Waking up in the Kade house was like flipping a coin. Sometimes, it’s to the smell of plantain & egg frying in the kitchen. On other days, it’s the moving truck parked in the driveway.
So, Suprise of the Day: A blurry circle of faces breathing over me. My eyes sting.
Voices. Whispers. Too many.
“Is he awake?”
“By God’s grace.”
“Daddy, the scary boy is waking.”
“Lord, he’s skinny.”
I try to sit up. The world tilts. Wrong.
Toronto is gone. Heartstone Valley is here.
And —oh, joy— so is half the neighbourhood.
Mom pushes through the swell of faces and grabs me by my hands. Her face is wrenched into a look of genuine concern, which shouldn’t baffle me, but it does.
“Are you okay, Michael?”
No, of course, I’m not. I’m boiling alive because this sorry house has no AC. My throat is raw. My head is killing me. My sheets — they’re damp with sweat.
A younger cousin shuffles behind her parents, wide-eyed. Someone shifts back. Auntie Praise sweeps the glass I don’t remember breaking. I see it now — the space they’ve left around me.
Uncle Chim exhales. “Mhm. This is how those Nollywood horror movies start,”
Mom flinches. She looks embarrassed.
It’s funny. The look on their faces. Somewhat… scared. Of me. Scared of me.
Well, I don’t exactly like you people either.
“Nwa m, It’s back,” Mom mutters, barely audible. She shouldn’t be ashamed. “The night terrors.”
“That’s impossible,” I immediately respond. I haven’t had night terrors since I was ten. I can’t. Won’t.
My aching muscles and wary glances say otherwise.
Sleep terrors were, well, terrifying to witness, frankly. The horror stories of Michael Abidemi and the Night Terrors are recounted nearly every day, thanks to Mom.
They’re awful sleeping episodes that generally appear in children — which I’m not.
And the best part? When we wake up, we’re bruised, bloody and in a terrible mess with little to zero recollection of it whatsoever.
So yeah, it’s fun for both parties.
Frantic, I sit up straight on my mattress, making all the party guests flinch in sync.
I try to meet my mother in the eyes.
My hands are shaking as I hover over her wrist. I pull it back.
I can feel a nervous laugh building up but decide against it.
No need to look more unhinged than I already do.
***
By noon, the neighbours had scattered, but Mom’s determination didn’t. Possessed or not, Amaka Kade’s schedule always comes first.
No matter that her son is exhausted, frustrated and ignored.
No matter that her relatives insisted on staying to watch over him like some evil time bomb.
No matter that her grand housewarming debut, back in her ex-husband’s town, was a total, complete, spectacular bust.
We are still going on the Community Welcome Walk.
Mornings are chaos. Afternoons? Non-negotiable.
Sigh.
Such is the life of a Kade.
Heartstone is fancier than I remember it. It was the old-artsy kind of place. Now it’s all shiny. Fake. It’s disgusting.
But the familiar scent of seawater still lingers in the air everywhere.
I see Mom marching behind me, already charming some newcomer couple, cracking jokes and acting all friendly in her bright blazer.
“And then she storms into the office, looking furious! Best day of my life.’”
The sound of laughter feels like a drill to my head.
This walk is her social recovery from this morning’s disaster, so I’m trying not to complain.
Trying.
“So, here’s Sunny Bridge,” our tour guide droned ahead, flipping a page on his clipboard. His name is Trent. We used to be friends. “It was called—”
“ — Fisher’s Point,” I finish.
A beat. Mom’s smile doesn’t waver, but her fingers dig into my shoulder. Behave.
The newcomers blinked. “You used to been here before?”
“We used to live here,” I say.
Her grip tightens. “Briefly.”
The unspoken: Before the accident. Before the Coast.
Trent meets my gaze, and his grip on the clipboard tightens. All of a sudden, dark brown floorboards seem very interesting. “The Bridge goes over Crystal River.”
Looking down, I snort. Crystal River is a stream at best.
The sea-salt wind sets stronger and pensive. I know we’re near the Coast. I cross my fingers and hope we miss it.
Even the thought of it makes me sick. White sand. The smell of wet seaweed rotting against the rocks. The crashing waves —
Nope. Not today.
***
No Dad. No Coast. The car door slams. My skull throbs — it’s been four Advils and two hours later, Mom’s still pretending this morning never happened. Nevertheless, I breathe a sigh of relief and melt into the scalding beige leather chairs.
The Coast is the oddest spot in all of Heartstone. It’s where I used to hang out with Cindy and Trent.
It’s the place I hate the most in the world.
The tangy sea air returns — but we’re nowhere near the Coast. My chest tightens. Saltwater coats my tongue. For a second, I’m drowning.
Then I’m vomiting.
I instantly double over my seatbelt. It pierces me like a sword twisting into my stomach. Violently. It’s jarring and sudden. There’s a barf coming up my throat. The world swims in hue-y waves. Mom’s screaming is muffled.
I vomit. It’s thin and it’s yellow and it’s just nasty. Do I really need to explain the whole ten-minute ordeal? I’ll tell you the keywords: acid throat, crying Moms and shivering.
We’re both panting and heaving by the time I can sit up straight. Mom’s eyes are shiny and tired.
“Show me the way to the nearest Shopper’s,” she says to the car.
The drive there is silent.
“So, did you like the walk?” I ask. Mom can bathe in her awkwardness all she wants, but I’m uncomfortable. And itchy from the heat.
She gives me a look. “Well… everything’s been renamed. Brightling Park, Gladboy Street, Crystal River…” She shrugs. “I was going to ask when we were getting to meet Twilight Sparkle.”
I laugh. It comes out weak, but her shoulders relax — just for a second.
Good. I can still do that much.
I see the long, sharp scar that stretches down her neck.
I grip my fingers over my mysterious bruises. I haven’t felt like this in a long time.
So sore.
So clueless as to why.
“Mom,” I say, staring at her twinkly-eye to twinkly-eye, soul-to-soul. My voice is high like I’m just a boy again. “Are you scared of me?”
She clutches the steering wheel. Her phone buzzes—probably a client—she glances at it, then scolds me in a thick Nigerian accent.
“Look at you, Michael. Fourteen years old and still giving me high blood pressure? Look at you — you look like a ghost.”
She mutters something in Igbo. This one is not my portion.
Then the ‘Accept Call’ button glows green between us.
I slump in my seat. There was a time — a Toronto time — when Mom would slip me honey packets from her coffee station at work. “Just for you, nwa m,” she’d say.
Now, all I get is the taste of wet salt and bile.
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125,007 Literary Works • 672,815 Reviews
Hi there! First of all wow! I love the grappling emotions in your work and the opening which creates a mysterious and eerie tone for the entire story. We know that there's a constant change in Michael's life and this kept me engaged. I love Michael's sarcasm and cynicism. My favourite part was "No, of course, I’m not. I’m boiling alive because this sorry house has no AC. My throat is raw. My head is killing me. My sheets — they’re damp with sweat." I absolutely love his sarcasm here. And another thing that *needs* to be applauded is your subtle building of this world, which includes Michael's past and present. This is a high quality piece of psychological tension! 👏 👏 ... I have some questions for the author though (you 😃) : 1.Why was the sound of laughter too loud for Michael? Did it remind him of something or maybe too fake for him? 2.Does Michael's mother truly care about him or is there just an emotional distance between them? 3.The dialogue is natural- it's exquisite, I love it. Is it based on real conversations or a personal experience. Thanks for sharing this wonderful piece! I hope you continue writing! This was hauntingly vivid and immersive! - Your friendly neighbourhood pirate
ty! saw this REALLY late (bc of Lent) but some of these questions will be spoilers so i can't answer them
The descriptions are immersive, blending sensory details with Michael’s emotional responses. The depiction of his nausea and vomiting scene is visceral, making the reader feel his distress. Similarly, the tension in the morning scene—where the neighbors stare at him like an anomaly—adds a layer of eerie suspense. The setting feels alive, with the contrast between the sea’s presence and Michael’s aversion to it adding to the psychological weight of the narrative.
The theme of night terrors and possible supernatural or traumatic implications is one of the strongest hooks in the excerpt. The way Michael’s past experiences resurface—without his full recollection—creates a compelling mystery. The reactions of his family members, particularly their fear of him, add an unsettling edge. This is further amplified by his mother’s cryptic and dismissive attitude, which hints at unspoken history and deeper familial tension.
The excerpt is engaging but occasionally meanders, especially in transitions. The shift from the morning scene to the “Community Welcome Walk” feels abrupt—Michael goes from being surrounded by concerned family members to reluctantly participating in a neighborhood event without much explanation. How does he feel about this shift? What compels him to follow through with his mother’s schedule despite the morning’s trauma? A smoother transition with more reflection could help bridge the gap.
Similarly, the vomiting scene, while powerful, comes out of nowhere. The physical manifestation of his anxiety or trauma is interesting, but there’s little buildup leading to it. Perhaps subtle hints—light-headedness, a lingering unease—could make the moment feel more earned rather than sudden.
While Michael’s perspective is well-developed, other characters, particularly his mother, feel slightly underexplored. Her determination to maintain normalcy in the face of Michael’s distress is intriguing, but her internal struggle could be fleshed out more.
With some refinements, this could be an exceptional opening to a gripping novel.