The evening heat sat thick over the compound, pressing down on rusted zinc roofs and the cracked walls streaked with damp.

Ruth wiped the sweat from her brow as she locked her room.

Adaora, her little girl, was curled up on the old sofa, singing to her doll.

The child’s voice was light, almost floating—so small that it made Ruth’s heart ache with love.

“Be good, my baby,” she said softly.

“Mummy is going to church.

The vigil won’t be long.

“Okay, Mummy,” Adaora said.

“Don’t forget to pray for me.“I always do,” Ruth smiled, tightening her scarf.

The church wasn’t far—just two streets away—but tonight the air carried a strange stillness.

Even the usual chatter of the compound was missing.

The landlord’s wife, who always sat by her door gossiping, wasn’t there.

The landlord himself had been standing earlier by the clothesline, staring at something she couldn’t see.

When she greeted him, he only nodded once, too slowly, eyes glazed.

Ruth tried to shake the unease.

It was just tiredness, she told herself.

She’d been working long shifts at the market.

She had found this compound three months ago after months of searching for somewhere affordable.

When she saw the sign “Room for rent—cheap and secure” she’d thanked God aloud.

The landlord had been warm, even fatherly.

The wife had offered her a chair, tea, a smile that didn’t quite touch her eyes.

Everything about it had felt rushed, but in Lagos, cheap rent never waits.

At the vigil, candles burned like wounded stars.

The pastor shouted, worshippers fell to their knees, tongues of prayer cutting through the air.

Ruth raised her hands but her heart wasn’t there.

Every word Adaora had spoken that week echoed inside her skull.

“Mummy, I saw landlord stealing the pants you hang outside.

”

She had laughed it off at first, teasing the child.

But Adaora’s small face had been serious.

“He comes at night,” she’d whispered.

“He walks like he’s counting steps.

” Ruth had brushed it away.

Children imagined things.

Yet something about the way the landlady’s eyes had lingered on her washing line afterward made her uneasy.

She tried to focus on the sermon.

The pastor was preaching about hidden enemies—those who smile with you but bury nails under your mat.

The congregation shouted Amen! but Ruth couldn’t speak.

Something in her chest was tight.

“Hope I didn’t make a mistake leaving my daughter alone,” she whispered.

“God, please keep my child safe.

”

Meanwhile, back at the compound, the air had grown heavy.

Adaora sat on the sofa, her doll limp in her hands.

The lightbulb flickered above her, buzzing.

Outside, the wind hissed against the windows.

Then came the sound—soft, slow, unnatural.

Knock.

Pause.Knock… knock…

Her heart jumped.

“Who is there?” she called.

No answer.

The knocking grew heavier, dragging across the door like metal scraping wood.

Then came the voice.

“Adaora… open.

It’s your mummy.”

The little girl froze.

The voice was wrong.

It had her mother’s tone, but deeper, slower, like someone forcing the words through a mouth that didn’t belong to them.

“That’s not my mummy,” she whispered to herself.

The knocking stopped.

The silence that followed pressed against her eardrums.

After a few minutes, she stepped closer to the door.

Maybe they had gone.

Maybe she had imagined it.

She reached out a trembling hand toward the handle—then the door burst open with a loud crack.

The landlord and his wife stood there.

Their faces were calm, too calm.

The wife’s eyes glittered; the landlord’s hand gleamed with a machete.

They both smiled—the kind of smile that means something terrible is already decided.

“Come, Adaora,” the landlady whispered.

“Follow us.”

Before she could move, the woman’s hand shot forward, grabbing her arm.

The girl screamed, twisting, but the man was stronger.

They dragged her across the floor, ignoring her cries.

The neighbors heard nothing.

The compound stayed silent.

Somewhere in the darkness, the dogs whined but did not bark.

They tied Adaora’s small wrists with coarse rope.

The landlady began muttering words in a tongue Adaora didn’t understand, her voice rising and falling in rhythm.

The landlord stood over her with the machete, eyes empty.

The air smelled of palm oil and blood.

“Nobody will save you tonight,” the woman said.

“You should not have told your mother.

”

Adaora screamed, a sound that cracked the night—and then there was only silence.

Hours later, Ruth returned from church, exhausted but glowing from prayer.

She walked quickly, eager to see her daughter.

The streets were empty.

A faint smell of burning reached her nose as she neared the compound.

She smiled softly.

“My Adaora will be asleep by now,” she said aloud.

She unlocked the door.

The air inside was wrong—stale, heavy, metallic.

“Adaora!” she called.

No answer.

The living room was empty, the TV off.

“Adaora?” she called again, louder.

Panic crept in.

She checked the kitchen, the bathroom.

Nothing.

Her heart began to pound.

When she opened the bedroom door, the world tilted.

Her daughter lay on the floor, motionless.

Only the body.

No head.

Blood had pooled around the small frame, dark and thick.

Ruth’s scream split the air.

“Adaora! Adaora! Please answer me!” She fell to the ground, pulling the lifeless body into her arms, rocking, sobbing until her voice broke.

The neighbors watched from their windows but no one came.

An old woman finally stepped out, her wrapper tied loosely around her chest.

She looked at the scene and whispered, “She didn’t know.

Nobody comes out of that compound normal.

The price is too cheap for a reason.

”

The police came hours later.

They asked questions, took notes, avoided her eyes.

When they entered the landlord’s flat, they found the walls covered in black markings—symbols painted in blood and ash.

On the table sat a plate containing burnt feathers, a candle stub, and a pair of tiny, bloodstained shoes.

Adaora’s shoes.

The officer in charge turned pale.

“Madam,” he said quietly, “leave this house.

Some things are not for police.

Ruth slept on a neighbor’s floor that night, trembling, whispering her daughter’s name.

The next day, she returned to gather her things.

The landlord’s room was empty.

Their clothes were gone.

Only a faint smell of smoke remained.

It was as if they had vanished into the air.

Days blurred into weeks.

The news spread across the area.

People came to stare at the house, crossing themselves, whispering about sacrifices and spirits.

Some said the landlords had been part of a cult that fed on purity.

Others said they were not human at all.

Ruth stopped listening.

Her world had ended the moment she opened that bedroom door.

She left the compound at dawn, barefoot, clutching Adaora’s doll.

Every step felt like walking away from her own shadow.

Months later, in another part of town, she found a new room.

The agent was friendly.

The landlady, an older woman with soft eyes, smiled warmly as she handed over the keys.

“You will like it here,” she said.

“The rent is cheap.

Families do well here.

”

Ruth hesitated at the word cheap, but grief had left her hollow.

She paid the money, unpacked her few belongings, and tried to start again.

That evening, the landlady came by to offer food.

She sat on the edge of the bed, chatting about the neighborhood.

Ruth thanked her politely.

Then she noticed it—the bracelet dangling from the woman’s wrist.

Small, gold, engraved with one word: Adaora.

Her breath caught.

“Where did you get that?” she whispered.

The woman smiled faintly.

“A gift,” she said.

“From a tenant long ago.

Ruth’s body went cold.

Somewhere inside the house, a door creaked open.

A faint giggle floated from the hallway—a child’s giggle, light and sharp.

The woman didn’t react.

She only kept smiling.

That night, Ruth didn’t sleep.

The wind rattled the window, carrying whispers that sounded like her daughter’s voice.

Mummy…

At 2 a.m., she heard a knock at the door.

Knock… knock… knock.

Slow.Heavy.

She froze.The air turned icy.

Then the voice came—soft, dragging, familiar.

“Mummy… open.It’s me.”

Tears streamed down her face.

She wanted to believe it, wanted to see her daughter one last time.

But her body refused to move.

She whispered a prayer, shaking uncontrollably.

The knocking continued until dawn.

When the sun rose, she found three small handprints on the inside of the door—bloody, but fresh.

People in the new neighborhood began to whisper too.

They said the new tenant in Room 7 prayed too much, that she talked to herself at night.

They said sometimes a child’s laughter echoed from her room though she lived alone.

The landlady avoided her now, her smiles tighter, her eyes darker.

Weeks later, the police found another tenant missing—a young woman with a little boy.

Her rent had been cheap too.

And so the story spread, from one compound to another, a quiet rumor that no one wanted to believe.

But those who have lived long enough in the city know: every cheap room carries a secret cost.

Because sometimes, the devil doesn’t come with horns.

Sometimes he comes with a smile, a house key, and a rent price that feels too good to be true.

And if you ever hear a soft knock at midnight followed by a voice that sounds almost like someone you love—don’t open the door.