The Stranger at My Door Knew My Secrets - Part 1

The Knock

It was the kind of rain that made Lagos feel like a different city — streets half-submerged, power out in half the neighbourhood, and the air thick with the smell of wet dust. I was alone that night. No roommate, no light, no noise except the storm. 

Then came the knock. Three slow, deliberate knocks. “Who’s there?” I called, trying to sound braver than I felt. No answer — just a pause long enough to make my skin crawl. Then a voice: “Open the door, Aisha. We need to talk… about what you did.” My heart stuttered. The voice was deep, calm, and… wrong. Wrong because it felt like he had been practising my name in his mouth for years. I moved to the peephole. 

A tall figure in a black raincoat stood outside. 

Hood up. Head bowed. The rain made his silhouette blur. “I think you have the wrong—” “Oh, I’m at the right house,” he cut me off. “You know exactly why I’m here.” The words prickled under my skin. Before I could answer, he slid something under the door — an old, damp leather folder. I hesitated, then picked it up. My fingers were shaking so badly that I almost dropped it. Inside… was a photograph of me. 

In my bedroom. Taken last week. I gasped and looked back through the peephole. He was gone. And that was when my phone buzzed. An unknown number. 

One message: “Don’t turn around.”