The Secret: Blackmail, Journalist, Free Short Stories, Thriller, Fabling, Pam
“Should we have fun with her?”
“We weren’t paid for that.”
“Come on, it won’t matter anyway. She’s still going to die.”
“Yes, it will be a waste…” The voice trailed off, then pondered, “No, the woman will arrive soon.”
The other voice whined a bit more but eventually yielded to reason. I was relieved. I knew the end had come for me, but the thought of being violated before death seemed… unfair.
Not too long ago, I had been at the pinnacle of my career. A renowned investigative journalist with a reputation that extended far beyond the newsroom, my name was synonymous with truth, power, and controversy. My articles had unearthed corruption, exposed secrets, and ignited movements. With every scandal I revealed, I climbed higher, my influence growing in tandem with my wealth.
The pay, however, was modest—sixty thousand Naira a month—but in five short years, I had bought two plots of land, two Range Rovers, and rented a duplex in the upscale area of Lekki. I lived a life many would envy. Yet, as with most success stories, the truth was far less glamorous.
I made my fortune the same way many journalists did. I uncovered a secret—usually of a powerful person—gave them a chance to buy my silence, and once paid, erased the evidence, passing it along to another journalist. It was a game I played well, and I had grown comfortable with the routine. Most people paid, others didn’t, and the cycle continued.
And then, I met Senator Dr. Lisa Kalejaye.
Lisa Kalejaye was untouchable—a woman of extraordinary standing. She was not just a senator; she was the dean of the Faculty of Law at Unilag, a philanthropist, a religious leader, and the epitome of respectability. Her charity work was legendary, and her reputation as a devout Christian and perfect wife and mother made her a beacon of virtue. She was the perfect target.
I found her secret, as I had so many before her, and I reached out. The response I received was not what I expected.
Instead of the usual fear, denial, or bluster, Lisa greeted me with a warm smile. She invited me in, offered me wine (which I declined), and listened as I presented the evidence I had gathered. She took the article, scanned it, and then smiled at me. “Thank you for bringing this to me before publishing it,” she said, her tone sincere.
I was taken aback. A woman with her kind of secret shouldn’t be this calm, I thought. She should be panicking, pleading, or at least bargaining.
But no. She was calm. Too calm.
“Does anyone else know about this?” she asked.
“No,” I replied, eager to keep her quiet for as long as possible.
“Good, good,” she said, smiling. “So, how much do I need to give you to have you delete this story?”
I had expected this. The price of silence. I was ready to name my sum.
“Whatever you feel it’s worth,” I answered.
She smiled again, walked into another room, and returned a few moments later with a large handbag.
“You like it?” she asked. “It’s Prada. Sell it, and you’ll make a small fortune.”
I frowned. “Who would I sell it to?”
“True, bags like these are hard to resell for their original value,” she mused. “But the money in the bag… that should buy your silence.”
She handed me the bag, and I set it on my lap. Inside, it was heavy with cash—stacks of crisp Naira notes, all neatly arranged. This was it. This was my payday.
“Now, please do me a favour,” Lisa said softly. “Delete the email you sent me.”
It was simple enough. I deleted the email and unlocked my phone for her to ensure I hadn’t saved any files. She searched it meticulously, and I heard the sounds of files being wiped away. When she was done, she handed me the phone, and I left.
A month later, everything changed.
I came home one evening to find my apartment ransacked. My laptop was gone and so were all the files I had painstakingly collected over the years. I knew the risks of my job, and I had always told myself I would be ready when the time came. But I wasn’t ready for this.
I ran to my car, started it, and reversed quickly. But before I could drive away, a foul-smelling cloth was pressed over my nose, and everything went black.
“Have you been kind to our friend?” A woman’s voice asked, familiar yet unsettling. Was this the woman they spoke of?
A soft hand brushed my cheek, sending shivers down my spine. My blindfold was removed, and there she was—Lisa Kalejaye, standing before me, smiling that same warm smile.
“Surprised to see me?” she asked. But now, that smile was different. It was colder, darker.
“Did you enjoy the money?” she asked, her voice gentle, almost maternal.
I couldn’t speak. I just stared, terror rising in my chest. What did she want from me now?
She removed the gag from my mouth, and I hesitated. I shouldn’t provoke her, I thought. I shouldn’t say anything.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, tears welling in my eyes. “I won’t do it again. I swear, I haven’t told anyone about your secret.”
Lisa patted me on the head like a child. “I’m grateful you haven’t,” she said, her voice sweet. “But you see, a secret is only a secret when it’s known by just one person. And I can’t have you running around with my secret. You’ll blackmail me again when you run out of money.”
“I won’t come back! I swear to God, I won’t!” I cried out in desperation.
“I want to trust you, I really do.” She smiled again, but there was no warmth in it. “But I already took care of the people who gave you the story. They won’t be bothering me anymore.”
My heart dropped.
“You’re the reason they’re dead,” she continued, her voice calm, as if explaining a simple truth.
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe.
“I trust you understand,” she said, and her smile stretched into something darker, more predatory. “Thank you for keeping my secret. You know, I like dead people. They tell no secrets, and they don’t blackmail you with them.”
Her expression shifted. The smile turned into a twisted smirk. Her eyes gleamed with something far worse than malice—something… excited.
Shhh, lol, please spread this secret. This is the secret page to all stories on The Fablingverse