“Bury me with my ancestors. Then go to Ma Dlamini in Soweto. She’ll take you.” Those were Ma’s last words. Her feverish head fell onto the pillow and her scarred hands became limp. AIDS was a terrible disease: so much pain, so much loss.

“Sifiso!” cried Simphiwe. Sifiso rushed in from the yard, to their mother’s bedside. He took Simphiwe in his arms and she clung to him.

They buried their mother, and boarded a train taking them far away from the hills where they were born, to the big city and a new school. Simphiwe was in her Matric year, but luckily it was still school holidays. Sifiso had just finished. He would have to look for work in a new city. It wouldn’t be easy.

But Simphiwe and Sifiso weren’t aware of just how much of an adjustment city life would be until they walked into the small brick house in Soweto where Ma Dlamini lived with her daughter, Khanyi.

“Eish, this place is noisy on the weekends,” said Sifiso. They had been with the Dlamini’s for a week now and their new family had made them feel at home. But the constant noise from the street was something they weren’t used to. Sifiso turned up the TV to try and drown out the loud voices from the next door braai. The neighbours had started drinking in the morning and they were really warmed up now.

Simphiwe was preparing lunch when she was startled by shouts from the street followed by what sounded like gunshots.

“Fighting?” asked Simphiwe, her eyes wide.

“Gangsters,” replied Khanyi. “They’re always attacking each other. So, Sifiso, keep away from them.”

“If I can stay close to you, I will,” he said, moving closer to her on the couch.

Khanyi gave him a big smile. “No problem.”

Sifiso laughed. Khanyi had been flirting with him since the moment they had met. Simphiwe was beginning to feel excluded. It was like they were in their own little gang and she was on the outside watching. They were joking around but she could feel the sexual tension in the air.

After lunch Simphiwe felt she just had to get out of the house. She couldn’t watch a minute longer. Khanyi and Sifiso didn’t even notice she had gone.

She walked away from the house as fast as she could. She didn’t know where she was going and she only slowed down when she was half a block away. Some kids were playing with stones on the pavement. Up ahead of her at the end of the road stood a large face-brick house with a red tiled roof. It stood out from all the other houses in the street. It was grand compared to them, but it looked forlorn and forgotten.

Simphiwe walked on until she was right in front of the house. The windows were broken. There was no-one living there. And it didn’t look like anyone was doing anything to fix it up. She walked up to a very dirty, broken window and rubbed the glass with the back of her sleeve so that she could see inside. What she saw shocked her. The inside was blackened. There was a pile of ash and burned timber remains in the middle of what must have been a beautiful room once. Why had no-one cleared it out?

Just then she heard a shout from behind her.

“Suka!” shouted a young girl. “Ufun’ ukufa?” (Do you want to die?)

“The ‘Killing House’ is bad,” an older boy joined in. “Inamashwa!” (It’s cursed!)

She turned to face the children. They had run after her from where they had been playing on the pavement.

“What happened in there?” she asked.

“Very bad things,” said the young girl.

“A big fire,” said the boy. “Kwatsha konke.” (Everything burned.)

Then they turned and ran off, back down the road – it was as if just being so close to the house and talking about it was dangerous. Simphiwe turned around slowly and walked back to the Dlamini’s house, but she couldn’t forget what the children had said. Were they just playing with her, because she was new in town? Trying to scare her? Or was there truth in it? Was the house really cursed? It made her shiver.

That evening she asked Ma Dlamini about the house. Khanyi and Sifiso were too busy, cosied up on the couch watching a soapie together.

“Ma, why do they call it the ‘Killing House’?” she asked. “That house at the end of the street? Some kids told me there was a fire. Did people die there?”

Khanyi’s mom at once stopped peeling potatoes and looked up, her expression serious. Then Khanyi twisted round on the couch and stared at Simphiwe. She stood up. Her whole body was tense. The change on her face was sudden and dramatic. She looked as if she was going to cry. Or run out of the room. Or both.

“Don’t speak about that place,” said Ma Dlamini quickly, shaking her head. “It’s in the past and that past mustn’t come back. That past is buried now.”

She carried on peeling and didn’t say another word. None of them did.

But Simphiwe couldn’t forget about the house. How could she, now? One thing she knew was that Khanyi must have been involved in some way. But how?

***

Tell us what you think: Could the house really be cursed? How?