The night air in rural KwaZulu-Natal was thick with humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and made you feel suffocated. Nomsa sat outside her hut, staring at the vast darkness of the South African bush as the cicadas filled the night with their droning chorus. Her village, a small cluster of mud and straw huts, sat on the outskirts of the dense forests that had stood since before anyone could remember. Her grandmother used to say the forest was alive, that it held things—old things—that should be left undisturbed.
Nomsa had never truly believed in the old stories. Not even the ones about the Tokoloshe.
Her grandmother had terrified her with tales of the Tokoloshe when she was a child. The creature was said to be a mischievous and malevolent dwarf-like being, a demon that stalked villages at night, invisible to most unless it chose to reveal itself. It would climb onto the roofs of huts, slip inside, and wreak havoc, attacking or killing those it targeted. Villagers used to put their beds on bricks, raising them high to keep the Tokoloshe from dragging them away in the dead of night.
But Nomsa was no longer a child. She had outgrown the stories, dismissing them as mere superstition. The world was changing, modernizing, and she couldn't let herself be ruled by fear of old folktales. But tonight, as the village sank into its usual stillness, something about the silence felt… wrong.
Nomsa stood and went back inside her hut, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows on the walls. She had lived alone since her husband, Themba, had passed away the year before. His death had been sudden, unexpected, and left a hole in her life that she didn't know how to fill. The grief still weighed on her heart, though she tried to mask it with routine.
She busied herself with small tasks—sweeping the floor, folding blankets—anything to take her mind off the empty feeling that gnawed at her. But that night, the quiet felt heavier, the shadows deeper. She could feel it pressing down on her, a weight she couldn't shake.
The wind howled through the cracks in the walls, making the candle flame flicker wildly. For a moment, the light dimmed, and Nomsa thought she saw something move outside the window. Just a brief flash—a shadow darting across the yard.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Nomsa shook her head, trying to laugh it off. "Just the wind," she muttered under her breath. "The wind, or a wild animal."
But a lingering unease settled in her stomach. She told herself it was nothing—had to be nothing. Still, she found herself checking the door, making sure it was latched tight.
Suddenly, the sound of shuffling feet broke the silence.
Nomsa froze. The sound was faint, almost imperceptible, but it was there—just outside her hut. She swallowed hard and listened intently. The footsteps were slow, deliberate, circling the hut.
Probably just a stray dog or a goat, she thought, though her pulse quickened.
Then, the sound stopped.
The silence that followed was deafening, heavy with an almost palpable tension. Nomsa held her breath, straining to hear anything through the thick walls of her hut. And then, just above her, she heard it—the unmistakable creak of the roof.
Something was on top of her hut.
Her heart raced, and a cold sweat broke out on her skin. She glanced around the room, her mind searching for an explanation. It could be a branch or a bird… but no, she knew what she had heard. The weight on the roof was too heavy for any small animal.
She took a step toward the door, her hands trembling. The old stories of the Tokoloshe flooded her mind, unbidden, unwanted. The creature, small and sly, could enter homes without being seen. It could move without making a sound.
Suddenly, there was a soft tapping on the roof, like small fingers drumming against the thatch.
Nomsa backed away, fear gripping her chest. She glanced at the raised bed, a habit passed down from her grandmother, who had insisted that the Tokoloshe couldn't reach you if you slept high off the ground. But she had laughed at the notion back then. Now, her legs felt weak, and she wished desperately that she could disappear beneath the blankets.
The tapping stopped. The stillness was so thick, so complete, that it felt like the world had stopped breathing.
Then, the door creaked open.
Nomsa's heart lurched in her chest as she stared, wide-eyed, at the door that was now ajar. The wind howled again, but this time it carried something darker, something more sinister. The flame of her candle guttered and went out.
In the pitch-black silence, Nomsa heard a sound that chilled her to her core.
A low, guttural chuckle.
It was barely more than a whisper, but it echoed in her ears, reverberating through the hut like a death knell. It wasn't human—at least, not entirely. The sound was twisted, almost playful, yet filled with malice.
Her pulse pounded in her ears, her body frozen in terror. She tried to scream, but the sound died in her throat, strangled by the overwhelming fear that had consumed her.
The door opened wider, and in the faint light of the moon, Nomsa saw it—a small, hunched figure creeping through the doorway. It was no taller than her waist, but its limbs were grotesquely long, its fingers ending in sharp, curved nails. Its skin was dark, almost black, with a texture like dried mud, and its eyes… its eyes gleamed with a malevolent intelligence.
The Tokoloshe.
The creature's lips parted in a wide, unnerving grin, revealing rows of sharp, jagged teeth. It stepped closer, moving with an unnatural grace, its eyes locked onto hers.
Nomsa backed up until she hit the wall, her body trembling violently. She couldn't believe what she was seeing—what she had spent her whole life denying. The legends, the stories—they were all true.
The Tokoloshe reached out, its long fingers brushing against her leg. The touch was cold, sending a jolt of terror through her body. She whimpered, trying to shrink away, but there was nowhere to go. The creature let out another low chuckle, as if savoring her fear.
And then it spoke.
"Themba sent me…"
Nomsa's blood turned to ice. Themba? Her late husband? The Tokoloshe's voice was raspy, like dry leaves crumbling underfoot, but the words echoed in her mind with chilling clarity.
"Themba sent me… to finish what he couldn't…"
Her breath caught in her throat, her mind racing to comprehend the creature's words. Themba? How could that be? Her husband had been a good man, kind and loving. He couldn't have had any connection to this… this thing.
But the Tokoloshe only grinned wider, as if reading her thoughts. Its eyes glinted in the darkness, filled with a hunger that made her stomach churn.
"He couldn't take you with him… but I can…"
Nomsa's body was paralyzed with fear, her legs refusing to obey her. The creature inched closer, its claws scraping against the floor as it advanced. It was only inches away now, its foul breath hot against her skin.
In a last desperate surge of strength, Nomsa grabbed the candle holder from the table beside her and hurled it at the creature. It struck the Tokoloshe's face, knocking it backward with a screech. Nomsa bolted toward the door, adrenaline pushing her legs to move.
She didn't look back as she ran through the village, her bare feet pounding against the dirt, her heart racing. The trees loomed like dark giants, their branches clawing at the sky. She didn't stop running until she reached the home of the village elder, her lungs burning, her body drenched in cold sweat.
The elder listened intently as Nomsa recounted her terrifying encounter, her voice trembling with every word. When she finished, the elder's expression was grave.
"The Tokoloshe does not come without reason," he said, his voice low. "If it spoke of Themba, there is unfinished business. Something that binds its presence to you."
Nomsa shook her head, her mind spinning. How could this be connected to her husband? Themba had never shown any signs of darkness, never whispered of curses or spirits.
But the elder's next words chilled her to the bone.
"There are old debts, old promises made in the shadows," he murmured. "If Themba called upon the Tokoloshe for something—whether in life or death—it will not stop until it collects what it is owed."
Nomsa's world spun, her heart sinking with the weight of a truth she wasn't sure she could bear. The Tokoloshe was after her, not just because of old legends or random mischief—but because of her husband.
She had escaped the creature for now, but the elder's warning echoed in her mind long after she left his home:
"The Tokoloshe will return. It always returns."
That night, as she lay in her bed, high on its raised bricks, Nomsa could hear the faint sound of soft, shuffling feet circling her hut once more.
The Tokoloshe was patient.
And it was waiting.