That night, Chizzy returned to the hidden room behind the wardrobe, looking for more answers. She found a narrow hallway leading to a sealed door she hadn't noticed before.
It creaked open with a groan, revealing a long room lined with portraits.
Each frame held a face that looked familiar: villagers. Old ones. Forgotten ones.
Then she saw the final painting.
Her.
Or almost her. The woman in the painting had Chizzy's eyes, her bone structure—but her hair was longer, and she wore an old-fashioned white gown stained red at the hem.
A brass plate below read: Chizoba Nwachukwu, 1892.
She staggered back.
Ezra had mentioned a woman who made a pact. Could this be her ancestor? Her namesake?
Chizzy wasn't the first.
She might be the last.