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05/09/2025

I Walked in on My 10-Year-Old Children Kissing In A Dark Room But It Woke Me Up to the Mistakes I Was Making as a Parent
Episode 1

We always think we have more time. More time to teach. More time to notice. More time to be the parent we promised ourselves we’d be when we held them as babies. I thought I had time too—until one evening shattered my blind comfort.

It was a rainy Wednesday, the kind of evening that begs for blankets and cartoons. I was in the kitchen, scrolling through my phone absentmindedly while dinner boiled on the stove. My 10-year-old twins—Zara and Zane—had been upstairs playing for hours. I hadn’t checked on them. I trusted them. I always did.

But something felt… off.

There was silence. Not the comforting silence of peace, but the kind that makes your instincts tingle. So I walked up the stairs, barefoot, quiet, unsure of what I was even expecting.

That’s when I saw the kitchen door slightly ajar—and through the gap, I saw them.

Zane was sitting on the counter. Zara stood in front of him. Their heads leaned in close. I stepped in fully, and they startled like deer caught in headlights.

They had kissed.

Just a soft, innocent one—on the lips. A peck.

But it was enough to freeze my soul.

My breath caught. My mind scattered. A thousand alarms rang at once. But instead of screaming or panicking, I knelt slowly in front of them and asked, “Why did you do that?”

Zara looked down, chewing her nail. Zane shrugged, eyes wide. Then he said, “We saw it in a movie. The people kissed because they loved each other. We love each other too.”

And just like that, I realized it was my failure, not theirs.

They weren’t being perverse.

They weren’t damaged.

They were confused—because I never taught them otherwise.

They had shared a room since birth. Bathed together. Watched the same screens. Slept side-by-side every night. And somehow, in my rush through life, I forgot that children—curious, wide-eyed children—observe everything and interpret nothing.

I was the one who didn’t set boundaries. I was the one who thought “they’re still small” was an excuse. I was the one who gave them a tablet and left them to “watch cartoons” without monitoring the content.

I was the one who failed to separate their space when they began growing.

They were ten. Not toddlers. Not babies. And yet, I had left them in one room, with one bathroom, with no knowledge of body boundaries, no education about emotions, and no conversation about what was okay and what wasn’t.

That night, I cried.

Not because of what I saw—but because of what I hadn’t seen sooner.

I had a long, honest talk with them. I told them about love and family. About how siblings love each other differently. About personal space. About asking questions instead of copying screens. And I answered every question with patience and care, no matter how awkward.

That same week, I separated their rooms.

I spoke to a child therapist.

I adjusted the parental controls on every screen in the house.

And most importantly, I became present.

Because the mistake wasn’t in what they did. It was in what I didn’t do.

To be continued….

04/09/2025

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03/09/2025

My Father Married a Popular Runs Girl… But She’s Carrying My Child
Episode 1

From the very first time I saw Amara, I knew she was trouble. She wasn’t like the other girls on campus. She was fire, she was chaos, she was beauty dipped in danger. People whispered her name in the hostel corridors, boys argued about her in the cafeteria, and lecturers looked too long whenever she walked past. Everyone knew what she was—Amara the “runs girl.” She didn’t hide it, either. Expensive wigs, clothes no ordinary student could afford, perfume that lingered long after she left the room. Her life was a revolving door of rich men and reckless choices.

I should have stayed away. I should have ignored the way her laughter seemed to crack the air or how her eyes found mine that night at the club. But I was young, foolish, and weak to her charm. One conversation led to another, one drink led to her smile, and before I could think twice, I was entangled in her world.

At first, it was just fun. She made me feel like the luckiest boy alive. She’d show up at my hostel in her flashy car, hand me money as if it was nothing, buy me sneakers, even cook noodles at midnight while we laughed like we had no care in the world. I didn’t care about her other men. I didn’t care that sometimes her phone would ring late at night and she’d vanish into the dark, only to return days later with new jewelry and bundles of cash. As long as she came back to me, I convinced myself it was enough.

But then everything changed the night she sat me down, her face serious, her hands trembling slightly. “Chike,” she whispered, “I think I’m pregnant.”

My heart stopped. I wanted to believe she was lying, maybe playing one of her games. But the way she looked at me, the way her voice cracked, I knew it wasn’t a lie. I felt the walls of my life closing in. I was just a student. I had nothing. How could I father a child? But she touched my chest, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “It’s yours. I know it.”

For days, I carried the secret like a curse. I couldn’t tell my friends—they’d laugh me to death. I couldn’t tell my mother—she’d faint. And my father? He was the last person on earth I could ever confess to. A strict, disciplined man who raised us with iron hands. He would never forgive me. He would kill me if he knew.

So I kept quiet. I visited Amara when I could, we argued sometimes, but I stayed because part of me believed her, part of me wanted to believe the child was mine.

Then came the day my world ended.

My father called a family meeting. His voice was unusually cheerful, too cheerful. “There’s someone special I want you all to meet,” he said, smiling in a way that made my siblings curious. We gathered in the parlor, waiting. The door opened.

And Amara walked in.

I swear my soul left my body that instant. She wore a white lace gown that hugged her figure, her hair neat, her lips painted blood-red. She looked nothing like the girl I met at the club, nothing like the girl who used to sneak into my hostel. She walked in like a queen, her eyes scanning the room before landing on me. Just for a second. Just long enough to send a message only I could understand.

My father rose to his feet proudly and held her hand. “This,” he said, his voice booming with joy, “is the woman I will soon marry.”

I felt my knees weaken. My mouth went dry. My siblings clapped out of politeness, my stepmother gasped, but I sat frozen, choking on silence. I looked at Amara’s stomach, then at her smile. She knew. She knew she was carrying my child. Yet here she was, standing beside my father as his bride-to-be.

She dared to smirk at me, a small, evil curl of her lips that no one else noticed.

And in that moment, I understood. This wasn’t an accident. This wasn’t coincidence. Amara had planned everything.

But why? Why my father? Why me?

My father raised his glass, his voice echoing through the room. “To new beginnings!”

And all I could hear was the sound of my own heartbeat, thundering like war drums, as the truth I carried became a poison I could never confess.

Because the woman my father was about to marry was already carrying my child.

To be continued…

Follow for episode 2

03/09/2025

I Caught My Wife Breastfeeding Her Twin Brother and They Said It’s Not a Big Deal

Episode 2

I thought the nightmare would end after that night, that maybe Adaeze would wake up from whatever twisted illusion she was living in and see the madness of her actions. But instead, what followed only dragged me deeper into a world I was not prepared for. The next morning, I didn’t eat, I didn’t speak. I just sat on the chair staring at the wall, my mind replaying what I had seen. Adaeze cooked yam porridge, brought it to me, and quietly placed it on the table. The smell alone made me want to vomit. I looked at her, hoping to see guilt, but instead her face was calm, almost too calm, like someone who had accepted her own truth and didn’t care whether I swallowed it or not.

“Obinna,” she said softly, “you cannot understand what you saw unless you know our story.” Her voice carried no shame. “I and Chike have been like this since childhood. It is not strange to us.”

I wanted to shut her up, but a part of me—maybe the part that still loved her—needed to know how something so dark could have grown inside the woman I thought I knew. So I let her speak.

She told me about their childhood in the village. How when their mother gave birth to them, she nearly died, and because her breastmilk was not flowing well, she depended on old herbs and strange practices to keep the babies alive. An old midwife, a woman known for her odd ways, had advised their mother to always keep them “connected” or else one of them would weaken. Adaeze said from the time they were toddlers, everything was shared between them—food, clothes, even their sleeping space. Their father traveled often, and their mother, weak and frightened, allowed the closeness to continue unchecked. She told me that when they cried as children, the only thing that calmed them was each other’s presence.

By the time they grew older, other children in the compound used to mock them for always being together. They bathed together, ate from the same plate, even slept on the same mat until they were almost teenagers. Their mother defended it, saying, “They are twins, leave them. The bond is strong.” Adaeze’s eyes glazed over as she spoke, and I realized she wasn’t ashamed of these memories—she was proud.

Then she lowered her voice, as though telling me a holy secret. She said one night, when she was sick with fever at about fourteen, she had collapsed on the mat. Chike, desperate to comfort her, had rested his head on her chest. She woke up to find him there, and instead of pushing him away, something in her heart felt peace. “From that day,” she whispered, “it became our way. Not every day. Not always. But whenever life was too heavy, whenever we felt pain, we returned to each other.”

I felt bile rise in my throat. I wanted to scream, but she kept talking, each word cutting deeper. She said their mother once walked in on them during one of those moments, and instead of scolding, she simply sighed and said, “Do what you must to survive.” That was the day they decided it was not a sin, not to them.

I stood up, shaking my head, pacing the room. “Adaeze, do you hear yourself? You are married to me! You are my wife, not your brother’s comforter!” My voice cracked. “This thing is an abomination!”

But she only looked at me with pity, as though I was the foolish one. “To us, it is not. To us, it is survival. Chike and I have never known life apart. You married me, but you did not marry my history. You cannot change what has always been.”

Her words rattled in my skull. I wanted to believe she was bewitched, that some dark spirit had chained her to this madness. I even thought of running to our pastor, confessing everything, begging for prayers. But fear silenced me. Fear of shame. Fear that people would laugh, that the world would never look at me the same way again.

That night, I could not bear to sleep in the same bed with her. I locked myself in the spare room. But at midnight, when I stepped out to get water, I heard movements in the corridor. Quiet whispers. My heart froze. I crept forward, and there, in the faint glow of the kerosene lamp, I saw Adaeze again, her blouse half-open, with Chike leaning against her as though nothing had changed since childhood.

I wanted to charge at them, but my legs betrayed me. I stood rooted, watching, my soul burning. And when Adaeze turned her head and our eyes met, she did not flinch. She did not even look ashamed. Instead, she whispered to me across the silence, “Obinna, it’s not a big deal.”

And in that moment, I realized something terrifying. To them, it truly wasn’t. And nothing—not my anger, not my threats, not even God’s judgment in their eyes—was enough to tear them apart.

To be continued…

03/09/2025

I Caught My Wife Breastfeeding Her Twin Brother and They Said It’s Not a Big Deal
Episode 1

I used to think I knew my wife better than anyone else in the world. Adaeze was the kind of woman people pointed at and said, “That’s a good wife.” She was gentle, prayerful, respectful, and she carried herself with such innocence that even the elders in the village used to praise me for choosing her. From the day I married her, I believed I had found peace. For two years of marriage nothing shook that belief. We lived quietly, we laughed together, we prayed together, we worked side by side to grow our small provisions shop. She never gave me a reason to doubt her. Until the night everything changed.

It was a Sunday evening, one of those evenings when the air feels heavy with secrets. I had traveled to Enugu for a business deal and returned a day earlier than expected. I didn’t tell Adaeze I was coming back because I wanted to surprise her. When I entered the compound, the house was unusually quiet. Normally, she would be outside waiting for me, or at least I would hear her singing softly inside. But that day, silence greeted me.

I pushed the front door open and called her name, “Adaeze!” No answer. I dropped my bag and walked through the corridor. The air inside the house felt strange, heavy, as if I had stepped into a place that was holding its breath. Then I heard it—faint, muffled, coming from the guest room. At first, I thought she was on the phone, maybe laughing with a friend. But when I pressed my ear against the door, what I heard wasn’t laughter. It was… sucking.

My heart skipped. I didn’t understand. I turned the k**b slowly, and the door creaked open. What I saw inside nearly stopped my heart.

Adaeze was sitting at the edge of the bed, her blouse open, and pressed against her chest was her twin brother, Chike. His head was buried into her as though he were a newborn, and she held him with both hands like a mother rocking a child to sleep. My legs went weak. My eyes refused to believe what they were seeing. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

“Jesus Christ!” I shouted without meaning to, and they both je**ed up. Adaeze’s eyes widened for a second, then quickly softened, as if she wasn’t surprised. She pulled her clothes together while Chike sat up, wiping his mouth lazily, as though what I had caught them doing was the most normal thing in the world.

“Adaeze!” I barked, my voice shaking with rage. “What in God’s name is this?!”

But instead of shame, instead of fear, she looked at me calmly and said in a voice that still haunts me, “It’s not a big deal.”

Not a big deal? My ears rang. My wife, the woman I trusted with my life, was breastfeeding her grown twin brother, and she dared to tell me it was not a big deal. I turned to Chike, expecting him to look guilty, to beg, to explain. Instead, he shrugged like a spoiled child and said, “We’ve always shared everything since we were born. This is nothing new.”

My body shook. My vision blurred. I wanted to rush at him, to drag him out of the room, but something in Adaeze’s eyes froze me. It wasn’t fear—it was defiance, like she was daring me to question what I didn’t understand.

I staggered back, gripping the doorframe, my breath heavy, my chest burning. My mind tried to find reason, to find sense, but all I saw was madness. Madness wrapped in calm voices and familiar faces.

That night I couldn’t sleep. I sat alone in the parlor while Adaeze knocked on the door softly, begging me to let her explain. When I finally allowed her inside, she sat across from me, her eyes steady, and said words that broke me even more.

“Chike and I came into this world together. We shared everything from the womb. We don’t see this as wrong. We don’t see this as shame. You’re the only one making it sound like it’s evil.”

I stared at her, my mouth dry, my hands trembling. “Adaeze, are you hearing yourself? This is sick! This is ungodly!”

But she only shook her head slowly, almost pitying me. “You will never understand. To us, it’s nothing. To us, it’s normal.”

And in that moment, with her twin brother sitting silently in the corridor as if waiting for her, I realized I had stepped into something far darker than betrayal. This was not just my wife’s secret. This was something rooted deeper, something woven into their blood, something older than our marriage itself.

And as I lay awake in the suffocating silence of that night, one thought would not leave my head—if they could do this so calmly in my presence, then what other things had they been hiding all along?

To be continued…

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02/09/2025

My Gym Instructor Was Hotter Than My Husband, And I Won’t Even Lie About That

It wasn’t just his muscles, though God knows they were carved like stone.
It was the way he moved—confident, assured, like the world bent its rhythm around his steps. His smile lit up the fitness room, and his voice, deep and commanding, curled around my name like velvet.

Each time he corrected my stance, his hand hovering near my waist, his breath warm on my ear as he said,

“Madam Sophia, tighten your core… yes, like that,”

My heart betrayed me. It raced.

I told myself it was just exercise, but deep down, I knew—it was more. His presence was intoxicating, each rep pulling me deeper into a fantasy I knew I had no business entertaining.

Soon, my gym hours became sweeter than my hours at home. I was glowing, sweating, alive in ways I hadn’t felt in months. His encouragement became my drug.

But that Friday morning, as I pulled out my leggings and sneakers, tying my hair into a ponytail, a soft voice interrupted me.

“Honey… you’re still going to the gym today?”

I froze. My husband stood by the door, his eyes tired yet tender, his voice carrying that same softness that had wooed me years ago.

“Yes,” I replied quickly. “Why do you ask?”

He stepped closer, his rough carpenter’s hands brushing mine as he helped adjust the water bottle strap I struggled with. His touch was familiar, but heavy with unspoken words.

“Nothing,” he said quietly. “I just noticed… you haven’t really been here with us lately. With me, with the kids. You seem… far away. But maybe it’s the stress.”

His words pierced me. For the first time in weeks, I really looked at him. That was when I noticed it—the faint burn mark across his wrist.

My heart clenched. “What happened here?” I asked, gently taking his hand.

He shrugged. “Two days ago. The generator backfired when I was trying to fix it. The pain was deep, but it’s healing.”

He tried to chuckle, but his laugh was strained.

My chest burned.

My husband, barely three weeks after I gave birth, had been carrying the load of the house, the children, the repairs, while I was busy chasing endorphins at the gym, letting temptation creep into my thoughts.

I dropped the sneakers instantly. “I’m not going anywhere today. After all, I’m my own boss.”

He blinked, surprised, then smiled, as though he couldn’t believe he heard me right.

That day, I stayed. I held our baby, rocked him as his tiny cries filled the room. I cooked dinner, cleaned the living room, even helped him patch the leaking roof sheet.

We used to have house helps, but we sent them away after we discovered they were stealing foodstuff and money, pretending they didn’t know what happened. We decided to manage on our own.

After clearing up, I told my husband, “I’ll hire new help, responsible ones this time. You won’t go through this stress again.”

I saw his shoulders relax. His lips curved into that kind of smile that reminded me why I married him.

That night, when we lay side by side, I turned to him. My heart whispered a confession only my silence had been hiding.

“You’re my strength,” I told him. “No gym, no instructor, no man can ever replace what you’ve built with me.”

His eyes softened, and he pulled me close.

But come Monday morning, temptation tried again.

I was determined not to return to the gym, but I had paid for a month, and guilt about wasting money tugged me. So I went, with a firm resolve in my heart.

As soon as I walked in, there he was—my instructor, tall and commanding, his smile spreading like honey across his face.

“Madam Sophia,” he said warmly, “I prepared something for you today. Special diet meal—grilled chicken and brown rice. Good for your body goals. Please don’t say no.”

He opened the container, and the aroma of perfectly seasoned chicken filled the air. My stomach betrayed me, my body tempted by both the food and the man.

For a moment, I almost gave in. His eyes, his charm, the scent… everything tugged at me.

But then I remembered my husband’s burn mark, his quiet endurance, his tired smile as he still found a way to hold me close.

I straightened, my voice firm.

“No, thank you. I only eat meals prepared by my husband.”

The smile on his face faltered. He tried to mask it, covering the container quickly.

“And one more thing,” I added, my tone colder now. “From today, I won’t be continuing with these sessions. Please transfer my balance to another client.”

His eyes widened, shock flashing across his face. He opened his mouth to protest, but I turned away. The dev!l had been entertained long enough.

That evening, I passed by a boutique. I bought my husband a fine shirt and shoes.

When I got home, I handed him the bag.

“You are my husband,” I said, looking deep into his eyes. “Only you have the right to intoxicate me.”

His laughter filled the house, chasing away the silence that had lived there for weeks.

As he hugged me and ki$sed me softly, I could only whisper,

“Killiii me killiii me, my Baby… nah you be onye nwem.”

He laughed even harder, pulling me close as we sat down to eat together.

Marriage is sweet, forget!

But sometimes, we have to make choices that will keep it sweet.

Two days later, my instructor resigned from the gym. That was when I realized—it wasn’t just about fitness. I was his main target. And I had almost fallen.

Thank God I didn’t.

So, Sister, if your gym instructor dey enter your eyes, abeg run o. Your home should be your priority.

---

✨ Moral Lessons

Guard your home like a fortress; distractions will always come dressed as gifts.

Temptation isn’t always about muscles or beauty—it’s about neglect. Pay attention to those who sacrifice for you daily.

The grass isn’t greener elsewhere. It only grows where you water it.

If this story inspired you, kindly share ❤️

02/09/2025

A Simple Nurse Boards Billionaire’s Jet by Mistake—Now She’s on a Romantic Trip in Paris With Him

The night shift at St. Mary’s Hospital had drained her. Nurse Lena Okafor walked out with heavy eyes, her tote bag slipping off her shoulder, dreaming only of sleep. Her friend had promised to drop her at the airport for a weekend medical conference in Lyon. But exhaustion blurred her mind.

At the private terminal, half-asleep, Lena boarded the wrong plane—one gleaming white with a golden crest. A polite stewardess welcomed her. “Miss, we’ve been expecting you.”

Too tired to argue, she settled into the buttery leather seat. The engines roared, and before she realized, the jet was in the clouds.

---

The Encounter

When Lena awoke, a man in a tailored navy suit sat across from her, studying her with amused curiosity. His presence filled the cabin—confident, magnetic.

“You’re not who my assistant booked,” he said with a smirk.

Lena froze. “Oh no—this isn’t the flight to Lyon?”

The man chuckled. “Far from it. This jet is headed to Paris. And I’m Alexander Duval.”

Her heart stopped. The billionaire hospital tycoon. The same name plastered across medical journals, whose philanthropy had saved countless clinics in Africa.

“I—I’m just a nurse. I must have boarded the wrong jet. I’ll get off at the next stop—”

But Alexander raised a hand, still smiling.
“Relax, Nurse…?”

“Lena,” she whispered.

“Relax, Nurse Lena. Paris isn’t the worst mistake you could make.”

---

The Journey

Over champagne and croissants, their conversation unfolded. Lena spoke passionately about her patients, about staying late to comfort children who feared needles, about elderly patients who had no family left.

Alexander listened, intrigued. For once, someone wasn’t impressed by his billions but by what could be done with them.

By the time the Eiffel Tower glittered outside the jet windows, Lena was laughing freely, her earlier embarrassment forgotten.

---

Paris Nights

He took her through cobblestone streets, past the Louvre, across bridges where violinists played softly. In a quiet restaurant tucked away from flashing cameras, Alexander found himself telling Lena things he’d never told anyone—how lonely wealth could be, how he envied people with ordinary lives.

And when Lena, in her simple cotton dress, told him, “You’re more than your money,” something inside him shifted.

---

The Twist

At the end of the trip, Alexander’s assistant panicked. “Sir, should I book Nurse Lena back to her normal life? The media—”

But Alexander silenced him.

“No. She boarded my jet by mistake, but she landed in my heart by destiny.”

He turned to Lena, nervous for the first time.
“Stay. Not as my guest, but as the woman who made me see life differently.”

Tears welled in Lena’s eyes. The nurse who thought she didn’t belong in his world now realized she was exactly what it had been missing.

Hand in hand, they walked beneath the Paris lights. The billionaire and the nurse—two souls brought together by a beautiful mistake.

I WAS WAITING FOR MY PERIOD TO COME—BUT SOMETHING ELSE CAME FIRSTEPISODE 1I was seventeen the first time it happened. My...
02/09/2025

I WAS WAITING FOR MY PERIOD TO COME—BUT SOMETHING ELSE CAME FIRST
EPISODE 1

I was seventeen the first time it happened. My name is Eniola, and I had always been a regular girl—never too loud, never too quiet, the kind of daughter that helped her mother wash every Saturday and attended every youth church program without being forced. My friends used to laugh at how scared I was of men. “You act like your virginity is a glass cup,” they’d tease. But I always said I was saving myself—not for a husband, but for a moment that mattered.

But then came the day when my period didn’t come. It was the third week of the month, and I felt all the signs—mood swings, back pain, slight cramps—but nothing flowed. I wasn’t worried at first. It had shifted a few times before. But by the end of the fifth week, I started panicking. I hadn’t done anything. I hadn’t kissed anyone. I hadn’t even let a boy touch me beyond a handshake. So why did it feel like something was moving inside me?

It started with the dreams. At first, they were blurry—me standing by a riverbank at night, a voice calling me from under the water, sweet and low like a lullaby. Then came the shadowy figure of a man with no face, standing at the edge of my bed in my sleep, whispering things I couldn’t remember when I woke. I would wake up drenched in sweat, sore between my thighs like something had happened… but I was always alone in the room.

My mother noticed I was withdrawn. “Is your period giving you wahala again?” she asked one morning as I pushed my rice around on my plate. I nodded, but inside I was terrified. Because I had taken three pregnancy tests—and all three came back positive. But that was impossible. I hadn’t done anything. Nothing that could make a child grow inside me.

I couldn’t tell anyone—not even my best friend. But as my belly began to swell and I started seeing strange symbols forming faintly under my skin in the mirror, I knew this wasn’t a normal pregnancy. One night, I saw a shadow crouched at the edge of my bed again. I wasn’t asleep this time. My room went ice-cold, and I couldn’t move. The shadow climbed onto the bed, but it didn’t feel heavy. Just present. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t blink. It whispered into my ear, “The child is mine. You were chosen.”

I woke up screaming.

My mother rushed in, panicked. I broke down. Told her everything. Her face went white, like she’d seen a ghost. She took me to her room, locked the door, and brought out an old wooden box I had never seen before. Inside were things that didn’t look normal—cowries, black soap, dried herbs, a mirror with cracks. She sat me down and said something I’ll never forget: “You were not the first. I was taken too.”

My mother had been sixteen when it happened to her. She called it “the spirit husband.” A dark entity that marks certain girls in their bloodline and visits them in their sleep. It feeds off their innocence, their loneliness, their desire for love. “It doesn’t need your permission,” she said. “It waits until you are ripe… and then it plants itself.” I stared at her, horrified. “So I’m cursed?” I asked. She shook her head. “No, baby. But we are hunted.”

That night, she took me to an old prayer house deep in the outskirts of Ibadan. The prophetess there looked at my stomach, closed her eyes, and said, “She is carrying more than a child. She is carrying a door.” They explained that the entity had used my delay in menstruation to sneak in—when my body was in waiting, spiritually vulnerable. It wasn’t a baby I was carrying, but something far worse: a spiritual parasite that was using my womb as a gate into the physical world.

The solution would not be easy. I had to go through seven days of cleansing, fasting, and prayers—sleeping in white, avoiding mirrors, and speaking no idle words. “This thing feeds on words and attention,” the prophetess warned. “Don’t tell anyone who doesn’t believe. Their doubt will only strengthen it.”

On the first night of the fast, the entity came again. Angry this time. The room shook. My mattress lifted off the floor. My mother and the prophetess stood by my bed, praying as loud as they could. I screamed, not out of fear—but out of resistance. Because now, I knew the truth.

This thing chose the wrong girl.

TO BE CONTINUED

02/09/2025

“I Caught My Wife Hugging a Snake at Midnight—Then She Looked at Me and Said This…”
Episode 1
They say marriage reveals things you never knew about a person—but no one warned me it could also reveal something not entirely human. My name is Daniel, and I married Adanna eight months ago, the kind of woman who made people stop and stare—tall, graceful, skin like polished obsidian, and eyes that always looked too knowing for comfort. We had met during a church outreach program where she sang in the choir and quoted scripture like second nature, so I assumed I was safe. We dated for a year, nothing unusual except for one thing—she never let me into her village or meet her family. “They’re very private,” she always said, and I, like a fool in love, accepted it. But ever since our wedding, strange things began to happen. Birds stopped landing on our roof. Our dog, Rex, who loved everyone, growled at her every night. Mirrors sometimes reflected her standing still even after she had walked away. I told myself I was imagining things. That was until midnight last Friday. I had been feeling sick and left the bed for the bathroom, but when I stepped out into the hallway, I heard whispering. Not ordinary whispering—hissing, low and slithery, like something ancient was calling from beneath the earth. I followed the sound to our living room, and what I saw made me drop to my knees. My wife—my Adanna—was on the floor, arms wrapped around a massive green python, rocking it like a baby while chanting words in a tongue I had never heard before. Her eyes were glowing—not shining, glowing—like two yellow moons. I gasped, and she looked up at me, her lips curling into a soft, eerie smile. Then she said it—softly, clearly, as the snake tightened around her body like a lover: “You’re not supposed to be awake, Daniel. You were supposed to be asleep till dawn.” I couldn’t move. Couldn’t even scream. The snake turned its head slowly to look at me, tongue flicking the air. “Adanna,” I whispered, trembling, “what is this?” She stood up slowly, the snake still coiled around her like a silk robe. “I told them you were kind. That you wouldn’t snoop. Now I may have to choose between you and them.” “Them?” I asked, backing away. She nodded. “My people. My real people. The ones beneath.” At that moment, the lights in the house went out, every bulb bursting with a pop like gunfire. And I swear—when the moonlight hit her face again, it wasn’t her face anymore. It was scaled. Reptilian. Smiling. “You love me, don’t you?” she asked. I couldn’t answer. My heart was slamming too loud for words. “Good,” she whispered. “Because if you do, you’ll forget everything you saw tonight. You’ll go back to bed, Daniel. And sleep. And if you don’t…” She didn’t finish. The snake hissed louder. She turned her back on me and walked into the shadows with the serpent. I ran. I didn’t wait to pack anything. I just ran. I’m writing this from a cheap hotel in a nearby town, trying to convince myself I didn’t lose my mind. But I know what I saw. I know who—or what—I married. And tonight, my phone just buzzed with a message from an unknown number. Just three chilling words: “Come back home.”
To be continued…

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