The road to Skeerpoort was a winding ribbon of silence and false olive trees looming like watchful sentinels on either side. There are no gates here. Just wide, open roads that fold into the Magaliesberg Mountains. Blinking will see you missing the offramp - a faded gravel road that pretends to lead nowhere until it gets you here.
The house sits in defiant seclusion. A lonely structure carved into the earth, surrounded by nothing but wild olive trees, low-hanging mist and the distant cry of a fish eagle. It’s too quiet - serene in a way that makes you uneasy, like the calm before a verdict. The house smells of timber and secrets. Everything inside is placed just so - identical to every house he owns.
I woke up to find him staring out the window, shirtless, a blunt dancing between his lips.
“Can I call Baba today? Just for five seconds?”My rusty voice whispered.
He didn’t turn around. “No signal here.”
“There’s a landline - ”
“It’s dead,” he said quickly. Too quickly.
There were no streetlights, no neighbours, no passing cars. Just the mountain air, crisp and perfumed with tyres crunching over gravel.
“Just make yourself at home," he said with a smile that barely reached his eyes.
The stillness was deafening.
No network. No Wi-Fi. No escape.
Skeerpoort, 10:44 AM
I hadn’t spoken much since yesterday. Between the chase and the gunman’s smile now etched in my nightmares, I was conserving every ounce of energy for survival. My mouth was dry. My voice had rusted from non-use. My phone is dead. I haven’t called my dad. I wonder if my family or friends have tried reaching me.
Surprisingly; we have company. A woman in her 40s entered the room with a tray.
“I made you coffee,” - she said before evaporating.
He poured whisky into both cups.
“Thought you might need a bit of warmth,” he said, walking over in his grey tracksuit bottoms and barefoot ease. He was a walking contradiction. Gentle, when you needed a monster. And monstrous, when you needed a man.
I wrapped my hands around the mug. The whisky did nothing to steady my nerves, but the heat anchored me. The silence between us was pregnant. Then -
“You were about to call your father last night.”
I stiffened.
He took a slow sip. “I saw you typing. Then you stopped. Why?”
I could lie. Or I could tell the truth.
"You distracted me," I said.
And then, almost cruelly, I leaned in and kissed him.
His hand slid into my hair, pulling me in like he always does - like he’s the flame and I’m the foolish moth. We stumbled through the hallway, knocking into walls, breathless, half-drunk. Our clothes became casualties of urgency. The hallway floor bore witness to our chaos.
He kissed me like he needed to forget. I kissed him like I needed to survive.
The hardwood chilled my back but his body was scorching. His grip was rough - desperate. Our lovemaking was not love. It was camouflage. A feverish performance, both of us pretending this was normal.
Skeerpoort, 4:03 PM
I sat alone on the white leather couch, wrapped in a blanket, flipping through the only channel the old TV could pick up.
Then I saw myself.
Grainy CCTV footage of Sandton.“Missing: Zibuyile Ngcobo, last seen in Sandton. Any information, please contact…”
I dropped the remote. My chest constricted. They think I'm dead. Or kidnapped.
Maybe both.
And they’re right.
But I’m not dead. I’m just voiceless. What’s confusing is that we are both missing? We were last seen together, but somehow he doesn't appear on the video.
WHO OR WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS MAN!?
I walked to the bathroom, clutching my phone. I held it up high, hoping to catch even a single bar of signal. Nothing. I tried emergency services. “Call failed.” I tried AirDrop. I tried typing a message into Notes, hoping to leave a trail. Anything.
I had become a ghost with a heartbeat.
Also read: A Heartbeat away from Danger
Skeerpoort, 9:17 PM
I woke up from an unplanned nap to the sound of his voice.
He was in the kitchen, speaking low. It was the kind of whisper you use when you're not trying to be quiet, just… hidden.
“No. We’re safe for now. She saw the news... no, she hasn’t tried anything. She knows better.”
Pause.
“Yes, tomorrow night. I’ll let her sleep first. I’ll handle it.”
Handle what?
I didn’t move. I didn’t blink. I just kept breathing.
When he walked in moments later, he was smiling like a salesman.
“Pack up,” he said casually. “We’re going to Nylstroom tomorrow. Can’t be too comfortable.”
“Why?” I asked. “What happened?”
“Nothing, just... safer there. More trees, fewer satellites.”
I wanted to scream. To call someone. To post an update.
Instead, I nodded and packed.
Because in Skeerpoort, screaming doesn’t travel far.
And in the Neitherlands, no one hears you anyway.
Next Chapter Preview: Valleys of Silence: The Move to Nylstroom
“When someone tells you to start acting like ‘their girl’, remember that ghosts don’t have names.”
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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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