The Legend of Bagagwa

Inspired by Merv the Cat, Bagagwa is a mischievous, shadowy creature that roams unseen at night, leaving chaos and mystery in its wake.

They say that in quiet towns, where the streets fall silent after sundown, a presence lingers in the shadows. It is not a ghost, not quite a spirit, and certainly not human. The locals call it Bagagwa. Its name is whispered with both fear and reverence, as though speaking it too loudly might invite its gaze. Children are warned about it before they even know how to walk the streets alone. Small, wiry, with eyes that glimmer like embers in the dark, it is said to move with unsettling grace, always watching, always waiting, just beyond reach.

Bagagwa’s body is described differently by those who claim to have seen it. Some say it resembles a small man, hunched and twisted, while others insist it is closer to an animal—catlike, but wrong, its limbs slightly too long, its joints bending in unnatural ways. Its ears twitch constantly, straining to catch every sound, as if the world were a playground of secrets meant only for it. Wherever the creature treads, strange things follow: a door left ajar despite being locked, an object missing only to appear days later in another place, whispers that vanish when investigated.

What unsettles most is the sound—or lack thereof. Bagagwa rarely makes noise, moving as if the ground itself is eager to conceal it. But on rare occasions, townsfolk report the faint sound of its footsteps: a soft tapping, like claws brushing stone. To hear those footsteps is not a mere coincidence. It is said to mark the beginning of strange events—objects rattling on shelves, windows creaking open at night, or even long-hidden secrets bubbling to the surface. It does not simply observe; it disrupts. And yet, it never causes outright harm, only confusion, unease, and a ripple of mystery.

One shopkeeper swore she saw the animal like creature perched on the roof of her store one night, its glowing eyes staring straight into hers. The next morning, her cash register had opened itself and coins were scattered across the floor, arranged in a perfect spiral. Another man claimed that it crept into his barn, though he never saw it directly. Instead, he woke to find all his tools stacked in precarious towers, as if mocking the order of his work. Stories like these are common, each stranger than the last. Always, Bagagwa leaves no proof—only questions and the eerie memory of its presence.

Children whisper tales of the small beast at school, daring one another to call its name three times in the dark. Some believe doing so will summon its eyes, two glowing orbs that appear in the nearest shadow. Others insist that’s how you invite mischief into your home. The old folk say never to chase it, never to provoke it. It enjoys games, but they are not games you want to play. If you acknowledge its presence, it lingers. If you chase, it disappears, only to return when you least expect it—slipping through walls, weaving through corners, always one step ahead.

Legends say this cryptid thrives in forgotten places. Abandoned houses, crumbling factories, and silent alleyways become its stage. Those who wander these areas at night often feel watched, as if invisible eyes track their every movement. Some claim to hear faint giggling, like a child playing hide-and-seek, though the sound never grows closer. Others speak of a pressure in the air, a heaviness that makes it hard to breathe. In these spaces, It is strongest. Some say it collects memories of these places, feeding off the echoes of people who once lived there. Others believe it simply craves the stillness.

One chilling account tells of a group of teenagers who decided to spend a night in an abandoned church on the edge of town. They lit candles, laughed off the warnings, and dared one another to call Bagagwa’s name. Hours passed quietly—until their belongings began moving. A bag slid across the floor. A jacket fell from a hook, though no breeze stirred. Then, faintly, footsteps echoed from the altar. They panicked, rushing for the door, only to find it stuck. By dawn, they escaped, shaken but unharmed. Each swore they saw glowing eyes in the rafters, blinking in unison.

The elders of the town never dismiss these tales. To them, the creature is as real as the wind or rain. They say it has always been here, a spirit of mischief woven into the land itself. Not malevolent, but not benevolent either—it simply is. Some even leave small offerings at night: a bowl of milk, a coin, or a scrap of cloth left on a windowsill. In return, they believe it passes them by, sparing their home from its games. Those who mock it, however, often find their nights filled with strange disturbances until they learn the proper respect.

There’s an old story about a woman who left a mirror uncovered in her house overnight. The next morning, she found small animal, human like handprints smeared across the glass, as if it had pressed its wiry fingers against the surface, peering in at her reflection. She covered the mirror after that, every single night, and swore she never heard its footsteps again. Folklore warns of this connection: that it is drawn to reflective surfaces, as if it sees more in them than humans do. A reflection might not always show you—but what the wiry creature sees watching back. Best to keep them covered.

Travelers passing through quiet towns sometimes hear the name but dismiss it as superstition. They laugh at the warnings, mock the whispers, and move on. Yet, some leave with curious stories. A woman once stopped in a roadside inn. That night, she awoke to find her suitcase open, clothes scattered in strange, knotted shapes. A man complained of footsteps pacing his hotel room, though no one else had the key. They both left shaken, realizing the legend wasn’t confined to locals alone. The small creature doesn’t care where you’re from. If you enter its territory, even unknowingly, you are part of the game.

No one has ever truly captured the odd thing. No photograph exists, no recordings hold its sound. Attempts to trap it end in failure. A farmer once set out a cage with food, believing he could catch whatever was disturbing his barn. By morning, the cage was untouched, but every animal on his property had been moved to the wrong pen. Chickens with goats, sheep with pigs—all in perfect order, but all in the wrong places. It was a message: Bagagwa cannot be caught, cannot be controlled. It chooses when to appear, and when to vanish, slipping back into silence.

Still, people continue to search for it. Paranormal investigators arrive, armed with cameras and meters, determined to prove the odd looking being’s existence. They wander abandoned streets, leaving recorders overnight. Yet all they return with are faint noises and feelings of unease. Once, a group claimed they caught a glimpse on infrared: a hunched figure darting across the screen, glowing eyes reflecting the light. The file corrupted soon after, leaving only static. Whether coincidence or interference, no one knows. What remains is the legend, whispered and retold, kept alive not by proof, but by fear and fascination. It resists capture, thriving on the unknown.

Those who claim to have locked eyes with thing say the experience never leaves them. Its stare isn’t hostile, but it isn’t kind either. It is knowing. Watching. Almost curious. One boy, now grown, still remembers waking to see it crouched in the corner of his room, ears twitching, eyes glowing faintly. He froze, too terrified to scream. It tilted its head, studied him for a long moment, and then simply melted back into the shadows. Decades later, he swears the memory haunts him, lingering in his dreams. “It wasn’t trying to scare me,” he says. “It was studying me.”

Perhaps the strangest part of the legend is how consistent it is. Towns separated by miles tell nearly identical stories. Descriptions of glowing eyes, twitching ears, wiry limbs—all the same, passed down through generations. No one knows where the name Bagagwa comes from. Some suggest it is an old dialect word, meaning “the one who shifts.” Others say it was the nonsense babble of a frightened child who first saw it, repeated until it stuck. Whatever the origin, the name holds power. Speak it too often, the elders say, and you may invite it closer than you’d like.

To this day, the creature remains a mystery. Is it a creature? A spirit? A trick of the mind passed down through superstition? Skeptics argue it is nothing more than imagination, fueled by the eerie quiet of small towns and abandoned spaces. Yet, those who have felt its presence, who have heard the faint tapping of claws at night, will tell you otherwise. The cryptid is real. Not in the way you can touch or measure, but real enough to unsettle, to disturb,

to stay in your memory long after the night has ended. And perhaps, that is enough. So if you find yourself in a forgotten town, where the streets are empty and the silence feels heavy, tread carefully. If a door creaks open when you swore you closed it, if an object vanishes only to reappear days later, if you sense glowing eyes in the shadows—know that you may not be alone. Do not chase, do not provoke. Respect the unseen, and perhaps it will slip away, leaving only whispers behind. But if you ignore the warnings, if you tempt its curiosity, then be ready. For BAGAGWA might linger longer, watching, waiting, always just out of reach.