The first thing Jabari felt when he opened his eyes was the pounding ache in his temples. His body was drenched in sweat, his muscles heavy as though he had wrestled through the night. For a moment, he lay still, staring at the wooden ceiling beams above his bed, hoping that the silence meant everything had been nothing more than a terrible dream.
But then he turned his head.
The stone was still there.
It rested exactly where he had left it on the nightstand, a faint glow clinging to its jagged surface. In the cool light of morning, it looked different—less alive, more ordinary—but every now and then, a soft pulse rippled across it like a heartbeat. Jabari's breath caught. He sat up quickly, the blanket clinging to his damp skin, and rubbed his eyes as if that would banish the vision.
"No," he whispered to himself. "It can't be real."
He reached for the stone, his hand trembling, then stopped short. The memory of the dream came back in fragments: the mist, the voices, the endless gray plain, the red eyes burning through the fog. His stomach turned.
With sudden resolve, he snatched an old cloth from a chair and threw it over the stone. The fabric muffled the faint glow, but not entirely. He could still see its light pressing through the weave. His heart hammered faster. Irritated, he stuffed the stone into a drawer and slammed it shut.
"There," he muttered, pacing the room. "Out of sight. Out of mind."
But he wasn't convincing even himself. His ears rang with silence that was too heavy, like the air itself was waiting. He splashed water from the basin onto his face, scrubbing hard until his skin stung, as if he could wash away the night's horrors. His reflection in the small, cracked mirror above the basin looked pale, his eyes rimmed with exhaustion.
"Just a dream," he told himself again. "That's all."
He tried to busy himself with ordinary tasks—folding his blanket, tidying the small shelf where he kept his few belongings. Yet no matter what he did, his mind kept returning to the drawer. His ears strained as though expecting a sound, a whisper, a knock from within. And then, faintly, so faintly he wondered if it was imagination, he heard it: a single throb, like a drumbeat in the quiet.
Jabari froze.
The cloth muffled it, the wood tried to contain it, but the stone's pulse seeped through. The warmth of it brushed against him even from across the room.
He clenched his fists, furious at his own fear. "It's just a rock," he hissed. "It's nothing."
Yet, deep down, he remembered his mother's voice from years ago, teaching him words before bedtime. "When I am afraid, I put my trust in You." She had quoted it softly, brushing his forehead with her hand, assuring him that no nightmare could harm him if he remembered those words.
The memory struck him harder than he expected. He shut his eyes and whispered, almost involuntarily, "When I am afraid…" But he couldn't bring himself to finish the verse.
He wasn't sure if God would listen.
And still, the drawer throbbed once more. Jabari decided he couldn't stay cooped up in the house with the stone a moment longer. He shoved the drawer closed one final time, grabbed his sandals, and stepped outside into the sharp, bright air of morning.
The village was already awake and alive. Women clustered in groups, balancing baskets of maize or cassava on their heads. The rhythmic pounding of pestles drifted from a courtyard, mingling with the laughter of children chasing a homemade ball across the dusty path. Goats bleated, chickens scratched noisily, and the smell of frying dough carried on the breeze from the direction of the market.
For a fleeting moment, Jabari's chest eased. Here, under the sun, everything seemed normal again. He could almost believe that the night had been nothing more than exhaustion twisting his dreams into horror. He managed a weak smile as an elderly neighbor waved at him, her arms full of firewood.
"Jabari, you're up early," she called, her voice as warm as always.
"Couldn't sleep," he replied, forcing a chuckle.
She clucked sympathetically and moved on, her sandals crunching against the dry earth. Ordinary, familiar, safe. Jabari tried to anchor himself in those little details: the texture of the dust underfoot, the chatter of children, the way sunlight glimmered off the thatched roofs.
But it didn't last.
As he passed the acacia tree near the edge of the market, Jabari noticed something odd. The shadows beneath it stretched unnaturally long, reaching toward him as though the sun were low in the sky, though it blazed high and bright above. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and when he looked again the shadows snapped back to normal.
He quickened his pace, jaw tightening.
The market greeted him in a riot of colors and sounds: bright fabrics fluttering in the breeze, spices laid out in woven baskets, the haggling voices of buyers and sellers. He bought a roasted maize cob from a vendor and leaned against a wooden post, trying to blend into the crowd. If he stayed among people, surely the dread would fade.
But even here, unease stalked him.
When he glanced at a group of women arguing cheerfully over the price of tomatoes, he swore their voices lingered a second too long, the echo unnatural, as though the air itself carried their words farther than it should. One of the women laughed, her head tipping back, but her shadow on the ground twitched a fraction later, as though struggling to keep up.
Jabari's maize burned his fingers. He dropped it, the cob bouncing into the dust.
He crouched quickly, pretending to tie his sandal strap, heart pounding. Around him, life went on as if nothing was amiss. Children darted past, a young man shouted over the clatter of a donkey cart, and somewhere a drumbeat marked the rhythm of an approaching ceremony.
"Get a hold of yourself," he muttered under his breath.
But as he straightened, his pocket grew hot. Too hot.
His hand darted instinctively to it. He had forgotten—the stone. Even buried beneath layers of cloth inside the drawer, somehow, it was here. He had taken nothing with him when he left the house, yet the warmth throbbed against his thigh, impossible to ignore.
His stomach lurched. He patted his pocket, and sure enough, he felt its jagged edges pressing through the fabric. He staggered back, bumping into a man carrying a basket of bananas.
"Watch yourself!" the man snapped, then softened when he saw Jabari's pale face. "Are you ill?"
Jabari shook his head quickly. "No. Just… tired."
The man nodded and moved on, unconcerned.
Jabari, however, could barely breathe. He pulled his hand from his pocket, trembling. The stone pulsed again, stronger this time, and for the briefest second, he thought he heard a whisper weave between the market noises: "You cannot run."
He spun around, searching for the source, but the crowd moved normally, their conversations harmless. No one else reacted.
He pressed his palm to his chest, where his heart hammered like a drum. Ordinary life buzzed around him, but he could no longer anchor himself in it. No matter how loud the market grew, he couldn't silence the whispers that weren't truly there, nor ignore the impossible weight of what followed him.
The village was still his home. But for the first time in his life, it no longer felt safe. By the time Jabari reached his home, his body felt hollow, drained by fear. He locked the door behind him and leaned against it, heart still racing from the market. The stone pulsed in his pocket, demanding attention. He pulled it out with shaking hands.
The moment his skin touched its jagged surface, light flared. Images flooded him—sandstorms devouring cities, warriors clashing with weapons that glowed, and a figure robed in light lifting a staff against a tide of shadows. A chorus of whispers filled his skull, some cursing, some crying out words that almost sounded like scripture. One voice rang clear: "Fear not, for I am with you." The words left a tremor of warmth in his chest before the vision collapsed.
Desperate for clarity, Jabari ran to find Musa, his oldest friend. Musa laughed at first, dismissing Jabari's story as exhaustion. But when Jabari revealed the stone, the air thickened. Musa's smile vanished. His eyes widened in terror as a whisper brushed both their ears. He stumbled back, pale. "Throw it away, Jabari. Whatever that thing is—it's not meant for us." He left in haste, refusing to meet Jabari's eyes again.
Alone, Jabari felt the stone's weight more than ever. Dusk came early, shadows stretching unnaturally across the walls. He tried to hide the stone, but its pulse grew louder, the drawer rattling like a beating drum. Mist curled under the door though no wind blew. The whispers returned: "You cannot run."
On trembling knees, Jabari whispered a broken prayer—fragments of words from childhood, a half-remembered Psalm. For the first time, the shadows wavered. The mist hesitated. A thread of peace, fragile but real, anchored him.
Exhaustion overtook him at last. Clutching the stone, he collapsed into uneasy sleep.
When he opened his eyes, the gray plain stretched before him again. But this time, the red-eyed figure stood directly in front of him, closer than ever. Its presence smothered the air, suffocating. The cloaked guide was gone.
The creature leaned forward, its voice a hiss that curled into Jabari's bones.
"Jabari…"
He froze, throat locked, terror freezing his limbs.
"You are already mine."
The mist closed in around him, swallowing his cry.