THE MAN WHO SLEPT WITH 5 MARRIED WOMEN AND WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM
People used to call me “the charming devil,” and honestly, I didn’t mind. My name is Tunde, and I thought I had life all figured out — money, looks, words that could melt even the coldest heart, and confidence that could make any woman lose her guard.
I was a master manipulator, and I knew how to make married women forget their vows. It started as a game — something to feed my ego, to prove to myself that I could have any woman I wanted.
The first was my boss’s wife — a woman in her forties who looked at me like I was her lost youth. Then came the pastor’s wife, the one who prayed for me every Sunday but sent secret texts at night.
After that, it became an addiction. I didn’t care that they were married; in fact, that made it more thrilling. I told myself I was just filling emotional gaps their husbands ignored. But what I didn’t know was that I was digging my own grave — one woman at a time.
Everything changed after the sixth one. Her name was Linda. Her husband was a quiet, successful man — wealthy, spiritual, and feared in our neighborhood. I didn’t know much about him, and I didn’t care.
Linda was beautiful, lonely, and curious. I met her at a birthday party, and within a week, she was in my apartment, trembling in my arms. I thought I had won again.
But three days later, my nightmares began.
I started hearing whispers at night — soft, chilling voices calling my name. My body ached like I’d been beaten by invisible hands. Every mirror I looked into showed my face — then another face behind me, staring, grinning.
I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t breathe. I called Linda, but she didn’t answer. When I finally saw her, she was different — her eyes distant, her smile gone.
“You shouldn’t have done it,” she whispered, trembling before running into her husband’s car.
That night, I woke up to see blood dripping from my ceiling. My hands shook as I turned on the lights — nothing was there. But the blood smell was real.
My friends said I was cursed, that I should confess. I laughed, pretending I wasn’t scared, but deep down I knew something had gone wrong.
The next morning, I found a folded black paper under my door. It had strange marks drawn in red ink and one sentence:
“You have touched what belongs to the covenant.”
My heart stopped.
From that day, my life became a nightmare. I saw shadows following me, heard voices chanting in languages I didn’t know, and smelled smoke where there was none.
My phone started showing photos I never took — photos of the women, naked, crying, with something dark behind them. I deleted them, but they came back.
I stopped eating. I stopped leaving my house. My reflection began to fade — I swear, I could see through my own face.
I wanted to apologize, but to who? The women had vanished. Their husbands were acting strange.
And the one thing I didn’t know then was that all six women were connected — to the same spiritual brotherhood their husbands belonged to.
And I had just desecrated what they called “The Sacred Circle of Blood.”
I didn’t believe in curses until I became one.
After the black paper appeared, everything around me began to rot — not physically, but spiritually. The air in my room felt heavy, as if something unseen was breathing beside me. Even my own name, when spoken aloud, sounded strange — hollow, cursed.
I went to the church. The pastor — the same man whose wife had once whispered my name in the dark — looked at me and froze. His eyes widened, then he turned away like I was invisible. “Leave,” he said quietly, not even meeting my gaze. “There’s nothing we can do for you.”
That night, I packed my bags and ran. I drove for hours, trying to escape whatever followed me. But no matter where I went, the whispers stayed. They spoke my name in voices I recognized — the women’s voices. Pleading. Laughing. Crying. Sometimes all at once.
One night, I stopped at a small lodge on the outskirts of Ibadan. I hadn’t slept in three days. The owner, an old man with cloudy eyes, looked at me for a long time before handing me the keys. “Room seven,” he said, his voice trembling. “Don’t look in the mirror after midnight.”
I should have listened.
At 2 a.m., I woke up to the sound of running water. The bathroom light was on, though I hadn’t turned it on. Slowly, I walked toward it — every step feeling like a mistake. The mirror was fogged, but I could make out six shapes standing behind me. Women. Their faces blurred, their eyes glowing faintly red.
“Tunde…”
They spoke in one voice, low and broken.
“You took what wasn’t yours.”
I fell to my knees, shaking. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Please, forgive me.”
The mirror cracked from the center, spreading like spider veins. Blood — not water — dripped down the glass. I screamed, stumbling backward, but when I looked again, the room was empty.
By morning, I looked ten years older.
Desperate, I went to see Mama Chinyere, a woman people said could see beyond the veil. Her house smelled of herbs and smoke. She looked at me once and hissed through her teeth.
“Foolish child. You touched the wives of men bound by oath — blood oath. The Circle protects its own.”
“I didn’t know,” I begged. “Please, tell me what to do.”
She lit a candle, its flame dancing wildly though the room was still. “You can’t break a blood covenant with words,” she said. “Something must be given in exchange.”
“What do they want?” I asked, though I already feared the answer.
“Your life,” she said. “Or your soul.”
I laughed bitterly, but the sound cracked halfway. “There has to be another way.”
“There is,” she said, staring deep into the flame. “Return what you took.”
“But I took nothing!”
She looked up sharply. “You took their peace. Their vows. Their blood. You took what tied them to their husbands. You must return it — or lose yourself forever.”
She gave me a small wooden bowl and told me to go back to each woman, one by one. “Speak their names. Ask for their forgiveness before the next full moon,” she warned. “If one refuses, you are finished.”
I drove for days. But none of them would see me.
The first woman — my boss’s wife — had moved abroad with her husband.
The second, the pastor’s wife, had gone missing.
The third was said to be in a psychiatric ward, screaming my name at night.
The fourth died in a car crash two weeks after our affair.
The fifth disappeared without a trace.
And Linda — the last — had vanished completely. Some said her husband took her away to the mountains. Others whispered that she wasn’t alive at all.
I broke down. I stopped counting the days. My body grew weaker. My reflection was now just a faint outline — a shadow. Sometimes, I could see something else moving inside it.
On the seventh night after the full moon, I heard a knock at my door.
I opened it and froze.
Linda stood there — pale, calm, her eyes like still water. “You came back,” I whispered.
“You shouldn’t have,” she said softly. “They’re waiting.”
“Who?” I asked, my voice trembling.
She stepped aside.
Behind her were the other five women — lifeless eyes, cold smiles. Their dresses were soaked in something dark and wet. I stumbled back, clutching the bowl from Mama Chinyere, but it slipped from my hands and shattered on the floor.
“You can’t return what’s already been taken,” Linda whispered. “You are the sacrifice.”
They moved closer. The room went dark. I felt cold fingers on my face, on my chest, pressing into my heart. I tried to scream, but no sound came out.
Then — silence.
When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in my apartment. I was standing in front of a black river under a blood-red sky. The six women stood on the other side, watching me. Behind them, shadows whispered my name — hundreds of them, all calling from beyond.
I understood then: I wasn’t alive anymore.
The Circle had claimed me.
They say now, in my old neighborhood, people still hear footsteps in my apartment at night. The mirrors fog for no reason. Sometimes, a voice whispers from the dark:
“Don’t touch what belongs to the covenant.”
And if you ever meet a man who smiles too easily, who calls himself a charming devil —
look into his eyes.
If you see nothing staring back,
walk away.
Because it might be me.