16/04/2025
The Bible and The Haunted house
By Charity Nyoni
Chido didn’t believe in evil spirits. She believed in Wi-Fi, bubble baths, and not overpaying for real estate—especially when it was a six-bedroom going for the price of a studio apartment in the city. So when she moved into the old Harper House on the hill, she thought, “Haunted? Please. Just underappreciated.”
Night one, the house introduced itself.
The walls groaned like a lactose-intolerant cow, and the chandelier in the foyer flickered to the beat of Hell's Bells. Her tea kettle screamed even when it was unplugged, and the mirror in the hallway kept reflecting a woman who looked a lot like her, only angrier... and with better posture.
Still, Chido wasn’t worried. She lit some sage, played a little gospel music, and told the house, “You picked the wrong girl.”
But by night three, the house had opinions. The fridge growled. Her sleep app tracked “violent whispering” between 2:03 and 3:06 a.m. Her cat, Beyoncé, now refused to enter the living room and instead stared at the air like it owed her money.
Things escalated fast.
One evening, Chido found the message “FIND THE WORD” scrawled in blood-red lipstick on her bathroom mirror. She didn’t own red lipstick. She barely wore lipstick.
Another night, a girl appeared during her shower, holding a knife and sighing heavily.
She screamed.
The girl sighed again. “You missed a spot.”
Then she vanished in steam.
By now, Chido had googled every “haunted house survival guide” she could find. One Reddit user, GhostBoi777, claimed Harper House was cursed by an 1890s cult that only feared one thing: The Bible in the Basement.
Problem: the basement was locked. And not just “oops, I lost the key” locked. It was “seven deadbolts and a steel crossbar” locked.
Solution: Power drill, YouTube tutorial, and a nervous prayer.
Chido descended the basement steps with a flashlight, and Beyoncé (who had to be bribed with cat biscuits). The air was cold. The walls wept. And at the bottom was a single, dust-covered shelf... with one Bible. Old. Leather-bound. Glowing slightly.
The moment she touched it, the lights exploded upstairs. The floor vibrated. A demonic howl echoed through the walls:
“YOUUUU CAN’T READ THAT—YOU HAVEN’T EVEN TITHEEED!”
Chido screamed, grabbed the Bible, and ran. The house turned into a theme park of horror—drawers flying, doors slamming, a toaster throwing croutons like shurikens.
She made it to the foyer, breathless. The angry woman in the mirror returned.
“Read the Word,” she said.
“Which part? It’s a big book!”
“The Psalms, dummy!”
Chido flipped to Psalm 23.
“The Lord is my shepherd...”
The house screamed in fury. Furniture levitated. The ceiling cracked. Beyoncé hissed like a Pentecostal grandma.
“...though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...”
Light burst through the floorboards. The demonic howling twisted into a sound resembling... an off-key church organ?
“...I will fear no evil...”
The house gave one final, anguished wail, and then—silence.
The mirror shattered. The air cleared. Beyoncé passed out.
Chido sat in the middle of the foyer, clutching the Bible, her hair looking like she’d lost a fight with a hairdryer in a tornado.
A week later, she had the place renovated. It was still a bit drafty, but the vibe had shifted. Cozier. Holier. Less murder-y.
And every Saturday, Chido hosted Bible study in the now-cozy basement—with free cookies and a sign at the door that read:
“Haunt-free since Psalm 23.”
