My name is Emmanuel, and what I’m about to tell you is something I’ve never fully recovered from. It happened in Port Harcourt, sometime last year, in a small one-room apartment I rented around Rumuola.
It began with a knock.
Not the normal knock you hear during the day when NEPA comes to disconnect wires, or when neighbors come to borrow salt. This one was different.
It was 12:01 a.m. on a Tuesday. The knock came once—soft but deliberate—on my wooden door.
At first I ignored it. I told myself it was probably a drunkard mistaking my flat for his own. But then, the knock came again. Louder this time.
My heart started racing. Who could be knocking at that hour in Port Harcourt? I thought of thieves, cult boys, even SARS. I tiptoed toward the door, trying to listen.
The compound was unnervingly silent. The generator from next door that always hummed at night was off. Even the usual barking dogs outside had gone quiet.
I swallowed hard and asked, “Who is there?”
Silence.
Then I noticed the doorknob.
It was turning. Slowly. Like someone was trying to open the door from the outside.
I froze. I hadn’t given anyone a spare key. The agent swore I was the only one with access.
The knob turned halfway, then stopped.
And then I heard it.
A whisper, right by the door. Low. Breathy. It was my name.
“Emmanueeeeel…”
I staggered back so fast that I kicked over my stool. My phone was on the table, screen facing up. I grabbed it with trembling hands, hoping to call somebody—anybody.
That was when I saw the notification on the screen.
Bluetooth request: “EMMANUEL-INSIDE” wants to pair with your device.”
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