A BLACK HEART: Daughter Of The Curse

CHISOMO:

Tonight feels alive. Like it’s breathing and it’s too quiet—the wrong kind of quiet. Usually, the compound is chaos. Someone is always blasting music from broken speakers, children shouting, dogs barking, and the church next door praying loud enough to shake our windows. But tonight? Nothing. Just silence. The kind that makes your skin itch, the kind that feels like something is watching and waiting.

Auntie Njekwa always said silence before a storm means the ancestors are watching. But tonight, it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like something else is.

“Auntie, is it just me, or does tonight feel… off?”

She looks up from her chitenge slowly. Not just a glance—she really looks at me. Her eyes do that thing they always do when something isn’t right—calculating, measuring, remembering. “Yes,” she says quietly. “It does.”

Something in her face shifts. Subtle, but enough to make my stomach tighten. She stands and moves to the window, pulling the curtain just enough to peek outside. She’s not checking for thieves. She’s searching for something she won’t name.

Then she turns back to me, her voice lower than before. “Did you take your herbs this morning?”

My chest tightens instantly. The same question every single day since I was a child. “No,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I went to the clinic today and the doctor said I’m completely healthy. I don’t need them, Auntie.”

She goes still. The word healthy hangs in the air like something dangerous. Because in this house, healthy doesn’t mean safe. It means unbound. And unbound means—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three sharp knocks slice through the silence. Not hesitant but deliberate. Like whoever—or whatever—is outside already knows we’re here. Auntie reaches the door before I can even move. When she opens it, Nia stands there, shoulders slumped, nurse’s uniform dusty, hair falling loose from her bun. She looks like she just walked out of a war.

“Long shift, Auntie. I—” she starts, then stops.

Her eyes find mine then sweep the room. Everything about her changes in an instant, her posture stiffens, her breathing slows, her hand drifts toward her side—toward where she used to keep her knife before she became a nurse.

She feels it too. The air inside the house is thick and heavy. Like the walls themselves are holding their breath. “What’s going on here?” Nia asks, her voice no longer soft. It’s sharp now.

Auntie doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. Nia’s gaze snaps back to me. “The herbs. Did you take them?”

Something in me snaps. “Why does everyone care about those stupid herbs?” I fire back, “I’m eighteen, not a child. I’ve taken them every single day since I was three. Not once did I miss. Not once. And now, because I went to a real doctor, you’re both acting like I invited death into this house.” My voice drops, quieter now, but shaking, “And tonight… it feels like something is watching.”

Nia closes her eyes for a second. When she opens them, there’s something there I’ve never seen before.

Fear.

“You did,” she says quietly, “You invited it Chisomo.”

My blood runs cold, “What are you talking about?”

“Chisomo…” Auntie starts.

“Not this again,” Nia cuts in, her voice tight. “She deserves to know.”

“Not yet,” Auntie snaps. The same words she’s used my whole life. Not yet.

THUD!

Something heavy lands on the roof. The entire house trembles. I flinch. Nia doesn’t. Her attention snaps upward, eyes locked on the ceiling. Her hand moves—not for her phone, not for anything normal—but for something else.

“Auntie,” she says, low and urgent, “get Chisomo to the back room. Now. It’s here.”

My throat tightens, “It? What is it?”

Nia doesn’t answer. Instead, she drops her bag and whispers something under her breath. Not a prayer, not anything I recognize. The words feel old and sharp and they make the air shift.

The floorboards split with a loud crack. Something rises from the darkness between them—a blade. Curved like a crescent moon, etched with symbols that glow faint gold. It lifts into her hand like it belongs there. Like it’s always belonged there.

Auntie grabs my arm, pulling me back. I yank away. “No! You’re not hiding me! Nia, what is going on? Who are you?”

“Go!” Nia shouts.

The windows explode inward. Glass shatters across the room as something crashes inside. It lands in a crouch. The creature. Its body coils like a snake but stands like a man. Its limbs are too long, bending in ways they shouldn’t. Its skin looks rotten, stretched thin over something that isn’t human. When its mouth opens, there are no lips—just rows of jagged, black teeth stacked like blades. And its eyes red—burning. Locked on me. Not Nia, standing with a weapon. Not Auntie.

Me.

It tilts its head slowly, studying me like it finally found what it came for.

“Why is it looking at me like that?” I whisper.

No one answers. Behind me, neighbors spill into the yard, shouting, panicking. I hear Mr. Banda’s voice rising above the rest, desperate and shaking.

“Blood of Jesus! Mu zina la Yesu! Fumeni! Fumeni!”

He’s not praying for me. He’s praying against whatever this is. Against me.

Nia moves. One second she’s still—the next she’s a blur. She lunges forward, blade flashing. The sword slices across the creature’s side. Black blood splashes against the wall. The creature jerks but it doesn’t fall—it smiles.

And then it moves faster. Its claws slam into Nia, sending her crashing through the kitchen doorway. Wood splinters, the sword skids across the floor.

“Nia!” Auntie screams, running toward her.

Nia doesn’t get up. The house falls silent again but this silence is different. This one is waiting. The creature turns back to me, now it’s closer, too close. Its eyes burn into mine—and something deep inside my chest responds. A pulse—cold, ancient and angry.

I gasp. The feeling spreads through me, not like sickness or fever—something deeper. Like something locked inside me just realized the door is open.

“No…” Auntie whispers.

The creature stops. For the first time, it hesitates. Its head jerks slightly, like it feels it too.

My vision blurs, then sharpens. The room stretches, warps and breathes. And suddenly—I’m not alone in my own body. A voice rises inside me. Not loud, not mine—it's old and broken. Whispering through me like wind through bones.

“…your heart…”

My lips move. I didn’t tell them to.

“…is mine…”

The creature takes a step back. For the first time—It’s afraid. The air tightens, pressure builds. Something is about to break. And then—everything goes black.

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TRANSLATION: “Mu zina la Yesu! Fumeni! Fumeni!” [Nyanja] ☞ “In the name of Jesus! Come out! Come out!” [English]. Chitenge☞African wax-print fabric.