Tokoloshe

South African Folklore meets Paranormal Horror.

Reading Time: Approximately 15 minutes

Bradley Ramsey

Paranormal Feast!

What is the Paranormal Threat?

Can it be Killed, Trapped, or Banished?

What Must be Sacrificed in Order to Escape?

The flight is full but Lindwe and her mother Nomusa are ensconced in first class. They are chatting nine to the dozen about Lindi’s study at Cambridge University. She cannot wait to arrive in the UK to meet her roommates and find out more about Uni which starts in a week’s time.

Lindi had already “met” her roommates via WhatsApp. The Matriarch at the Grade II listed home set the group up as she was determined that they know the rules and regulations of her home. She was so excited and her mother tried so hard to curtail her loud voice.

Arriving at the lovely home, Gertrude Honingway greeted them. Lindi was the first to arrive as her crate what due to be delivered the very same day. Ms Honingway offered Nomusa a cup of tea while Lindi explored her room. As she was a Princess of the current Zulu King in South Africa she was afforded the double en-suite bedroom with private lounge.

The crate arrived after lunch and Ms Honingway was there with her instructions. No one was to bump any walls and they had to ensure that they put down covers in the hallway. Thank goodness the living quarters were on the ground floor and Lindi’s bedroom the first door on the left.

Nomusa went outside to take charge as the wooden linen chest was filled with Lindi’s bits and bobs was a cherished one that came down through the centuries. There was a chest that stood apart from the rest of the shipment – heavier, darker, older. Hewn from African Kiaat, the grain live with gold and amber threads. The air around it smelled faintly of dust and river mud as if it still carried the breath of home.

Carvings like prayers, spirals, serpents, crescents, and eyes that never quite looked away. Cowrie shells were embedded in the corners, their once - white gleam now dulled to the colour of bone. When the light hit the chest, the carvings seemed to shift – not move exactly but remember.

However, beneath the scent of the polish and age, there lingered something faintly sweet, faintly wrong – like burnt herbs or honey gone sour. There was a red cloth attached to the handle. The fabric frayed by deliberate, like a warning disguised as a ribbon.

When Nomusa saw the chest, she froze. No word, no sound – just the sharp stillness like a breath not yet breathed. She stepped closer, her hand hovering above the red cloth.

“This one,” she said softly. “It should not have come.”

Lindi laughed, “It’s just a chest, Mama. The movers packed everything.” She laughed half-nervous, half dismissive.

Her mothers’ eyes narrowed. She traced the carvings with the edge of her nail, each spiral, each face, her lips moving in the rhythm of a prayer she hadn’t spoken in years. Beneath her breath she said a name Lindi did not recognise.

Nomusa stepped back, shaking her head, the authority of the history rising like a tide.

“Do not open it,” she warned. “It does not belong in this home.” And as if a light went out, the air changed, the sky darkened as if it begun to remember something ancient.

One of the delivery drivers stood back. Terror on his face. He knew. Born in South Africa but immigrated to the United Kingdom ten years ago, he knew traditions, he knew that chest represented something evil. He spoke to one of the other guys and he sat in the cab. Everything was moved into the bedroom quite quickly.

The rest of the afternoon was taken up with rearranging, moving, rearranging to get everything perfect. Lindi was adamant that her room was going to look and feel good.

Nomusa called a cab to take them to the nearest hotel. They would stay the night there as the rest of the room mates were arriving later the following day. The evening passed uneventfully but the phone call to the King was difficult. Lindi could hear her father shouting down the phone. Nomusa realised that the chest was to stay. Tradition said the King.

Lindi was in her element. Meeting Sarah, Ann, and Greg was great. They all seemed to get along very well. There was a moment when they all went into Lindi’s room. There was a faint earthy, musty dank water smell. Lindi brushed it off as if it were nothing. The two girls were in their element with Lindi’s gift of beautiful carved wooden spoons and Greg loved his carved spear.

Nomusa felt uncomfortable. She was grateful the roommates loved Lindi, but that chest. It was a weight that sat on her chest. Ms Honingway assured Nomusa that she would ensure that Lindi was safe at all times. She said her goodbyes and headed to the hotel.

The week went by wonderfully. Sarah and Ann lived in Lindi’s room. Greg laid back played games in his room only joining for food. They all visited Trinity College to acquaint themselves and meet their professors. Lindi and Ann were studying Architecture, Sarah law, and Greg artificial intelligence. Thankfully, the college was a mere block away from their rooms.

The night before college Lindi woke sweating and feeling quite heavy. She had heard a strange scratching sound. It came from where the chest stood in the corner. She sat up, put on her bedside light, and noticed that the red cloth was no longer attached to the handle. She freaked out. Then she remembered that Greg was in the corner when they were mucking about.

She got up and put the red cloth on top of the chest. There was a faint musky and unpleasant smell that lurked. Her tradition knew about spirits, but the Sangoma assured her his methods would work. She remembered the tea he gave her for any feelings of worry. She went to her drawer and took the rough woven bag out of her draw. The faint fusion of herbs and pepper assailed her nostrils.

After her cup of tea, she fell back asleep. Her alarm woke her and it was a flurry to get her stuff together, have breakfast and walk to college. She was in her element. Trinity College dating back to 1546, founded by Henry VIII. She loved old architecture and was so looking forward to discovering the architecture from that period.

The day passed uneventfully and the four of them met up after college and went for a drink at the local pub. Lindi knew her family did not like her to drink so she only had sprite. Greg stayed behind and the three of them walked back to get some food. Lindi was pleased that Sarah and Ann wanted to complete some college forms in their own rooms. She went into hers and was immediately alerted to the open chest.

The air was heavy, thick – as though someone had turned the heating up but it wasn’t hot. The room had a strange stillness. The curtains hung unmoving although the window was open. The faint scent of camphor – her mother’s scent, threaded through the air.

The carved lid leaned back like a gaping mouth mid scream. The red cloth was folded and placed on the table nearby. She knew, she knew that the lid was closed this morning. She looked into the chest. Everything seemed in order. The folded fabrics, carved masks, a few family relics wrapped in newspaper.

As she stepped even closer and bent over, she noticed that in the far-right corner it looked dark, almost wet. But there, half buried under the fabric – was something small; a handful of coarse black hair, curled and greasy.

“No, no man. This cannot be,” she whispered. “It’s just from the brushes,” she muttered, her voice betraying her.

But then – a whisper. A language she hadn’t heard since her childhood, crossing her mind like smoke. Zulu, but older. The voice too low to catch, too close to place. She spun around. Nothing, just her reflection in the mirror – wide eyed. She was trembling, her necklace glinting faintly in the lamplight.

There was a knock on the door – Lindi almost fainted. Sarah walked in.

“Oh look, your chest!” she walked over and looked in. “I love the fabric,” she said about to take a piece out.

“No!” Exclaimed Lindi – “we must not touch anything. Tradition you know.” She walked over and closed the chest.

“Sorry Sarah I did not mean to scare you. I just wanted to see if I needed anything.”

Sarah went and sat on the bed. “Not a problem, simply curious. Will you ever wear traditional clothes? We all would love to see.” She smiled.

They spoke for a few minutes and Sarah said goodnight. Lindi showered and made herself a cup of herbal tea. She need to calm her nerves. Something inside of her was questioning her sanity. She shoved the lid of the chest closed. She was rather irritated with the chest saga. She went to bed and read some of her material for college.

She couldn’t sleep. The quiet was too quiet. She missed the noisy Kwazulu where she lived. She rolled over onto her side. The breeze from the window brushing her face. She sat up – the window was closed! Then she heard it. The soft wet click - click. Like small feet padding across the floor.

Her phone switched on – 2:14am, her heart was racing madly. She sat up, and then she saw it. At first, she thought it was a shadow. But it moved wrong, crawling instead of shifting, too low, too steady.

It was hunched, Bare. It’s skin dull and greyish, like river clay baked under too many suns. A head too large for its shoulders, eyes like two wet beads, glinting in the lamplight. And teeth – oh god – small, human but too many.

It crouched at the end of her bed.

For a moment neither of them moved. Lindi’s breath stalled. Her mind screamed prayers half remembered, words her grandmother once used to ward off evil.

The “thing” tilted its head – slowly, and grinned.

Its voice came in a rasping whisper, scraping through the dark.

“Ngikhumbule, ntombazane…. ungiphindisele ekhaya?” (Remember me, girl… will you take me home?)

Her scream didn’t come. Only a strangled sound, swallowed by the room. She tried to move – couldn’t. Her body felt pressed down, pinned by unseen hands.

And when she finally blinked – it was gone.

Only the open chest remained. And inside it – her grandmother’s necklace, lying where she knew she hadn’t left it. She jumped up and slammed the lid closed.

Lindi did not sleep again. She sat rigid in bed waiting for morning. At eight o clock she called her mother and asked if they could meet for tea at ten. Her mother was leaving the following day. They spent a lovely morning together and agreed they would meet up for their last meal together that night at the hotel.

She was lost for words. Knowing her family tradition and the evil spirits she was reluctant to say anything to her mother for she knew that her mother would take her back to South Africa on the next flight. She just put it down to her mind playing tricks on her. That chest always brought trouble.

The afternoon went quickly at college. She enjoyed her first real lecture and the professor was really good. Walking home from college she felt the weight of the world on her shoulders. She smiled when needed, laughed on queue, spoke when required – but her whole body was on a different level.

As dusk began to stain the sky, she felt it again – the pull. A heaviness behind her ribs, the whisper of return. She called a cab and went to the hotel to spend last moments with her mother. Over dinner they spoke about everything and anything.

“Don’t forget your prayers, my girl,” she said softly. “The night listens.”

Lindi nodded. Didn’t answer. She didn’t dare speak the things name. They said their goodbyes and departed.

That night the house felt – not right. Wrong. Unusually quiet. A humming quiet.

Her roommates were scattered – two at a party and one, well asleep. Lindi walked tentatively into her room. She genuinely loved this place. It had all her rich traditional furniture and materials. Her beautiful woven mat next to her bed. The throw lovingly put together by her grandmother.

She lay awake long after the two came back from the party. She remembered her mother’s conversation about how proud her ancestors would be, the beauty of Cambridge, the old buildings. Lindi felt so alone.

When midnight came the air changed again. The same weight. The same pressing. That faint, sour smell – damp earth or something. She sat up, reached for the lamp. It flickered, then died.

From the corner of the room came the sound like fabric tearing – slow, deliberate. Then the chest breathed. Not creaked, breathed. A puff of warm air escaped through the lid. Her phone flashed to life on the bedside table – no notifications, just that eerie glow reflected in the mirror across the room. And the reflection!

Something crouched right behind her shoulder! She froze.

She could see it clearer this time – its eyes red-veined, its limbs too long, its grin slick and wide. She could hear the whisper again – a gurgling echo, like water rushing through a drain.

“Ungakhohlwa izibopho zegazi…” (Do not forget the blood ties).

Lindi wanted to scream – but something clamped over her mouth, invisible and suffocating.

The tokoloshe leaned close, its breath foul and wet, it hissed,

“When she leaves… you are mine.”

And then – the lamp blazed on. The room was empty. Only the chest stood open again – and the necklace was gone.

Lindi reached for her phone. She dialled her mother’s number.

“Mama, please. Come now.”

Nombusa had suspected something all along. She sensed at dinner. Her daughter had the faint lingering smell of the Tokoloshe. She called the reception to order a cab. She dressed quickly and went to take the cab to Lindi’s place.

By the time she arrived, dawn was still lingering behind the rooftops, the house still, hushed. Lindi stood waiting in the doorway. Nomusa stepped inside. In her hand a calabash and ancient herbs and red clay, her eyes dark and knowing.

“Do not speak,” she said to her daughter. “He has waited too long.”

The air thickened again. That same heavy pulse echoing into the corners. The chest shuddered, its lid lifting slightly as if listening.

Nomusa prepared the herbs – boiled the kettle, added the ancient herbs, and continued to let the kettle boil – she had no other way. The steam would take the scent into the air.

Her mother began to hum- a low ancient sound that seemed to come from the bones of the earth. Lindi felt it tremble through her body. The hum became words – old Zulu, a tongue Lindi half understood, but every syllable rang like iron striking stone, on each syllable she shook the calabash.

A wind rose inside the room, the curtains whipped. The lamp flickered and something began to howl – not outside but inside the air itself. The chest moved. The smell of blood and rain filled the space. Lindi clung to her mother’s arm.

“Why is it here?” she cried.

“Because your great-grandfather bound it to our line – for protection, he said. But power turns dark when forgotten.” Her mother’s eyes glistened.

Then louder, fierce, she shouted, “Suka! Phuma!” (Go! Leave!)

The chest slammed shut with a thunder that shook the floor. The lights burst back to life.

Silence.

Only the faint scent of earth lingered, like the aftermath of a storm. Her mother took her hand and smiled.

“You are safe now, my daughter. But remember – safety is only ever borrowed.” She held Lindi close.

“He was bound long ago to serve, not to harm. When the living forget the dead, even servants grow cruel.”

Lindi looked once more at the chest. The silver clasp gleamed – untouched, but deep inside the wood, something frequently pulsed – one last heartbeat, waiting. Nomusa sealed the chest with red clay.

“Do not move it. Do not tempt it. Our blood carries stories best left asleep. I will have this chest collected and taken back to Kwazulu.” Her mother placed the calabash on the lid.

Outside, morning finally broke – grey and clean. The first birds called.

Authors Note:

They say the Tokoloshe was born of envy and ash – a servant turned trickster, summoned by those who toyed with dark power. Small in form, but heavy with malice. He crept where love had thinned, feeding on fear and forgetfulness.

Only blood can unbind what blood has called. When the living forget their dead, the Tokoloshe remembers.

The Tokoloshe is a spirit from Southern African folklore, feared for its mischief and malice. Said to be summoned through envy or witchcraft, it preys on those who forget their ancestral ties. In many traditions, remembrance – not fear – is the only true protection.

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Apologies for spamming your email with my posts from yesterday and today. I am still attempting horror for the Month of October Prompts. Time is a bit tight. I hope this take on South African Folklore Paranormal fun intrigued.