Dele had always found him creepy.
From the moment he moved into his uncle’s flat in Lagos, there was something off about the man who lived downstairs.
People in the compound spoke about his weirdness like it was a running joke and brushed it off.
“That’s just how he is,” they’d say. “He doesn’t talk to anybody.”
He never returned greetings. Never smiled. He just sat outside his one-room flat, watching everyone who entered the compound with this judgy stare.
Dele, like everyone else, didn’t have the energy to dwell on it. He had left Ibadan to stay with his uncle in Lagos so he could focus on preparing for his university entrance exams. His days were already packed with JAMB tutorials and late-night revision classes. What did it matter if the man downstairs was a little odd?
If he wasn’t directly disturbing him, then it wasn’t his business.
Until it became his business.
Dele and his uncle, Soji, had a system. Since Soji worked night shifts and Dele usually got back late from classes, they kept the house key under the welcome mat outside their flat. The compound was seemingly safe. And it worked for them. Or so they thought.
That afternoon, Dele arrived home earlier than usual. Tutorials had shifted to self-study, so classes ended early. The compound was quiet, except for the distant hum of a generator somewhere nearby.
As he approached the flat, a strange feeling settled in his chest. Like something wasn’t quite right. But he shook it off.
He reached the top of the stairs.
Flipped the mat.
No key.
His heart skipped.
He tried the handle.
It turned.
That was odd. Didn’t Uncle Soji go to work?
Even if he didn’t, why would he leave the door unlocked?
Dele stepped inside cautiously. “Uncle Soji?”
No answer.
The living room looked fine, nothing out of place. But the unease remained.
He called out again, louder this time. Still no answer.
Then he heard it.
A faint sound. Coming from the kitchen.
Dele moved slowly.
And there, standing by the sink, stirring something in a mug like he lived there, was the man from downstairs.
In their kitchen.
He didn’t look startled.
He didn’t even turn at first. He took a sip from the mug, then slowly faced Dele with a smirk.
“You’re not supposed to be home yet,” he said.
This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, or actual events is purely coincidental.