His joy and excitement came to a terrible end as he entered the cold room and discovered the body he attended to yesterday wasn't in the locker where he left her; as she relocated.He quickly retraced everything he did yesterday when she was brought in. it all seemed to check out, he remembered vividly placing her inside locker three which was open and nothing was inside. He went in search of her, opening other lockers, not that he could remember her face but her number tag was one hundred and ten.In locker 66, he found something that weakened his legs with fear. The physique matched that of yesterday but why the fuck does she still had makeup on? Is this a different body, probably brought in yesternight when he left? Was it a mistake on the part of the other new employee on the night shift? He must have forgotten to clean her face. It could be a sick joke that was supposed to be funny or scared him. That other guy was really not alright upstairs; so he wa

David woke up to discover he was now scooping a pillow and Nevaeh was gone. He felt simmering anger, he threw the pillow away and underneath it was another letter containing the same write up from the previous morning.Now the whole drama was puzzling and strange. After their conservation yesternight, she still left without informing him. What kind of game was she playing? Where is she rushing to the early hours of the morning? Could it be to meet another boyfriend or her parents before they woke up? Why does she not talk about herself? Where does she come from every night? What does she spend her day doing? How come her first name is the only thing he knows about her? Why is the sex so pleasurable and interesting like it wasn't of this world? How come a birthmark on a dead girl was on her at exactly the same spot? Is it even possible? All these questions and more rushed through his head and not even one could he provide a reasonable answer. Still confused and in search

David woke up, stretched his arms and legs, took a look at the wall clock, it was twenty-six minutes to Nine pm. His breath smells of alcohol; his entire body smells. He still had time, so he decided to rush his bath before she came. He unlocked the door but shut it.While under the shower, he ran through how it will all play out in his head. He won't allow that ghost to touch him again. Once he sets his eyes on her, he is so calling her name and let her be gone. If he can successfully free himself from this girl or ghost, he will give skirt-chasing a hard break.Lost in introspect, he was brought back to his living nightmare by a soft knock on the door. He kept quiet waiting to be sure it wasn't in his head. The knock came again, this time louder.Should he answer or not? Or just keep quiet till she gets exhausted from knocking and leaves? But she will just return the next night and the one after that till he answers. Should he just walk naked

Soon, I was far above the roof of the building, seeing the roof of our house; it was dark outside as I travelled in the air at an incredible speed through streets and buildings. I saw colours I never knew existed floating beside me; they were so vivid I could practically touch them. I was a troubled and neglected child back here; Heaven was the golden child, the apple of my mother's eyes, the one that will do great things but she loved me for who I am.While outside my body, I was at peace, free like a bird, all my troubles gone. I was supposed to be scared, afraid but I wasn't; instead for the first time, I felt truly alive. I could do whatever I wanted and go wherever I wanted. Time seems not to matter anymore for it was like sand on the beach. After what felt like forever, I soon found myself at the entrance of a classroom.Surprised, and puzzled; I reluctantly walked in to discover it was my classroom in SS3. It was now in ruins, the ceiling falling dow

That Friday, five years ago has been the best day of her life till recently. Now she wishes she never entered that library, where she met that heartbreaker; but she recalls pushing open the heavy swing door and went into a large hall with a tiled chessboard floor.About forty to fifty shelves of neatly arranged books fanned out from the central reception area. Behind the shelves were comfortable leather armchairs and large barricaded tables for quiet studies arranged in rows.The cold and hushed atmosphere was occasionally punctured by laughers and loud whispers. The entire hall smells of old books and bleach.Row after row of neatly lined books with their spines facing outward, colour-coded with dots, fiction section arranged in alphabetical order. She scanned slowly until her eyes met Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's "Half of a yellow sun". She took it out, and then went behind in search of a place to sit and devour the book.She walke