The rattling had returned the night before, louder, more insistent. Utomobong barely slept, his body trembling with exhaustion. When dawn broke, the village stirred as though nothing had happened. Children fetched water, women pounded yam, men sharpened their cutlasses. Yet Utomobong felt the weight of silence pressing against him. No one spoke of the rattling. No one dared.
His grandmother sat outside the hut, her frail hands busy with weaving. The morning sun lit her face, but her eyes were shadowed, distant. Utomobong watched her for a long time before speaking.
"Grandmother," he whispered, "what is it? What hunts us at night?"
She did not answer immediately. Her fingers moved slowly, deliberately, as though buying time. Finally, she sighed, her voice low and trembling. "Itakom is not like other villages. It is old… older than the forest itself. What you hear at night is not just noise. It is memory. It is hunger."
Utomobong frowned. "Hunger?"
Her gaze shifted to the forest beyond the huts. "Long ago, before you were born, before even I was born, the people of Itakom made a pact. They were desperate—famine had struck, disease had spread, and death walked freely among them. To survive, they called upon something… something that should never have been called."
She paused, her hands trembling. Utomobong leaned closer, his heart pounding.
"They offered sacrifices," she continued. "Blood for survival. Fear for protection. And the spirits answered. The rattling is their voice. It is the sound of chains, of bones, of promises that can never be broken."
Utomobong's chest tightened. "But why me? Why now?"
Her eyes met his, sharp despite her frailty. "Because you are new. Because you carry dreams. The spirits despise dreams—they feed on them, crush them, twist them. And the Oyokmo family… they know this. They will use the rattling against you."
The words sank into him like stones. He thought of his siblings, of his parents, of the laughter that had followed him out of his home. He thought of the Oyokmo patriarch, his scarred face lit by firelight, his voice heavy with accusation.
His grandmother reached for his hand, her grip surprisingly strong. "Listen to me, Utomobong. Do not answer the rattling. Do not speak when it calls. If you do, it will claim you. And once it claims you, there is no escape."
The wind shifted, carrying with it a faint clatter from the forest. Utomobong stiffened, his breath catching. His grandmother's eyes widened, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"It listens even now."
Utomobong swallowed hard, his throat dry. He wanted to ask more, to demand the truth, but the fear in his grandmother's eyes silenced him. The rattling was not just a sound. It was a curse. A pact. A hunger that had waited generations.
And now, it had found him.