy wave. No response.
After unpacking, Nia noticed something odd. A thick string of red cowrie shells dangled above the headboard of her bunk. They hadn't been there a moment ago. They weren't hers. And neither Kaira nor Halima acknowledged them when asked.
"Oh, those?" Kaira yawned. "Ignore them. Every room here has… quirks."
That night, sleep came slow. The room felt colder than outside, despite the heat of dry season. A faint whisper floated through the air like a lullaby sung in a language no one taught her. Nia pulled her blanket tighter and turned toward the wall, clutching her father's pendant beneath her shirt.
Then came the scratching.
Faint at first. Like a rat. Then louder. Rhythmic. From the inside of the closet.
Nia sat up, heart racing. She glanced at her roommates. Both asleep. Unbothered. Or pretending.
She slipped out of bed and crossed the room in her socks, standing in front of the old iron closet. It groaned slightly, as if breathing. A note was taped to the top:
"Do not open after dark. Room 206 listens."
The closet creaked open by itself.
Inside, a dusty mirror reflected the room—but not Nia. Her reflection was missing. Instead, a girl stood in her place. One with pale eyes and a bloodied school badge pinned to her shirt.
Nia stumbled back, bumping into the desk. The mirror fell forward and shattered on the floor.
Kaira sat up. "You okay?"
"I… the closet—"
But the mirror was gone. No shards. No mess. Nothing.
Room 206 was silent again.
But as Nia crawled back into bed, she caught the faintest whisper from the wall behind her:
"You shouldn't have opened the door."
And the cowries above her bed rattled—like they were laughing.