The Man Who Ate His Own Last Supper

The light on his wrist blinked again — once, twice — like the slow pulse of a living thing.
Each time it flashed, a faint hum filled the room. I could feel it, not hear it — deep in my bones.
Mummy crawled backward toward the wall, her trembling hands clutching her rosary so tightly that the beads snapped and scattered across the floor.

“Jesu! Jesu! Jesu!” she whispered, rocking back and forth. “Chukwu, protect us! Not my husband o, not my husband!”

But the man in the chair — Daddy — didn’t even glance her way.
He just reached for the remote on the table, pressed a button, and the TV flickered to life. Static hissed across the screen before the old evening news channel appeared — the same one that stopped broadcasting months ago.

The air grew heavy, thick like the moments before a thunderstorm.
Chike whimpered from the doorway. I wanted to move him behind me, to shield him, but my body wouldn’t listen.

“Daddy,” I said again, my voice smaller this time. “You— you can’t be here.”

He turned to me, that same tired smile still resting on his face. “I told you I’d never leave you hungry,” he said softly. “A father doesn’t break his word.”

Then, as if hearing a distant sound, he looked toward the kitchen.
The air smelled faintly of stew — the pot Mummy had been cooking before he appeared. Without another word, he stood and walked slowly toward the kitchen.

Each step echoed like a heartbeat in the quiet house.

When he entered the kitchen, the lightbulb above him flickered and burst with a pop. Mummy screamed again, pressing her hands to her ears.
I followed — against every instinct screaming not to — and stopped at the doorway.

He was standing by the stove, lifting the pot lid. Steam rose around his face like mist. He inhaled deeply, eyes closed, humming that same hymn again.

Then he said something that froze my blood.

“You used too much salt.”

It was the exact phrase he had said the morning of the accident — his last words before he left the house.

I felt the tears on my face before I even realized I was crying.

Mummy stood behind me, shaking her head violently. “This is not my husband,” she whispered. “My husband is in the ground. Whoever you are— go back!”

But he ignored her. He reached for a plate, dished some food like an ordinary man, and walked past us back to the sitting room.
He sat down again, crossed his legs, and began to eat. Slowly. Calmly. Like nothing was wrong.

The sound of his spoon against the plate was the only sound in the house. Clink… clink… clink.

“Ezinne,” he said between bites. “You’ve grown thinner.”
I didn’t answer.
“Chike,” he said, looking up. “You’re not doing your chores. The compound is dirty.”

Chike burst into tears. “You’re not my daddy! Daddy is d£ad!” he screamed.

For the first time, Daddy’s hand froze mid-air. He set the spoon down slowly and looked at his own reflection in the dark TV screen.
Then he whispered, “Am I?”

At that exact moment, the front door banged open.

Uncle Raymond — my father’s younger brother — rushed in, still in his security uniform. He froze when he saw who was sitting there. His face went pale as ash.

“Jesu!” he gasped. “Obinna?”

Daddy — or whatever he was — looked up and smiled faintly. “Raymond. You still owe me that bottle of beer.”

Uncle staggered backward. “No… no, this can’t be…”

He reached for the crucifix around his neck, whispering a prayer. “You were buried, brother. We buried you.”

Daddy chuckled softly. “Then maybe you buried the wrong man.”

The black watch on his wrist blinked faster now, its light turning from blue to red. A low hum filled the room again — louder, vibrating through the furniture. The lights flickered.

Then, just as suddenly, the TV switched channels by itself.
On the screen appeared security footage — a grainy black-and-white video of a car crash. The exact crash that killed him. We could see his Toyota Camry spinning off the bridge, slamming into the riverbank. Then, as the camera zoomed in, we saw something none of us had ever noticed before.

A second figure — standing in the shadows near the wreck — wearing the same blinking black device on its wrist.

Mummy screamed again and fell to her knees. Uncle Raymond backed toward the door. “This is evil!” he shouted. “We must call the pastor!”

But Daddy just looked at me. His eyes — those kind, familiar eyes — were filled with something… not human.
“Ezinne,” he said quietly, “don’t be afraid. I didn’t come back for revenge.”

“Then why?” I whispered.

He placed his hand on his chest. “Because they brought me back.”

“Who?”

He looked toward the blinking device. “The ones who found me by the river.”

Then, almost to himself, he murmured, “I thought I was dreaming when I woke up under those lights. They said they could fix me. Make me whole again. But… something isn’t right. I can’t remember how to rest.”

The house trembled slightly, as if a train was passing underground. The hum grew louder. The blinking on his wrist turned rapid, almost strobing.
Daddy winced, clutching his head. “They’re calling me,” he said hoarsely. “They don’t like me staying too long.”

He stood suddenly, knocking over the chair. His plate shattered on the floor.
“Daddy!” I shouted. “Please— stop!”

But his voice came out strained, mechanical. “I’m sorry, my daughter. I just wanted to taste home again.”

Then, just like that, the red light on his wrist flared so brightly that the whole room lit up crimson. We shielded our eyes — and when the light faded, he was gone.

Gone.

The chair was empty. The door still locked. The car outside still running, headlights cutting through the mist.

Mummy began to wail. Uncle Raymond started praying louder. Chike clung to my leg, sobbing.

And I… I walked to the window. The car was still idling. But now, in the driver’s seat, I saw movement — a faint shadow leaning forward. Then the headlights flickered twice.

The engine died.

Silence.

We buried him again the next morning. Not because there was a body, but because Mummy insisted the spirit wouldn’t rest without a prayer. We laid his clothes in the coffin — the white shirt, the watch, and the broken plate.

But that night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat by the window, listening to the wind. And then I saw it — through the dark — a faint blinking light across the road.
Slow, steady. Like a signal.

The same light from that watch.

And deep down, I knew…