During my early teen years, my friend Kimberly and I created a list of fascinating places we wanted to visit before we turned 25. Kim was my favorite person in the world. I did nothing without her. Our families attended the same church, and although I came to question everything about her after the events I’m about to share, she seemed, at the time, like any other fourteen-year-old.

Kim and I couldn’t have been more different. I was quiet and reserved, while she was outgoing and sharp-tongued, a trait she likely picked up growing up in the ghetto. That day, after we finalized our list, Kim dashed off to help her mother at her kiosk near the state primary school. She called back over her shoulder, promising we’d discuss the list later that night. I laughed, knowing it wouldn’t happen—Kim never stayed out past 6 p.m., and the distance between our homes was too far for kids our age to travel alone after dark.

What happened that night remains one of the most chilling experiences of my life.

At around 2 a.m., I woke to the sound of raspy laughter outside my bedroom window. It was the kind of sound you only hear in horror movies, and I assumed I was dreaming. I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. As an only child for the first ten years of my parents' marriage, I had my own room, and my parents had a strict rule: no entering their room after 11 p.m. unless there was an emergency.

Minutes passed in silence, and I began to convince myself I’d imagined it. But just as I started to drift off again, there was a thud. Something had fallen. My heart raced as I jumped out of bed, trembling like a dry leaf in harmattan.

I didn’t have a flashlight, so I cautiously opened my window, clutching a small penknife for protection. What I saw chilled me to my core—a childlike figure crouched on the ground, drawing marks in the dirt with a stick. My instinct took over, and I screamed, calling out for Jesus, just as my mother had taught me in times of fear.

In an instant, the figure sprang to its feet and bolted out of our compound, disappearing into the dark, desolate street. Its shadow was childlike, but the steps were firm and heavy, like an adult’s.

My scream brought my parents running up the stairs, bursting into my room so forcefully they broke the door handle. Breathless and panicked, they asked what had happened. I hesitated. The shadow had resembled my friend Kim’s, but I couldn’t bring myself to voice my suspicion. Instead, I told them it was just a nightmare. They prayed with me and offered to let me sleep in their room, but I declined. I needed to be alone to process what had happened.

At dawn, I rushed outside before anyone else could see the ground where the figure had been. In the dirt, a single word was etched in capital letters:

POPSICLES. It was a strange word, one I’d only ever heard Kim use. Her mother sold popsicles at the primary school, and Kim had promised to bring me a cola-flavored one the next time she visited.

Fearing what my parents might think, I grabbed sand from the fire extinguisher in our garage and covered the markings.

For two weeks, Kim was nowhere to be found. When I finally saw her at church, she avoided me, quickly turning and leaving the hall before I could say a word. I didn’t chase after her. Instead, I just stood there, watching her retreat. My stomach churned with unease.

The more I thought about that night, the more unsettled I became. Had she come to my house to discuss the trip? Was she hiding something? Why had she written that word? A part of me wanted answers, but another part wanted to forget her entirely.

A week later, I visited the primary school to buy a popsicle from her mother’s kiosk, hoping to find some closure. But instead of her mother, I found Kim. When I asked for a popsicle, she claimed they were sold out—even though I could clearly see them behind her.

Her evasiveness unnerved me. I mumbled something incoherent and ran as fast as I could, putting as much distance as possible between us. Kim was no longer the girl I had trusted so deeply. She had become a mystery—a dangerous one—and I wasn’t ready to confront the truth about her or that night.