My entry post for "your story contest : Come in, if you are ugly

This is the birthing of Chaos: a continuous, loud thud on our door, such super-strange kind that violently eats up one's heart with suspicion and, subsequently, intense trepidation. Shuffling feet, mountain of whispers tumbling into each other, the harsh music of rain against the roof like a plague. Open the door, a stern and rough voice is warning, shouting, at the other end. Somewhere between this looming chaos, we (my mother, two sisters: Julian and Juliet, and I) are huddled up in tight embrace inside the toilet like neatly packed dolls, our eyes sheen with tears. Don't be afraid, my mother's whispering tenderly into our ears. Don't be afraid. Nothing will happen to us. And for once, in the heat of this moment of impending doom where a mother strives to be strong for herself and children, where vulnerability topples over what might happen and what might be, where death dances glamorously at the wide lip of a river waiting for its first sacrifice, I wish my father is here, alive, and not the dead and buried thing under the only orange tree in the middle of our compound, enclosed in the nonexistent world of marble and dust.
When I was five years old and afraid of ghosts, so afraid I couldn't sleep in the dark. My mother had taught me how to wade off ghosts. She said whenever I sense a presence in the room, or a soft thud on the door when there is no one around, I should just say, come in, if you are ugly. Ghost hate to be called ugly.
Three days before, one of our neighbours, Dan, notorious for spreading false, indignant gossips and abandoning his wife and two children at the village for a Calabar girl who would divorce him two years after their marriage, had woken up to a wired later pasted on his door.
The letter read: Dear everyone in this compound, prepare yourselves, we are coming
Signed,
On behalf of Honourable men.
My mother was frying pancake for breakfast when Dan came into our parlour, sweating profusely, clutching the piece of paper in his hand like an unregrinted prayer. Nobody would believe him, not the neighbours, not my mother who would laugh so hard, stare at him for so long as if wondering what in the name of mad spirit had possessed him and reprimand him of being such a wimp and initiating unnecessary fear. Dan would swear in the name of all the deities in his village that he didn't falsify the letter and yet the world was against him. I was there, watching, when he bolted out of our room in the quick rot of anger.
Open the door, don't let death befall you. If you dare open this door........ We are done with the other neighbours, the voice has grown angrier, even scarier.
What are we to do now? I asked my mother, grabbing the folds of her wrapper.
Julian was already asleep, Julian on the crown of the water cistern, Juliet half-naked beside my mum cries.
My mother gushed a red familiar briefcase from the ceiling. I remember it; it was the same briefcase which she kept her gold earrings and neck lases.
I was thinking about that when my mother, clutching the briefcase in her hand, walked towards the banging door.
This is what they want. I will give it to them, she says in the voice of a subdued animal.
Thank you @Fabian2614
I'm mentioning @dayographics @alphafx @whitestallion