Awa lived in a solitude that consumed her slowly, day by day. Her husband, Koffi, was often away, traveling for his trade. While he provided for their household financially, he left an immense void in their marital life.
His arms, once warm and comforting, had grown distant, and his silence weighed heavily on Awa’s heart. She no longer felt like a wife but rather a shadow within her own home.
One day, at the village market, she met Malik. His smile, soft voice, and lingering glances awakened feelings in her that she had thought long dead. Malik was the opposite of Koffi: present, attentive, and eager to offer her what her husband would not. Weeks of stolen glances and quiet conversations led Awa to a decision that would seal her fate. She invited Malik to her home, convinced that Koffi would not return for several days.
Night fell as Malik crossed the threshold of her home. Nervous yet exhilarated, Awa led him to the bedroom.
She knew she was breaking sacred rules, but desire and frustration clouded her judgment. As they gave in to their passion, an ominous atmosphere descended upon the room. The air grew heavy, almost suffocating.
Malik hesitated, sensing something was wrong, but Awa, caught in the heat of the moment, urged him to
continue. Then came the pain-a searing, inexplicable pain that froze them in place. Malik tried to pull away, but his
body refused to move. Awa, now panicked, realized they were trapped. A crimson light filled the room as
deep, guttural murmurs echoed, seemingly emanating from the walls themselves. The spirits of the
house-guardians of the ancestral traditions-had intervened, judging their act as a grave betrayal.
Their flesh, their limbs, even their souls seemed fused together. They were literally stuck to one another,
unable to separate. Hours passed as the pain gave way to a paralyzing fear. Malik screamed, begging Awa to
do something, but she knew it was too late. The protective pacts tied to Koffi’s lineage had been activated,
exacting their punishment on the adulterous pair.
At dawn, Koffi returned to the village, compelled by an unshakable sense of foreboding. As he stepped into
his home, a suffocating energy greeted him. When he opened the bedroom door, he was met with a horrifying
sight: his wife lay dead, her body fused to that of a naked stranger on their marital bed. Both faces were frozen
in expressions of pure terror.
Koffi staggered backward, his breath shallow. It wasn’t just his wife’s betrayal that devastated him but the
undeniable evidence of his ancestors’ judgment. He rushed out of the house and summoned the village elders
and Awa’s family. They arrived in droves, bearing witness to the macabre scene. The elders confirmed that the
couple’s fate was the result of an ancient ancestral curse, a punishment reserved for those who defiled the
sanctity of marriage.
The bodies were wrapped in white cloth and taken to the village center for a ritual. The elders, chanting
incantations, made offerings of salt and chicken blood to appease the spirits. Koffi, consumed by grief and
shame, participated silently in the ritual, pleading with the ancestors for forgiveness. But something unusual
occurred: as the funeral pyre was lit, the flames turned an eerie shade of blue, and a chilling wind swept
through the village. A barely audible voice whispered:

You can never escape. The shadows will always return.
Terrified, Koffi fled the village, abandoning the cursed house. But the spirits, relentless and insatiable,
continued to linger, waiting for their next victim. The village, haunted by the tale, named the dwelling The
House of the Damned Lovers.
Thus, the pact of shadows remained unbroken, a cruel reminder that defying tradition can cost far more than a life

The cycle has only begun.
Koffi tried to rebuild his life. Months later, under the elders’ advice, he remarried, hoping to leave the past
behind. But the house, once a place of peace, became uninhabitable. Strange noises echoed through the halls at night, shadows danced on the walls, and the marital bed seemed to whisper forbidden secrets.
One night, Koffi had a harrowing dream. He saw Awa, her face pale and distorted by pain, standing before
him. In a voice as cold as death, she whispered: You can never escape. The shadows will always return.
Terrified, Koffi fled the village, abandoning the cursed house. But the spirits, relentless and insatiable,
continued to linger, waiting for their next victim. The village, haunted by the tale, named the dwelling The
House of the Damned Lovers.
Thus, the pact of shadows remained unbroken, a cruel reminder that defying tradition can cost far more than a life

Tony Hemrix