Morning came, but it did not bring relief.
The sun rose weakly, like it was afraid of what it would reveal. Mist covered the village, thick and low, smelling of wet soil and decay. People stepped out of their houses slowly, counting who was still alive.
Six bodies lay where they fell.
No animal touched them.
Flies circled but never landed.
Their skin had turned dark and tight, like dried bark. Their mouths were open, frozen in the shape of screams that never finished. One man's eyes were missing—only empty holes filled with dirt.
No one dared to bury them.
The elders said the ground would reject the bodies.
They were right.
When two young men tried to dig a grave, the soil turned black and soft, swallowing the shovel. Roots pushed up, wrapping around the metal, snapping it like dry wood. Something beneath the earth growled.
The men ran.
Chukwuemeka watched from the shade of a tree near the square.
He had not slept.
He did not need to.
The tree was awake inside him, keeping him full, warm, alert. His veins felt thick, heavy, like something else was flowing through them.
People avoided his eyes.
Those who didn't felt sick afterward. Headaches. Nosebleeds. Fear that stuck to them for hours.
By midday, a woman screamed.
She pointed toward the forest path.
Someone was walking out.
At first, they thought it was a lost hunter.
Then they saw how it walked.
Slow. Stiff. Dragging one leg. Its skin was grey, split in places, with roots growing through the flesh. Leaves stuck out of its chest. Its mouth moved, chewing nothing.
It was Elder Okorie.
Elder Okorie had been buried three years ago.
More shapes followed behind him.
Men. Women. Even a child.
Not fully alive. Not fully dead.
The village broke.
People screamed prayers. Some fell to the ground begging. Others tried to run, but the forest blocked every path. Trees stood where paths used to be. Roots crossed the road like walls.
The walking dead stopped in the square.
They turned their heads together.
Toward Chukwuemeka.
The tree spoke through him.
"You remember them," his mouth said. "But you forgot what you owed."
One of the dead stepped forward. Its jaw cracked as it spoke.
"We were given."
Another followed.
"We were promised."
Another voice, thin and crying.
"We never left."
The villagers wept.
A mother crawled toward Chukwuemeka, pressing her forehead to the ground.
"Take me," she begged. "Leave my children."
Chukwuemeka felt something twist inside him.
For a second—just a second—the boy pushed back.
But the tree tightened its hold.
Mercy weakens roots, it whispered.
Finish it.
The dead moved.
They touched the living.
Where they touched, skin turned cold. Breath stopped. People collapsed silently, eyes staring, bodies already stiffening like wood.
By sunset, the square was full of bodies.
Only a few were left alive.
The forest crept closer again.
That night, Chukwuemeka stood alone, staring at his hands.
They were stained dark, but not with blood.
With sap.
And far beneath the village, the Demonic Tree sank its roots deeper, satisfied—but still hungry.