eason 1 – Episode 2: \"The Mirror in Nneka’s Room\" – \"Voices in the Backyard\"

It had been three days since Nneka uncovered the mirror. She hadn’t slept much. The mirror stayed covered, yet at night she still heard whispers — muffled and wet, like voices underwater. Her mother started placing kola nuts and cowries by the door. “For protection,” she said. But nothing felt safe anymore.

The backyard of the house was overgrown with tall grass, a banana tree, and a collapsed goat pen. Nneka hadn’t gone there until now. That morning, while fetching water, she heard a child laughing. A laugh, pure and playful — but it echoed strangely, bouncing unnaturally off the cracked compound walls.

She stepped behind the house, cautiously. Nothing but banana leaves swaying. Then she saw a faint trail of white powder — nzu (white chalk) — leading toward the collapsed pen.

“Who’s there?” she called.

A small voice answered, “Come play, Nneka.”

She froze.

No one in the village knew her name yet. She hadn’t left the compound since arriving.

Grabbing her phone, she turned on the flashlight and followed the chalk trail. Behind the pen, the earth was freshly dug — a circular mound like a tiny grave. Sitting atop it was a child’s doll, handmade from cloth, head stitched in red thread.

She reached for it. A gust of wind knocked it over, revealing a symbol drawn underneath — a three-eyed face.

The laughter returned, louder now, from behind her. She spun around — nothing. But the hairs on her neck stood straight.

Later, her mother found her sitting on the veranda, shivering.

“There’s a spirit here,” Nneka whispered. “It’s a child… it knows my name.”

Her mother’s face turned grim. “That’s not a child. That’s an Ogbanje.”

Nneka blinked. “But I thought those were stories—”

“No.” Her mother placed the doll in her lap. “This belonged to your sister. The one who died before you were born.”

Nneka’s world twisted. She had no sister… or so she thought.

Her mother explained that years ago, she’d birthed a girl who died at six — strange sickness, strange laughter. The villagers warned her: Ogbanje. A spirit that comes and goes through the womb, bringing torment. She buried the doll behind the house with a ritual.

“But when you were born,” Mama said, “I started hearing her again.”

That night, Nneka sat by the window. The mirror pulsed under its cloth. The doll was on her bed. She hadn’t put it there.

A whisper came from the backyard again, softer this time, almost singing.

“Come play, Nneka… come play forever.”