Rufaffen Duma Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

Rain was pouring down in torrents, yet that did not stop him from hearing the sound of a train’s cry. Even though he knew this was an old station that had long fallen out of use.
Slowly, he made his way deeper inside, while the rain beat heavily against the old roof of the station, a place that had not functioned for years. Wild trees had overgrown around the office. The entrance door was broken, and all the windows had gone dark and shattered, broken either by thieves or by the weather from above and the sides. People often said that whoever entered this place never came out, nor was any news of them ever heard again, not even by chance. Some even claimed there was a ghost inside, one whose cries or footsteps were heard every night, which was why most people avoided passing that way altogether.
He was a police officer, a self-assured and upright man, fearless and honest — Inspector Samir Ibrahim Gadanya, whose work had brought him back to Kaduna from Kano. He was known for his determination, and it was well established that he had never taken a bribe. In fact, his fearlessness and refusal to follow questionable orders had caused him to be transferred from post to post repeatedly. Even now, he had been posted here simply so they could quietly get rid of him through work, in such a way that people would not suspect anything.
Inspector Samir Ibrahim had never believed the stories people told about the old station. He regarded them as mere folktales. He was a complete man in his own right, calm and composed, used to seeing all kinds of crimes in his life. He had arrested major criminals, and he never spared any politician so long as they were guilty of betraying the nation.
He tightened his grip on his flashlight and shone it around again, searching for anything that might help him in his investigation. Deep in his heart, he knew this was no small case. Tonight, he had only come out after receiving a report from an unknown person who told him, “Every single night, around ten o’clock, I hear crying on the train platform... but there is nobody there.”
Slowly, he kept walking, pressing farther inside. His feet sank into the mud. His flashlight swept over broken benches and old advertisement posters draped with whitish cloth. His eyes did not settle anywhere until they fell upon a wall near what used to be the ticket office back when the station was still in use.
“I HAVE NEVER LEFT THIS PLACE. THIS IS MY HOME.”
At a glance, one could tell the writing had been scratched in with something sharp.
Though he felt a chill, he moved toward the wall with courage and examined the words closely, running his hand over the writing. Out loud, he said, “These are fresh markings. They were carved recently, not long ago.” They were unlike the rest of the debris he had seen — the old chairs, windows, posters, and the rest.
He had not even finished that thought when he heard the faint sound of crying. He was alone there, yet he heard it clearly. From a distance, the sound came to him as if the wind was carrying it. Within no more than two seconds, the crying grew louder than before. It sounded like the cry of a woman calling someone’s name, but he could not make it out.
Quickly, Samir turned around, sweeping his flashlight carefully, but he saw no one. He shone it to the left, then to the right, but still he saw not even the slightest trace of anyone. Yet the crying kept growing louder, then suddenly shifted into laughter. He knew very well that someone was trying to unsettle his mind. This was a setup meant to make him believe it was a ghost, but he knew it was not. It was a human being, a breathing person like himself. He was not alone in that place.
He lowered the flashlight toward the ground and saw marks there. There were footprints in the mud — the print of a small foot, and a woman’s shoe. The tracks were fresh because the mud was still wet. He followed the footprints carefully until they led him to a locked door.
But strangely, although the latch itself was broken, there was still a padlock hanging on the door.
By then, his heart had begun to tremble, yet with bravery he moved forward, reached out, and lifted the door. It let out a long creaking sound:
“Krrrreee...”
A strange smell hit his nose, mixed with the scent of earth and dust. He raised the flashlight and shone it inside. The room was very dark. In the middle of the room sat a small old iron box, and covering the box was a red cloth. From its appearance, the cloth was new, not old, because there was no dust on it, nor any sign of age or tearing. In fact, the moment he touched it, he felt that it was damp, as though wet.
“So this was just brought in now? What kind of place is this?” he said aloud, questioning himself.