Horrors from Around the World

Night 001 - Night of the Tokoloshe

The night air in rural KwaZulu-Natal was thick with humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and made you feel suffocated. Nomsa sat outside her hut, staring at the vast darkness of the South African bush as the cicadas filled the night with their droning chorus. Her village, a small cluster of mud and straw huts, sat on the outskirts of the dense forests that had stood since before anyone could remember. Her grandmother used to say the forest was alive, that it held things—old things—that should be left undisturbed.

Nomsa had never truly believed in the old stories. Not even the ones about the Tokoloshe.

Her grandmother had terrified her with tales of the Tokoloshe when she was a child. The creature was said to be a mischievous and malevolent dwarf-like being, a demon that stalked villages at night, invisible to most unless it chose to reveal itself. It would climb onto the roofs of huts, slip inside, and wreak havoc, attacking or killing those it targeted. Villagers used to put their beds on bricks, raising them high to keep the Tokoloshe from dragging them away in the dead of night.

But Nomsa was no longer a child. She had outgrown the stories, dismissing them as mere superstition. The world was changing, modernizing, and she couldn't let herself be ruled by fear of old folktales. But tonight, as the village sank into its usual stillness, something about the silence felt... wrong.

Nomsa stood and went back inside her hut, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows on the walls. She had lived alone since her husband, Themba, had passed away the year before. His death had been sudden, unexpected, and left a hole in her life that she didn't know how to fill. The grief still weighed on her heart, though she tried to mask it with routine.

She busied herself with small tasks—sweeping the floor, folding blankets—anything to take her mind off the empty feeling that gnawed at her. But that night, the quiet felt heavier, the shadows deeper. She could feel it pressing down on her, a weight she couldn't shake.

The wind howled through the cracks in the walls, making the candle flame flicker wildly. For a moment, the light dimmed, and Nomsa thought she saw something move outside the window. Just a brief flash—a shadow darting across the yard.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Nomsa shook her head, trying to laugh it off. "Just the wind," she muttered under her breath. "The wind, or a wild animal."

But a lingering unease settled in her stomach. She told herself it was nothing—had to be nothing. Still, she found herself checking the door, making sure it was latched tight.

Suddenly, the sound of shuffling feet broke the silence.

Nomsa froze. The sound was faint, almost imperceptible, but it was there—just outside her hut. She swallowed hard and listened intently. The footsteps were slow, deliberate, circling the hut.

Probably just a stray dog or a goat, she thought, though her pulse quickened.

Then, the sound stopped.

The silence that followed was deafening, heavy with an almost palpable tension. Nomsa held her breath, straining to hear anything through the thick walls of her hut. And then, just above her, she heard it—the unmistakable creak of the roof.

Something was on top of her hut.

Her heart raced, and a cold sweat broke out on her skin. She glanced around the room, her mind searching for an explanation. It could be a branch or a bird... but no, she knew what she had heard. The weight on the roof was too heavy for any small animal.

She took a step toward the door, her hands trembling. The old stories of the Tokoloshe flooded her mind, unbidden, unwanted. The creature, small and sly, could enter homes without being seen. It could move without making a sound.