Han Graceley

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Episode 4: The Letter from the Crypt  By Grace Antiedu. Reverend Essel sat at his desk, the letter open in front of him, candlelight dancing across the faded ink. His mind raced. Abena Ntiamoah. A widow. Died in her sleep. Buried quietly behind St. Paul’s Chapel. He remembered the funeral -the soft rain, the hymns, the cheap wooden casket. He remembered blessing the grave. But not... what was beneath it. The letter’s words echoed in his head: He is still with me. He will not let me sleep. Essel returned to the cemetery the next day. He walked past the weeping palms and broken headstones to the far corner where Abena lay. Or so he thought. The grave marker had split. Beneath it, the ground sagged -like something had shifted inside. The next night, he went back with a lantern and a shovel. Alone. He dug for hours. Sweat soaked his collar. The earth resisted, as if it didn’t want to be opened. But then -he struck wood. The coffin. He pried it open, expecting the silent remains of an o...

Episode 3: The Letter from the Crypt  By Grace Antiedu  From behind the man, other shapes began to stir. Half-formed. Faces blurred. Silent mouths open in screams that made no sound. Mrs. Ntiamoah was among them — her eyes wide, her hands reaching, pleading. He turned and ran, tearing through the hallway, slamming into the door — but it wouldn’t budge. The house groaned louder now, as if the walls had awakened. From behind, their voices followed him — whispers in a language he did not know, but understood. “The door was never meant to be opened.”“You heard them.”“Now you belong.” Kwabena dropped to his knees, trembling, pressing his hands against his ears. Then — silence. The front door creaked open. He didn’t ask why or how. He didn’t wait. He ran until the sun dipped low and the voices in his head finally dimmed. But he never spoke of it. Not when he saw shadows at his window at night.Not when his reflection lingered longer than it should.Not even when he heard Mrs. Ntiamoah...

Episode 2: The Letter from the Crypt  By Grace Antiedu  They said Mrs. Ntiamoah’s house had been empty since the funeral. Dusty curtains, locked windows, the air stale and unmoved. No one had gone in. No one had dared to. Until Kwabena. He hadn’t planned on entering — not really. He only came by after school because of a dare. Some of the older boys had laughed when he’d hesitated. “You want to be a man?” they’d teased. “Then go in. Say her name. Say it loud.” They shoved him through the rusted gate. The hinges groaned behind him like a warning. He should have left then. But he didn’t. The house seemed to breathe around him as he stepped into the corridor. The faint smell of lavender soap still clung to the air -Mrs. Ntiamoah’s scent. She had been his mother's teacher once. Stern but kind, they said.  The sort who saw through your excuses before you said them. The sort whose eyes lingered too long when speaking about the past — like it haunted her. She died many years ago...

Episode 1: The Letter from the Crypt  By Grace Antiedu  Reverend Essel had seen many strange things in his 30 years as a pastor. He’d prayed over the dying. Calmed the possessed. Once, he even watched a crucifix fall from the wall during a funeral service. But nothing unsettled him like the letter that arrived in a plain white envelope -sealed with wax -and no stamp. It was placed on his desk after a morning prayer meeting. No one saw who brought it. The envelope was old. Yellowing. Smelled faintly of earth and rosewater. It was addressed to him. But the signature on the back read: Mrs. Abena Ntiamoah  Deceased: March 14, 1979. Essel’s hands trembled. He had buried her himself. He opened the letter. The handwriting was rushed. Uneven. The ink smeared in places -as if written in the dark or by a hand not fully alive. Reverend, You buried me in the wrong place. He is still with me. He will not let me sleep. Move me before the 7th night. It was unsigned. That night, he could...

Episode 4: The Thing in the Crawlspace By Grace Antiedu  The first time it said my name, I was brushing my teeth. Alone. Quiet. Then, from behind me -low, cracked and crawling with static - “Akwasi ....” I froze. The voice was mine, but broken. Like someone trying to copy it from memory. I turned. No one. Just the hallway, yawning open. And the crawlspace beneath the stairs, darker than ever. My brother started changing faster. He drew pictures in red crayon -of me, sleeping, with long black arms reaching from the ceiling. Of the crawlspace wide open, with people crawling inside. He didn’t call it Tomi anymore. He called it “Brother". “He says I was the replacement,” my brother said. “He says you forgot him. He’s coming to finish the trade". That night, I bolted the hallway door. Nailed it shut. Pushed furniture in front of it. Still, at 2:03 am, woke to find the door wide open. This time, I heard it crawling. Not just from beneath the stairs, but through the walls.  Slow. We...

Episode 3: The Thing in the Crawlspace  By Grace Antiedu  I couldn’t breathe. There was something thumping behind the crawlspace wall now. Slow, steady, like a heartbeat too large to be human. I grabbed my brother’s hand. It was cold. Wet .Like he’d been holding it inside a stream. Or a grave. “Come on,” I gasped. “You’re not staying here”. He blinked. For a second, just a second, something flickered in his eyes. Recognition. Fear. Then the crawlspace door slammed open behind him. And a hand reached out. Not a child’s hand. Long. Grey. Fingers bent the wrong way. Nails jagged like stone. It didn’t grab him. It pointed at me.... whispering through the crack beneath the crawlspace door. “I didn’t forget,” he said. “I remember what happened to Nana. You said I could stay if I remembered". There was no one named Nana in our family. When I asked my parents, their faces went pale. They said Nana was my twin brother. He died when we were babies. They never told my younger brother. He...

Episode 2: The Thing in the Crawlspace By Grace Antiedu  My brother started changing. He became quiet. Too quiet. He would sit still for hours, legs folded under him, eyes locked on the stairs as if he was waiting for something or someone. He stopped eating his favorite meals. Stopped playing. Stopped calling me by name. Just silence. Like he was slipping into a place none of us could follow. One evening, I passed by and saw him crouched by the crawlspace door, lips barely moving. He was whispering. I leaned closer. Not prayers. Not gibberish. “I didn’t forget,” he murmured. “You said I could stay if I remembered". He wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to it. He was slipping away -and I saw it happening in pieces. At first, it was little things. My brother stopped humming when he played. He no longer asked for sugar on his rice. His laughter, once shrill and wild, dried up overnight like a leaf left too long in the sun. Then came the silence. He sat for hours - not blinking, not...

Episode 1: The Thing in the Crawlspace  By Grace Antiedu  Our family thought my little brother was just imaginative. He was five, and kids that age invent friends all the time. He called this one “Tomi". Tomi lived in the crawlspace under the stairs, according to him. He never came out during the day. Only at night. And only if we didn’t close the hallway door. “He’s shy,” my brother would say. “He doesn’t like too much light". At first, we laughed, drew smiley faces on paper plates, and called them "Tomi". My mother played along. Until things started …. moving. Shoes placed by the door were found upside down in the bathroom. Cups from the kitchen ended up in the basement -still full. Lights flickered even when there was no power outage. My brother said it was Tomi playing hide and seek. One night, I stayed up to see for myself. At exactly 2:03 a.m., the hallway door creaked open on its own. And something crawled out from beneath the stairs. It wasn’t a boy. It was ...

Episode 4: The Picture that knew her.  By Grace Antiedu.  From that day on, Ama could no longer look in mirrors. She tried. She really did. But the reflection unnerved her. It moved -but not always in sync. Sometimes, her reflection smiled a second too late. Or blinked when she didn’t. Once, it tilted its head and watched her with quiet amusement, as though it knew something she didn’t. It wasn’t her anymore. It wasn't Ama. Yet she was met with the tired concern from her mother, and she stopped talking about it, although she didn’t stop seeing it. One night, on her way to the bathroom, she caught a glimpse in the hallway mirror -and froze. In the reflection, she was still standing at her bedroom door. Still. Breathless and wide-eyed. But Ama was already halfway down the hall. Then, her reflection smiled.Slow. Twisted. Wrong. She screamed. Her father ran in and saw nothing but her own pale face staring back, trembling. “There's no one there, Ama”. But she was always there. Late...

Episode 3: The Picture that knew her By Grace Antiedu  The river wasn’t in the village. But Ama could hear it. Each night, the sound grew louder -the gentle lapping of water against wood, the thrum of something vast and ancient stirring beneath the surface. Her feet felt damp when she woke up, her sheets cold and clinging. She began speaking in her sleep, in a voice no one recognized. Her mother recorded her one night and played it back the next day. Each night, the sound grew louder -the gentle lapping of water against wood, the low, hollow thrum of something vast and ancient stirring just beneath the surface. At first, Ama thought it was the old pipes. Or her imagination. But then came the dreams. Dark waters spreading under moonlight. A small boat drifting on an unseen current. Something beneath, circling, waiting. She woke each morning with damp feet. The ends of her sheets were soaked, clinging like they’d been pulled through a river. Her mother scolded her for not drying off ...

Episode 2: The Picture that Knew Her  By Grace Antiedu  Ama didn’t sleep that night. The photo now sat on her bedside table. And just before midnight, the girl in the photo turned her head -and smiled. Sometimes, blood remembers more than it should. Ama didn’t tell anyone what she saw. Who would believe that the girl in a photo taken 40 years ago had turned her head and smiled? But the next night, the photo changed again. This time, Ama wasn’t in it. At least—not standing in the row of women. She was in the background—behind a tree, face half-hidden, eyes staring directly at the camera. Like she had always been there, just watching. Ama locked the photo in a drawer. The next morning, it was back on her table. That evening, during supper, her uncle Kojo -her grandmother’s youngest son -spoke up. “She looks just like her,” he said, watching Ama too closely.“Just like little Ama. The one who drowned in the river”. Ama’s spoon froze midway to her mouth. “How did she drown?” she as...

Episode 1: The Picture that Knew Her. By Grace Antiedu  Ama was thirteen when her grandmother died. After the funeral, Ama’s family traveled to the old house in Kpando to pack up the belongings. The air inside was heavy -thick with incense, old books, and a scent of earth and time. Ama wandered into her grandmother’s bedroom and found the wooden trunk at the foot of the bed. She’d seen it many times but had never dared to open it. Now, she did. Inside: folded fabrics, a dried sprig of rosemary, letters tied with black string … and a photograph, curled with age. It was a black-and-white portrait. A group of women standing in a field, all smiling. Probably a village meeting or wedding. Ama’s hand trembled as she brought the photo closer. Because one of the women -third from the left -was her. Same eyes. Same nose. Same tiny scar on the chin from falling off a bicycle last year. But the photo was dated 1972. Ama hadn’t even been born. She ran to her mother. “Who is this?” she asked, p...

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Episode 4: The Room that shouldn't be there  The Room Opens By Grace Antiedu. 3:11 am Maleek stood barefoot in the hallway of his grandmother’s home, his small shadow stretched across the floor. The door was no longer painted on the wall. It was real. Wood- blackened and wet. Hinges twitching like veins. The handle was made of bone. His grandmother, asleep on the sofa, stirred and gasped as the room grew cold. She turned and saw the door. She screamed, but her voice didn’t echo. The house swallowed it. “He’s ready,” Maleek whispered. The door swung open on its own. Inside: walls pulsed like flesh. The floor was moving breathing. There were faces in the darkness, pressed behind translucent skin, whispering. And the man stood in the center. Tall. Twisted. Wearing a child’s school uniform, Maleek’s. He stretched out his hand. “Come home.” Maleek stepped forward. Then—his mother arrived. She didn’t knock. Didn’t hesitate. Just screamed her son’s name and ran toward him, shoving past th...

Episode 3: The Room that shouldn't be there. A Door that Grows By Grace Antiedu  The next day, Maleek stopped speaking. He sat curled in the corner of his room, refusing to eat, refusing to move. He wouldn't look at his mother -not until she whispered, “Is it the man again?” He nodded. Just once. “He was in my bed last night,” he said.“But only I could see him”. That evening, she took a flashlight and examined the hallway wall. Nothing. Just faded paint and a cracked photo frame. But something felt ….wrong. The air was colder there. The silence thicker. She placed her ear against the wall. Thump. She jerked back. A soft, deliberate knock came from inside. Once. Twice. Three times. She screamed. The neighbors thought she was dreaming. But Maleek wasn’t. That night, he returned to her room at exactly 3:11 a.m. “He says the room is ready now,” he whispered. “He made it just for me.” His eyes weren’t his anymore. If ignored, it grows. If you open it, it takes. By the third night, t...

Episode 2: The Room that shouldn't be there. Inside the Wall. By Grace Antiedu  He led her down the hallway barefoot, still in his dinosaur pyjamas. She followed, pretending not to feel how cold the air had become. The hallway stretched -longer than it should have been, the light dimmer somehow, as though the shadows were leaning in. And then they stopped. He pointed. There, between the bathroom and the linen closet, was a door. Black. Smooth. Featureless. Except for the keyhole. It was bleeding. She stumbled back with a gasp, hand flying to her mouth. She blinked once, twice—sure she was dreaming. But the door remained. Solid. Quiet. Oozing slow, thick drops of dark red onto the floor. Maleek stood too close to it now, pressing his palm flat against the wood. “It’s louder when you’re near it,” he said softly. “Maleek, stop -come back -” He looked at her with tearful eyes. “It says it’s hungry.” She grabbed his arm and yanked him away, but the moment they moved, a sound echoed from...

Episode 1: The Room that shouldn't be there. The Door No one Saw By Grace Antiedu  It started on a Tuesday. Six-year-old Maleek had always been quiet -more observant than most kids his age. But that week, he began drawing strange pictures in school.  Rooms with no windows. Furniture upside down. And in every sketch, a black door with a keyhole bleeding red. His teacher, Ms. Alvarez, first noticed the change on Wednesday. She held up the drawing with careful fingers -unsettled, but unsure why. “Maleek, what’s this red stuff by the door?” Maleek didn’t look up. He just whispered, “It’s what leaks out when it’s unlocked.” That night, Ms. Alvarez called his mother, concerned. But Maleek’s mother only laughed, tired and distracted. “He has an active imagination. Probably something he saw on YouTube.” By Friday, his drawings covered the classroom wall. Always the same—the black door, the bleeding keyhole. The rooms started filling with shadowy figures, featureless and watching. One ...

Episode 4: The Necklace The Groom Beneath the Ground. By Grace Antiedu Eliza stopped sleeping. She tried salt. Holy water. Prayers whispered with trembling lips. But the necklace always returned around her neck each dawn, warm like skin, pulsing faintly, like a second heartbeat. Then came the dreams. She stood in a forest with no wind, no sky. Just silence. A figure waited at the edge of a grave dug for two. He wore black robes soaked in soil, and his face was no longer hidden. Worms crawled through empty eye sockets. His smile was broken -jagged teeth, too many of them, too wide. In his hand was a ring made of bone. “You are mine,” he rasped. “You were promised”. Eliza woke with dirt under her fingernails. The aunt, shaking now, confessed everything. “The necklace belonged to Nchindeh,” she said, voice cracking. “He was a suitor who died on his wedding day, killed by your great-grandmother for practicing dark arts. His spirit made a vow: if he could not marry in life, he would marry i...

Episode 3: The Necklace. A Marriage Already Promised. By Grace Antiedu Eliza tried to tell herself it was just a dream. That the blood on her pillow meant nothing. That the man in the mirror was a trick of the light. But some things won’t let you forget. The next morning, the necklace was back—wrapped neatly around her neck, its clasp shut tight. She hadn't put it on. She knew she hadn’t. She tore it off and flung it into the metal trunk at the foot of her bed. It hissed as it landed, as though something alive had been disturbed. That night, she heard scratching. Not outside. From inside the trunk. Eliza stayed frozen beneath her covers, heart thudding like a war drum in her chest. The noise went on for hours—soft at first, then louder. As if nails were clawing at the inside of the box. When she finally dared to open the trunk at sunrise, the necklace lay coiled in the center—wet with something dark. She screamed. Her aunt rushed in. But the moment she entered the room, she froze, ...

Episode 2: The Necklace. The Man in the Mirror By Grace Antiedu  Eliza stared at the necklace lying on her dresser. She hadn’t meant to wear it. She’d only touched it—picked it up to examine the strange weight, the way the glass seemed to shimmer even in darkness. But something had changed. That night, the necklace was around her neck. She didn’t remember putting it on. And in the morning, blood was smeared across her pillow. Not a nosebleed. Not a wound. It wasn’t hers. She tried to forget. Hid the necklace in a locked box. Told herself it was nothing. But that evening, as she washed her face in the mirror, she saw him. A man. Pale. Watching her through the glass. He wasn’t in the room. Just in the reflection. He stood behind her, eyes like dry coals, dressed in black with a red string in his hand—the same color as the necklace. She spun around. No one. She turned back to the mirror. He was gone. That night, she dreamt of a wedding. Hers. Except the groom had no face. And when he ...

💍Episode 1 Script:  The Necklace. The Bride Who Wept Blood By Grace Antiedu In the village of Nkar, tucked between mountains and mist, there was a necklace made of red glass beads; beads so bright, they were said to glow under moonlight. It was passed down from mother to daughter, always on the eve of a wedding. And every woman who wore it was said to die within a year. The first was Cecilia. A joyful bride, full of laughter, married at nineteen. Her mother gave her the necklace on her wedding night, whispering that it had been in their family for generations. Three months later, Cecilia was found drowned in the river. No wounds. No explanation. The necklace was gone. The second was her daughter, Agnes. Agnes wore it reluctantly, warned by old stories but too afraid to dishonor tradition. She married a man from the city, full of dreams and promises. Six months into the marriage, she collapsed during a church service -blood streaming from her eyes. Doctors said it was an aneurysm. ...

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Episode 4: The Dream Funeral. The Burial of a Living Man By Grace Antiedu On the fourth day, Nfor no longer responded to his name. He sat in the corner of his room, legs crossed, eyes distant -staring at something only he could see. When people spoke to him, he blinked slowly, like waking from underwater. His voice was no longer his. He whispered things in old dialects, names no one knew. Ma Gundo returned that evening. She walked straight into the house, her feet bare, her face unreadable. The air turned still the moment she entered. Even the birds outside fell silent. She burned herbs and sprinkled ash in a circle around Nfor, who began to wail. Not in fear. In resistance. Something inside him was holding on. “They have dug the grave,” she said. “But the soul is not yet lost.” What followed was not a ritual—it was a battle. For hours, Ma Gundo chanted and called upon the ancestors. Nfor thrashed and foamed, at times going completely still. At one moment, he spoke in the voice of a ch...

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Episode 3: The Dream Funeral When the Crows Gather By Grace Antiedu Nfor thought he’d made it through the night. He awoke just before dawn, drenched in sweat but breathing. The charm Ma Gundo gave him was still tied to his wrist. He sat up slowly, thinking maybe, just maybe, the worst was over. Then he heard it. Crows. Three of them, perched on the mango tree outside his window. Black as night, with beady eyes that didn’t blink. They stared into the room like they had been waiting. Crows weren’t common in Bamenda. He stepped out into the compound, uneasy. His wife followed, startled by the birds. Neighbors whispered. But the crows didn’t move. They stayed for hours, silent and still, until one let out a single, guttural caw, and they flew off, disappearing into the morning mist. That afternoon, Nfor collapsed. Not from illness, doctors found nothing wrong, but he spoke in tongues. Words no one could understand. He clawed at the floor like he was trying to escape something pulling him d...

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