The path to Itakom seemed endless. Utomobong's sandals scraped against the dusty earth, each step heavier than the last. The forest pressed close on either side, its trees twisted like skeletal arms reaching for him. The air was thick, humid, and strangely still. Even the birds had fallen silent, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
By the time he reached the outskirts of the village, the sun had dipped low, bleeding red across the horizon. The huts of Itakom stood crooked and weathered, their thatched roofs sagging under years of neglect. Smoke curled lazily from a few chimneys, but the village felt deserted, as though its people had retreated indoors to escape something unseen.
His grandmother's hut was small, leaning against the weight of time. She greeted him with a frail smile, her eyes shadowed by worry. "You are here now," she whispered, her voice trembling. "But remember, the night in Itakom is never silent."
Inside, the hut smelled of earth and old wood. Utomobong placed his bag in the corner and sat on the bamboo mat. His grandmother busied herself with a pot of soup, but her movements were slow, distracted. She kept glancing at the door, as if expecting it to rattle open at any moment.
As darkness fell, the village changed. The air grew colder, heavy with dread. Utomobong stepped outside, drawn by curiosity. The moon hung low, pale and sickly, casting long shadows across the ground. He could hear faint murmurs from neighboring huts—prayers whispered quickly, doors bolted shut.
Then it came.
The rattling.
At first, it was faint, like stones tumbling in the distance. But soon it grew louder, echoing through the village, bouncing off the walls of huts, crawling across the ground. Utomobong froze, his breath caught in his throat. The sound seemed to move, circling, searching.
He backed into the hut, his grandmother already awake, her eyes wide with fear. "Do not move," she hissed. "Do not answer it."
The rattling grew violent, shaking the walls of their hut. Utomobong pressed his hands against his ears, but the sound was inside him now, vibrating through his bones. He felt the mat tremble beneath him, as though something unseen was clawing at the earth.
Minutes stretched into hours. The rattling would fade, then return, louder, closer. Utomobong's heart pounded, sweat dripping down his face. He wanted to scream, but his grandmother's hand gripped his wrist tightly, warning him into silence.
Finally, just before dawn, the rattling ceased. The silence that followed was heavier than the noise itself. Utomobong lay trembling, his body exhausted, his mind racing. He had survived his first night in Itakom, but the fear lingered, gnawing at him.
Outside, the villagers emerged cautiously, their faces pale, their eyes hollow. No one spoke of the rattling, but Utomobong could see it in their expressions—the dread, the resignation. This was life in Itakom.
And as the sun rose, Utomobong realized something chilling: the rattling was not just a sound. It was a presence. It was watching him. Waiting. Testing.