Han Graceley

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 https://books2read.com/u/m2AYyo Jojo and Naana know the rule: never go to River Tumbu on a Tuesday. That's the day the river goddess, Jinta, bathes—and she does not like to be seen.But on one scorching summer afternoon, Jojo convinces his little sister to break Mama's warning. What begins as an innocent game turns into a chilling encounter with the powerful goddess herself.Will they escape her wrath? And what lesson will they—and the whole village—learn from their mistake?This beautifully illustrated village tale weaves mystery, culture, and wisdom into a story children will never forget. A perfect read-aloud for families, schools, and libraries, reminding young readers that some rules are not just rules—they are protection.  Happy reading 👇🏽👇🏽👇🏽👇🏽👇🏽👇🏽👇🏽👇🏽👇🏽👇🏽👇🏽 https://books2read.com/u/m2AYyo

 

 

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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...