The myth wasn’t real and clearly, neither was the curse, you thought to yourself as you walked past the cemetery at the bottom of your street where you moved into, four years ago, at the beginning of your university years. You had never believed in curses, so picking a student’s apartment on a street with a graveyard wasn’t an issue to you despite the stories and folktales as you had referred to them, surrounding the entire scene. At this point it had even become laughable to you because you had managed through four years in that apartment and never for once had you experienced anything out of the ordinary, even on the days you came home from parties after midnight and walked that lonely street by yourself. Rather, you found the air from the trees and the overgrown grasses really calming and soothing. It was truly one of your favourite experiences through your stay on St Thomas lane and you wished you didn’t have to leave after your final semester which was about to commence.

You see, St Thomas lane was one of the few streets at the heart of the city where your university was located, so it was a walking distance from almost everywhere a student would be found. It was surrounded by eateries, clubs, bars, and the university itself was a stone’s throw away. The cemetery was really the least of your problems when you heard about an available apartment and you were glad you got that house. What was dead was dead and you didn’t think it was your problem so you paid no mind to the rumours. They were old, stale, and frankly any other word you could use to describe the absurdity of thinking a spirit could bother the living; that is, a mere spirit, void of flesh and bones, making life unbearable for a living being with blood flowing through their veins, in a house you paid for with money you could feel in your hands because you were a physical entity? “Come off it”, you had told your older sister when she wouldn’t stop bickering about what people had been saying. 

As a matter of fact, just after rounding up your first semester exams in your final year, you and your friends had gone out to grab drinks to celebrate when the topic about the curse came up. You all made jokes about the older folks who were so scared of everything, they decided to make up stories about a curse surrounding the graveyard. The story told of a statue of an angel with a broken left wing that stood at the very centre of the graveyard, and it was said that if anyone touched the broken wing at midnight, they would be cursed with a strange illness for 7 years. You reiterated to your friends how funny you thought it was that nobody personally knew anyone who had tested the curse, yet somehow everyone ran with the story for generations so after a couple of drinks, you had suggested the bunch of you actually test it out so you’d all have an actual story to tell. Your friends were as bold and aloof as you so they all agreed without persuasion, except one of you, a boy named John who was a little sceptical and didn’t think it was wise to bother the innocent souls who had been put to rest in that yard all because you wanted to disprove something. You all teased him and called him a scaredy-cat, so he decided to join the little escapade since it was also on the way home for him and he was ready to head home.

You all set out for the graveyard at 11:50pm, given it was a five-minute walk from the bar, and arrived at the centre of the graveyard at 11:57pm. It was what you had expected it to look like; littered with tombstones, some broken and some unmarked, with some still as intact as the day they were built. The environment was unkempt, with tall grasses that had grown all around but you weren’t surprised at all, because mismanagement was something you had been accustomed to as long as your city was concerned. If anything, you would have been shocked if the environment had been properly cleaned, and the grasses properly groomed. There was dead silence and you looked up at the massive statue in awe as it was the first time you were seeing it up close, and you made your way to the broken wing as everyone else followed closely behind. At 11:59pm you had started warming up for the big moment and the jokes kept flying around. Your voices were a little loud given how quiet the cemetery was and because of that you thought John must have been hearing things when he said he was sure he heard a sound similar to the toll of a Catholic bell at the strike of midnight, at 12 a.m. The closest Catholic church was about five miles away and the bell only rang at 12 midday; you all knew this for sure but there was no backing down now. You could feel the tension and fear wavering between everyone but you went ahead and touched the right wing, standing under it and everyone else clapped and cheered. For a brief moment you were sure you heard a voice say it wasn’t too late to back down but deep down you knew the alcohol had a role to play it and so you ignored John when he said he could see the shadow of a creature making its way towards you, until you felt a scratch on your ankle and let out a screech that made everyone take to their heels. The place was dimly lit and some people ran further into the cemetery, while others headed towards the more grassy part. It wasn’t until John, who was ahead of you, got to the entrance that you realised one of your friends had been screaming out to you amidst laughter. Apparently, the creature that had caused the frenzy was a giant rat scampering around. You burst into laughter in between pants and tried yelling the message to John who had reached the roadside, outside the cemetery but he wasn’t having it and insisted he was heading home instead; the resident scaredy cat was done with this adventure and just wanted to go to bed. You all gathered back and walked towards the entrance making fun of the incident, said your goodbyes and headed to your homes. It was an awesome night in your books and only a few other experiences could top that. 

You had completely forgotten about everything that transpired that night through the month-long holiday you spent at home with your family, until it was time to move back to your apartment for your final semester; you always went back a week earlier to give you enough time to clean your house and go grocery shopping before the semester started. The day after you arrived, you woke up with a chill. It was the same one you had felt by 12 am, right before you touched the statue that night, but you didn’t pay attention to it, because you were sure it was just the air. You ignored it again and went about your day, and everything seemed normal until the next day, when you woke up earlier than usual. You jolted up from sleep in a pool of sweat by 3am, unsure why. By morning, you felt heavy and disorganised and your eyes were visibly swollen. You decided to visit a doctor and you were told the best explanation was that you were experiencing a stress disorder. This didn’t make a lot of sense to you, because you couldn’t think of any reason why you’d be stressed up to this level as you had just returned from a relaxing holiday. It also didn’t explain the faint voices that kept whispering to you through the night, but you ran with the diagnosis anyway, because it seemed like the only logical explanation to you. On your way back home, you glanced into the cemetery and remembered the events of that fateful night and a big smile occupied your face as you recounted the overgrown rat and the shrill you let out when it scratched your ankle. You’d had the most normal holiday following that event, so now more than ever you were convinced people only talked because it was easy to, and they vocalised their fears of what they considered unknown, which turned into made up stories and rumours. You got into your apartment, had some food, a bath, responded to texts and went back to sleep, as you had been advised to ensure adequate rest. It was barely 10pm when you woke up from a long nap, and picked up your phone to respond to more texts. There was an odd feeling which you couldn’t place, but pretty soon you started feeling chilly. Not long after, you were sure there was a noise in your ceiling like a rodent scampering around. You shrugged it off and went about your activities but by the next day, you were sure the noise was only getting louder. To make it worse, you had a few of your friends listen over the phone and your neighbours listened in person but no one seemed to hear what you seemed so sure you had been hearing, and it only got worse, so bad you were unable to sleep through the nights leading to the first week of actual school which was more of a warm up week. You tried googling the symptoms you could explain in words, but the articles all suggested you were dying, which wasn’t entirely helpful. 

In between hearing voices that everyone else couldn’t, waking up by 3am consistently, and the newest addition which was recurrent nightmares, you had started losing your mind. You didn’t even realise you had shaved off your hair one afternoon, though you were pretty sure a strong presence in your home made you do it. You had been standing in front of your dresser, unsure why, when you found a rechargeable clipper a male friend had forgotten at yours a long time ago. You picked it up and started to fiddle with it and then there came a heavy feeling around your body, almost as if something was travelling through your veins. You became stiff and numb for what felt like a minute and before you could utter a word, it was littered all over the floor, your hair, the same precious hair you had nurtured for so many years. It was a presence you had tried so hard to describe to your friends, but they also thought you weren’t getting enough sleep which was causing you to imagine things and honestly, you believed them, even though it was the same presence that had made you put your hand over the furnace on the stove, to which you earned a terrible burn on your left palm. 

In the midst of all these, there was a much more interesting series of  occurrences; one night, the power supply in the neighbourhood went out and a girl who lived two houses away turned her generator on. The noise it produced bothered you so much you silently wished something would go wrong with the machine. About 10 minutes later, you heard screaming and bustling from people outside, which prompted you to go out to find out what had happened. Apparently, the generator had started smoking and produced a small fire which crossed into the owner’s apartment. It was either a coincidence or you had earned a new superpower, you thought to yourself; either way, it had solved a problem for you. Not long after that a shopkeeper made a sly comment about the length of your skirt and called you an ashawo because you didn’t greet her, and you thought it would be fun if her wooden shop collapsed on her head. Well, the day after that, a car skidded off the road in the rain and ran into her shop, destroying almost everything in it and killing the owner who you had wished ill on. The whole neighbourhood was thrown into a frenzy and it made you feel responsible, but in a good way. You were glad it happened. Perhaps, if this was really your doing, if you really had the power to make things happen with your mind, then you were about to be unstoppable. 

School had been two weeks in and by now, everyone had resumed, including John who had gone on pilgrimage with his family during the holidays. His reaction to your bald head made everyone laugh and he muttered something along the lines of, “If there ever was a sure sign of possession, this is it”. You all went ahead to recount the graveyard experience, and made jokes about his reaction at the scene that night but you realised what he had said kept ringing in your head through the day, and then it struck you like lightning; the myth was about a curse. Everyone talked about a curse, but no one ever said anything about a possession, a demonic possession-