The Basement
There was a smell coming from the basement.
Not just any smell — the kind that whispered things. Rotted wood. Rusted metal. Maybe regret. Or meat.
Marianne lived alone, which made it worse. No one to blame the thudding noises on. No one to ask, “Do you hear that?” and be reassured they were just pipes.
Every night at 2:47 a.m., something would bump from beneath the floor. Soft at first, then harder. Then a dragging sound. Once, she heard humming.
She did what any modern woman would do.
She googled “What to do when your house might be haunted but you're also deeply unbothered because capitalism.”
The advice was useless: “Cleanse the space.” “Talk to it.” “Call a priest.”
Instead, Marianne went to the basement with a flashlight, an attitude, and a can of pepper spray.
The door creaked open.
The smell hit her like a slap.
She stepped down slowly, beam of light shaking over concrete and cobwebs.
And then she saw it.
A figure.
Pale. Gaunt. Black-eyed. Wearing... a hoodie?
“Are you the demon?” she asked flatly.
It blinked.
“Technically, yes,” it said. “But I go by Kyle now.”
She squinted. “You’ve been living in my basement?”
Kyle looked offended. “I’ve been haunting. It’s an artistic process.”
Marianne stared for a long moment.
Then sighed.
“Fine. But if you're gonna haunt me, you're paying rent.”
Kyle blinked. “...what?”
“Basement’s ₦70,000 a month. You want it rent-free, you do chores. No more spooky dragging at 2 a.m. And absolutely no smell. Got it?”
The demon looked like it had never been spoken to this way.
“I—I mean. I guess I could clean on weekends...?”
And just like that, Marianne gained a roommate.
He paid rent. Kept to himself. Only occasionally set things on fire when annoyed.
Her friends never believed her.
But the smell stopped. The haunting stopped.
And every rent day, Kyle slid a bloody envelope under her door with exactly ₦70,000 in cash.
---
Want part two? She teaches him how to make jollof rice without summoning spirits. 🍚🔥
