My name is Amber, the first child of Mr. Desmond, a plumber from South East Nigeria. He is married to Ann, my mother, a midwife. They have two children: me, Amber, and my sister, Rose. Rose is 7, and I am 10. The story you’re about to read is a true one, so brace yourself—but try not to freak out.
Our car came to a stop in front of an old, dilapidated house. We had just moved out of our old home because of flooding and rising rent. My dad had found this place in a remote village, and today, we were about to move in.
Dad stepped out of the van, stretched out his hand toward me, and I raised my arms as he lifted me and my sister out of the vehicle, one after the other. He stood silently for a moment, staring at the towering, weathered building.
“Baby girl,” he called to me softly. “This is our new home.”
At first glance, I didn’t like it at all. It was old, worn, and nothing like the house I had imagined in my mind. But I didn’t have a choice. Dad reassured me, saying, “The inside looks much better.”
The driver helped my dad unload the heavy furniture, while my pregnant mom, my sister, and I followed behind. With the help of some neighbors, we got all our belongings inside. Finally, the last piece of furniture, a worn-out sofa, was set down in the living room.
“Baby girl,” my dad said, “go follow the driver and get your school bag from the car.”
“What about Rose? Shouldn’t she come with me?” I asked.
“Will you just go and do what your father asked!” my mother snapped from the sofa, struggling to put off her footwear.
Frightened that I might get scolded further, I ran downstairs quickly.
Don’t mind my mom; she can be aggressive, especially now that she's pregnant.
The driver handed me the bags, and I muttered a quick “thank you, sir” before rushing back toward the stairs.
We were living on the third floor, just beneath the top level of the building. The sky was growing dark, so I switched on the torch Dad had gifted me for my birthday and began climbing the stairs slowly, humming my favorite rhyme.
**Mary had a little lamb, little lamb...**
I was so lost in my song that I didn’t realize I had gone past the third floor. Instead, I found myself at the top of the staircase, facing a large iron door, its surface covered in rust, sealed with heavy chains and multiple padlocks.
Confused, I stared at the door, unable to reach for the handle. My little mind raced. *Is this our door?* I thought.
As I stood there, puzzled, something shifted. The chains rattled softly, their metallic clink echoing through the hallway. I froze. My heart pounded.
Slowly, I pointed my torch at the door, and that’s when I heard it—faint giggles. Children, laughing.
The beam of light caught something on the ground—a child's leg, just standing there beside the door.
I tried to move closer, to get a better look, but suddenly, my mom’s voice echoed from below, breaking the eerie silence.
“What’s keeping her so long?” she asked my dad impatiently.
That’s when it hit me—I was on the wrong floor. I was on the fourth floor, not the third.
Without looking back, I ran down the stairs, the laughter still lingering in my ears.
