The morning after his arrival, Utomobong woke to the sound of roosters crowing faintly in the distance. The village seemed ordinary in daylight—children fetching water, women pounding yam, men sharpening tools. Yet beneath the rhythm of daily life, there was something unspoken, a heaviness that clung to every face.
His grandmother moved slowly, sweeping the compound with a bundle of sticks. She hummed a tune, but her voice faltered whenever the wind shifted. Utomobong noticed how the villagers avoided eye contact, how they whispered in corners, how their laughter never reached their eyes.
He tried to shake off the unease. Perhaps the rattling of the night had been nothing more than his imagination, the forest playing tricks on him. Yet the memory lingered—the way the sound had crawled beneath his skin, the way his grandmother's grip had tightened on his wrist.
By midday, Utomobong wandered through the village. The huts were scattered, leaning against the weight of time. He passed the Oyokmo family's compound, where sharp eyes followed him. Their eldest son muttered something under his breath, and the others laughed. Utomobong quickened his pace, the sting of exile pressing harder against his chest.
The forest loomed at the edge of the village, dark and inviting. He paused, staring into its depths. The trees swayed gently, but the silence was unnatural. No birds sang, no insects buzzed. It was as if the forest itself was listening.
That night, Utomobong lay awake on the bamboo mat. His grandmother's breathing was steady, but he could sense her unease. The hut creaked with age, the air thick with smoke and damp earth. He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep.
At first, there was nothing. Only silence.
Then—a faint sound.
Not loud, not sudden. Just a soft clatter, like pebbles tumbling together. Utomobong opened his eyes, his heart quickening. He listened. The sound came again, distant, hesitant, as though testing the air.
Minutes passed. The rattling grew bolder, echoing faintly across the village. Utomobong sat up, straining to hear. It was not constant—it came in bursts, fading, then returning, closer each time.
His grandmother stirred, her eyes snapping open. She did not speak, but her hand reached for his, trembling. Utomobong swallowed hard, his throat dry.
The rattling shifted. It was no longer outside. It was beneath them. The bamboo mat trembled, the floorboards shivered. Utomobong's breath caught in his chest. He wanted to move, to run, but his grandmother's grip held him still.
The sound grew louder, circling the hut, pressing against the walls. Utomobong's pulse raced. He could hear whispers now, faint and broken, woven into the rattling. Words he could not understand, voices that seemed to rise from the earth itself.
The hut shook. Dust fell from the ceiling. Utomobong pressed his hands against his ears, but the sound was inside him, vibrating through his bones. He felt it crawling up his spine, gnawing at his resolve.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the rattling stopped.
Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.
Utomobong gasped, his chest heaving. His grandmother released his hand, her eyes glistening with fear. She whispered, barely audible: "It has found you."
Utomobong lay back, trembling, his mind racing. He had hoped the rattling was a trick of the night, a story exaggerated by fearful villagers. But now he knew—it was real. It was alive. And it was watching him.
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This chapter deliberately stretches the suspense, letting the rattling creep in slowly, almost teasing Utomobong before striking. It sets the stage for the curse to become more aggressive in later chapters.
Would you like me to compose Chapter 4: Whispers of the Oyokmo, where the villagers begin to turn against Utomobong, blaming him for the disturbances?