Before the roosters even crowed, Adegboyega jumped off the battered bus and stepped onto the dirt of Ajeji Village. Something felt off. This was home—where his father slept in the ground—but tonight it was wrong. Too quiet, too dark. The moon hung low over thatched roofs, shadows twisting unnaturally. No leaf stirred. No breeze. Just heavy, frozen stillness pressing down.
He clutched his backpack and walked down the familiar dusty path. His footsteps echoed hollowly. On nights like this, Ajeji was alive—late cooking fires, kids sneaking around, laughter spilling from huts. Now, everything was sealed. No lights. No singing. No children rolling tires. It felt like the village was hiding—or waiting for something terrible.
His frown deepened. A week ago, his mother's message had sent chills through him: "Ade, come home. Something is wrong. People are disappearing. Your father's grave has been disturbed." He called her afterward, but no one picked up. The phone was dead.
He hurried toward the family compound. The wooden gate wasn't just open—it hung off its hinges. Inside, he called out, voice cracking, "Mama? Mama, mo ti dé o!" Only silence answered. The room was colder, emptier. The hearth held cold ash, mats scattered, a clay pot shattered. And on the wall by the door: three circles hooked by a jagged line. He'd seen it once in his father's old diary before the elders took it away and warned him about "forbidden knowledge." Why here? Why now?
Footsteps crunched behind him. Ade spun. A tall man held an oil lamp, his gaunt face flickering in its light. Wrapper loose at his waist, eyes sunken and haunted. "Adegboyega?" The voice was rough, shaky. Baba Ikuomola—the village hunter—looked far older and terrified.
"Baba… where's my mother?"
"She's gone."
"Away where?"
"Ajeji isn't safe. Something evil woke up here—your mother's one of the latest taken."
Ade staggered. "What happened to her? Who took her?"
"No one knows," Baba said. "But her disappearance isn't the worst part." He pointed to the symbol. "That mark appears at every house right before someone vanishes."
"What does it mean?"
Baba glanced toward the shadowy tree line at the village's edge. "The Night People are back."
Ade's heart nearly stopped. The Night People—the old story the elders whispered, the one everyone was warned never to ask about.
"But that's just a story," he said.
"Not anymore. Not here," Baba said.
A sudden cold gust swept the room. Ade heard a whisper—his mother's voice, soft but urgent: "Ade… run…"
Baba lunged for his arm. "Don't listen! That's not her. They call your name."
Ade tore free, defiance burning. "No. I'm not leaving. I came for my mother. I'm not going home without her."
Baba Ikuomola just looked at him, fear and sorrow etched deep. "Then you're walking straight into the heart of the darkness, my son."