Chilling tales for the restless night

Midnight feast

Every week, without fail, my father would demand that my mother, my three sisters, my brother, and I prepare an extravagant feast. He never asked, never considered how much work went into it. The food he requested was more than a meal—it was a banquet, fit for a celebration, as though we were feeding a hundred people, maybe more. And this wasn't once a year, it was *every single week*. We were in Lubumbashi, Congo, in an African household where tradition often met the demands of a patriarch. My father, a well-known businessman, ruled over our family with an iron fist, and my mother, ever obedient, never questioned his demands.

Our mother never asked *why* we cooked so much. She simply obeyed, without a word. I always wondered why. Perhaps it was because my father was a terrifying man—abusive, volatile. His presence in the house felt like a shadow that lingered, choking the air from the rooms. My mother knew better than to challenge him; after all, he was the breadwinner, the man who provided. But to me, that excuse meant nothing. The fury burned inside me, watching my mother and us girls bend under his will. Every time I told her she needed to stand up for herself, she would just shake her head, eyes tired, and say, "There's no other way."

Each week, we would prepare elaborate meals from recipes handpicked by my father—meals that looked like they belonged in glossy cookbooks or on tables of prestigious chefs. The strange part was, we were never allowed to eat the food we slaved over. Instead, we would cook separate meals for ourselves, as if what we made for my father's mysterious "friends" was far too precious for our mouths to taste. That infuriated me even more. We were doing all the work, and not even a bite of the lavish food passed our lips.

The worst part? We never saw my father's so-called friends. Not once. They supposedly came in the dead of night, when we were all supposed to be asleep. The food was served late—very late—and by morning, it was always gone, the dining room cleared, as though nothing had ever been there. It was strange, too strange to ignore, and while my mother never raised an eyebrow, I had my suspicions. Who were these people that came so late, ate so much, and left without a trace? Why couldn't we ever see them?

I knew I had to find out.

One night, after we had finished setting the table with the feast, I made a plan. It was late, almost midnight, and my sisters and I were beyond exhausted from hours of preparation. But I refused to sleep. This time, I was going to stay awake and see for myself what happened after the food was laid out.

I lay in bed, eyes wide open, heart pounding in the silence of the night. Hours passed, and finally, around 2 a.m., I heard it—laughter, faint at first, then growing louder. The low murmur of voices drifted down the hall, and I strained to hear them, convinced that this had to be my father's guests.

I wanted to get up, but sleep weighed heavy on my body. Before I knew it, fatigue overtook me, and I fell asleep. When I woke up in the morning, it was the same story—the food was gone, the dining room spotless, and the house as silent as ever. Frustrated, I vowed to try again, this time with a plan.

The next week, I made sure to go to bed early. I set an alarm for 1 a.m., determined to stay awake this time. When the alarm went off, I jolted out of bed, the house quiet and dark. I waited, my heart thumping in anticipation, and sure enough, soon I heard the noises again. Laughter, music, voices—all coming from the dining room.

I slipped out of bed, careful not to make a sound, and tiptoed toward the hallway. The closer I got, the louder the voices became, but there was something *off* about them. They didn't sound quite...human. I reached the door to the dining room and, holding my breath, slowly pushed it open just a crack, enough to peer inside without being seen.

The scene I witnessed inside the dining room was beyond anything I could have imagined.

At first, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me, that the shadows were distorting what I was seeing. But no matter how much I blinked, the creatures that sat at the long, gleaming table didn't change. They weren't my father's friends—at least not in the way I had assumed. These figures, these grotesque beings, were *demons*.

Their forms were monstrous, twisted in ways that made my stomach turn. One had the head of a goat, its eyes glowing an unnatural yellow in the dim light. Another had a long, snake-like body coiled under the table, its tongue flickering in and out like it was tasting the air. There were others too—creatures with horns, wings, scaled skin, sharp claws, all sitting casually, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. Their voices were deep, rumbling like thunder, and their laughter was sinister, echoing off the walls of our home in a way that made my blood run cold.

I stood frozen in place, my body trembling with fear. My heart pounded so hard in my chest that I was sure they would hear it. But they were too engrossed in their feast, digging into the food that we had spent hours preparing, oblivious to the horror their presence caused.

And then, one of them looked up.

Its eyes locked onto mine through the small crack in the door. My breath caught in my throat, my body frozen under its gaze. It smiled, a twisted grin that revealed rows of sharp, jagged teeth. I felt my legs weaken, and I had to fight the urge to collapse right there. The creature didn't speak, but it didn't need to. Its smile told me everything—it knew I was watching.

I couldn't take it anymore. I stumbled back, slamming the door shut behind me in a panic. My feet carried me faster than I thought possible, racing down the dark hallway, away from the demonic gathering. I didn't stop until I was back in my room, the door locked behind me, my heart racing like I had just outrun a nightmare.

For the rest of the night, I didn't sleep. How could I? My mind was filled with the grotesque images I had just witnessed. My father had been feeding these *things*, these demons, every week, right under our noses. I couldn't fathom why—what kind of deal had he made with them? What had we been cooking for all these years?

When morning came, the house was as it always was—quiet, spotless. The dining room looked like nothing had happened. The only reminder of the terror from the night before was the sickening churn in my stomach and the pounding in my head.

I never told my mother or my siblings what I had seen. I never asked my father any questions. From that day forward, I cooked in silence, followed orders, and went to bed as soon as we finished. The demons came every week, and I made sure to never see them again.