Jabari woke to a silence that felt unnatural, heavier than any night he had known. The sun had barely breached the horizon, yet the shadows in his small room already stretched long and twisted across the walls, curling in corners as though searching for him. His chest rose and fell rapidly, but his breaths felt shallow, like the very air resisted him.
The stone lay beside his bed, jagged and unyielding, still glowing faintly from the night. Its pulse, once soft, throbbed violently now, a warning or perhaps a summons. When he reached out instinctively, the warmth burned through his fingers. Pain, sharp and intrusive, shot up his arm, and he yanked his hand back with a hiss, heart hammering.
"This isn't real. It's not real," he whispered, but his own voice shook in disbelief.
He remembered a prayer his mother had taught him years ago, muttering words he barely recalled. "The Lord is my shepherd…" he said haltingly, then faltered, unsure if the invocation carried power or was just an echo of comfort from a distant childhood. The stone pulsed again, relentless, as though mocking the feeble attempt at resistance.
Even as he tried to steady himself, the room felt alive. The shadows twisted, slithering across the floor, elongating unnaturally. One corner seemed darker, denser, as if it housed a presence that hovered just beyond perception. The air smelled faintly of smoke and iron, a scent that made him gag. He could almost hear a whisper there, though when he focused, it vanished.
Panic rose in his chest, yet he forced himself to move. He stepped toward the window, letting the first pale light wash over him, hoping that the familiar sight of the village beyond might anchor him. But even the dirt path and the acacia tree looked wrong. Shadows stretched and writhed in the morning glow, and every sound—the crowing of a rooster, the creak of a cartwheel—seemed amplified, echoing in a way that made him dizzy.
The stone's pulse became unbearable. It throbbed in time with his heartbeat, or perhaps forced his heartbeat to match its own. Trembling, he picked it up again. The instant he touched it, a sharp vision flashed behind his eyes: the gray plain, the red-eyed figure standing tall and patient, waiting. The memory of last night's terror surged up, and a shiver ran from his spine to the tips of his fingers.
For a moment, he pressed the stone against his chest, muttering the half-remembered prayer aloud. A faint warmth lingered in his palm, comforting, though the shadows did not retreat. The mist outside his window seemed to waver, but the sense of dread remained, heavy and oppressive.
And then the stone pulsed again—harder, faster, almost violently. It was no longer just a warning. It was calling him. Pulling him. Claiming him.
Jabari's eyes widened. He knew, in that instant, that nothing in his waking life had prepared him for what was coming. The stone was no longer just an object. It was alive. And it was watching. Jabari stepped outside, hoping the familiar sights of the village would anchor him, but the morning light offered little comfort. The dirt paths seemed sharper somehow, the thatched roofs darker, and even the wind carried a strange chill that prickled his skin. Birds flitted overhead, yet their songs sounded hollow, as if echoing from a distant, distorted world.
People moved through the village as always—women carrying baskets, children chasing one another, a donkey cart rattling past—but Jabari felt eyes on him, or perhaps he imagined it. Whispers trailed him wherever he walked, faint and indistinct, yet insistent. He glanced at neighbors who smiled politely, only to feel an unease settle deeper in his chest. Something about their eyes was… off.
Musa appeared at the edge of the square, leaning against a tree, arms crossed. His eyes widened slightly when he saw Jabari. For a moment, he looked as though he would turn and flee, but he didn't. The moment Jabari drew closer, the stone pulsed again, warm and heavy against his side, almost reacting to Musa's presence.
Jabari froze. "Musa?" he called softly.
Musa stepped forward cautiously. "Stay away," he whispered, voice tight. "I don't know what's happening, but… whatever that thing is, it's dangerous."
Before Jabari could respond, a commotion erupted a few steps away. One of the villagers—a man carrying firewood—collapsed suddenly, gasping for breath. Panic spread quickly as people gathered, shouting for help. Jabari's stomach churned. His heart hammered. The stone throbbed violently, nearly burning through the cloth in his pocket.
He stumbled toward the man, instinctively reaching out, but as he did, a wave of unease washed over him. The villagers flinched at his approach, some stepping back, fear and suspicion flickering across their faces. Even Musa took a hesitant step away. Jabari realized with growing horror that the stone's influence was no longer confined to him—it reacted to those around him, its pulse intensifying near people, almost as if it could feel their fear.
He sank to his knees, clutching the stone, desperate to control it. "I didn't do this!" he shouted, voice cracking. "It's not me!"
But the villagers continued to stare, and whispers carried across the square. The man on the ground groaned weakly, reaching a trembling hand toward the sky as though seeking help beyond human reach. Jabari's chest tightened. Somewhere deep within, a half-forgotten prayer surfaced, words from his childhood: "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want…" He muttered it quietly, unsure if it offered protection or was merely a fleeting comfort.
Musa's voice cut through the chaos. "You need to get rid of it! You have to—before someone else gets hurt!"
Jabari's head snapped toward his friend, but before he could respond, the stone pulsed with blinding intensity, scorching his palm, forcing him to stagger back. Fear gripped him like a vice. The realization hit hard: whatever power he held in his hand, he could not control. Not entirely. And worse, it seemed to choose its own victims.
He swallowed hard, eyes darting across the square. The villagers whispered again, fearful, suspicious. Musa looked at him, a mixture of dread and pleading in his gaze. Jabari's throat tightened. He had no choice left. The stone had begun to claim not just him—it was spreading, touching the lives of everyone nearby. Jabari stumbled backward, still clutching the stone, his lungs burning from the panic that refused to subside. The village square seemed… wrong. The edges of buildings blurred, and the colors of the morning light dimmed, muted as though filtered through a gray haze. Shadows stretched unnaturally, curling along the walls and ground, like living fingers probing for weakness.
Then he saw it.
At the edge of his vision, the red-eyed figure materialized, partially corporeal, its form hovering just beyond the crowd yet fully present. People seemed unaware, continuing their frantic gestures, but Jabari could feel its presence, cold and suffocating, bending the air toward him. Its eyes burned like molten coals, and the black cloak rippled unnaturally, blending with the shadows around it.
"You cannot hide," it hissed, voice low, penetrating, like smoke curling into his mind. Each word vibrated against his bones, shaking his resolve.
Jabari's hands shook as he pressed the stone to his chest. It pulsed violently, almost reacting to the figure's words, and a heat burned through his palm. He wanted to scream, to run, but his legs refused to obey. Fear tangled with confusion. How could it exist here, in the waking world, when last he saw it only in dreams?
A faint memory rose unbidden—a fragment of scripture he had half-remembered from childhood: "Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go." The words were fragile, but they sparked a tremor of courage in his chest. He took a shallow breath, clinging to that glimmer of hope as though it were a lifeline.
The figure shifted closer, its form darkening, shadows rippling outward like a tide threatening to engulf him. Jabari's vision blurred; the square's noise faded, replaced by whispers, chanting, the drumming pulse of the stone echoing in his skull. The air smelled faintly of smoke and iron, like a warning or a curse—or perhaps both.
"You belong to me," the figure whispered again, stretching its hand toward Jabari's chest. The crowd seemed to fade around them; he could barely see Musa's anxious face in the distance. The fear in Musa's eyes made his heart twist. Jabari's mind screamed at him to resist, but he felt the pull—the irresistible tug of the stone, the insistence of the figure, the shadows pressing in.
His fingers tightened around the stone. "I—I won't…" His voice cracked, trembling like dry leaves in the wind.
The figure's red eyes flared. Its presence bent the light around him. "You will belong," it intoned, "and there is no escape."
For a brief, trembling moment, Jabari whispered the half-remembered prayer again, letting it rise into the empty air of the square. The red eyes faltered, the shadows hesitated, just enough for him to catch a breath, just enough to know that he was not entirely powerless.
But even as the figure recoiled slightly, it remained. Patient. Waiting. Knowing. And Jabari realized, with a chilling certainty, that this was only the beginning. Jabari awoke to a mist heavier than ever, clinging to his skin like wet cloth. Every breath burned his throat, thick and metallic, as though the air itself resisted him. The gray plain stretched endlessly, but unlike last time, there were no wandering shadows or comforting noises—only silence and the steady, relentless pulse of the stone in his palm.
The red-eyed figure emerged from the mist, moving slowly, patiently. Its form shifted, sometimes human, sometimes a crawling beast, sometimes a smoke that twisted upward endlessly.
"You are mine," it whispered. "You have touched the stone. You have carried it. And now so will you."
Jabari wanted to run, to throw the stone away, but his legs betrayed him. His heartbeat synced with the pulsing rock, a drumbeat of terror. A half-remembered prayer rose from his memory, fragile and hesitant: "Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid…" He repeated it under his breath, and the red eyes faltered just slightly.
The figure did not attack. Instead, it offered visions: Jabari standing before crowds, commanding obedience; healing the sick; ruling nations; sitting on a throne of black stone. Each vision intoxicated him, tugging at his ambition, whispering promises of power beyond measure.
"Take it," the figure hissed. "Accept me, and all of this will be yours."
Jabari's chest rose and fell. He struggled against the allure, clutching the stone as if it might anchor him. A distant memory whispered, "What does it profit a man to gain the whole world, yet lose his soul?" The words cracked through the illusions like glass, and for the first time, he wavered, able to reject the temptation for a fleeting moment.
Light pierced the gray mist as another figure appeared: cloaked, stable, calm, radiating faint warmth. "He has not chosen," it said firmly to the red-eyed figure. "Choice is everything."
Jabari felt relief for the first time, though it was tenuous. The red-eyed figure snarled, retreating slightly, patient still, knowing it could return at any moment.
Jabari jolted awake in his room. Shadows clung to corners, stretching unnaturally; the air was thick and cold. The stone burned hot in his palm. A prayer from childhood spilled from his lips: "The Lord is my shepherd…" The shadows hesitated, faintly, but did not retreat.
The red-eyed figure hovered in the threshold of his vision, whispering, "You are already mine."
The next morning, the shadows in his room seemed heavier, more deliberate. The stone pulsed violently, scorching his palm, and Jabari shivered. Stepping outside, he hoped the village would offer comfort, but the dirt paths looked sharper, the roofs darker, and even the wind carried a chill.
He recalled faint prayers, whispers of scripture, and held the stone like a lifeline, but the unease persisted.
Villagers moved about their daily chores, but Jabari sensed eyes on him, whispered suspicions trailing him. Musa appeared at the edge of the square, tense and cautious. The stone throbbed violently near him, almost responding to Musa's presence.
Before Jabari could react, a villager collapsed. Panic spread; people stepped back, fearful. Musa pleaded with him to seek help. The stone's pulse grew unbearable, and Jabari realized its influence was spreading beyond him.
At the square's edge, partially corporeal, the red-eyed figure manifested. Its red eyes burned molten and cold, shadows bending toward Jabari.
"You cannot hide," it hissed, voice curling into his chest.
Jabari whispered the half-remembered prayer again. The red eyes faltered, shadows hesitated. Just a moment, but enough for him to breathe. He realized the figure had crossed the boundary between dream and waking, and the battle was no longer confined to visions.
Musa stepped forward, pleading publicly for Jabari to seek help from the priest. Tension escalated as the stone reacted violently to Musa's presence. Shadows writhed around them, and villagers backed away.
"You need to get rid of it!" Musa cried. "It's spreading!"
Jabari wanted to, but the stone burned through his fingers. His hands tightened around it, trapped, powerless to remove it.