Chapter 7: The Stone's Whisper.
The night pressed down on Jabari like a weight. The mist had thickened into a suffocating veil, clinging to the walls, seeping beneath door frames, and swallowing the village's familiar landmarks. The air was heavy, damp, and every sound seemed muted—as though the world itself was holding its breath.
Jabari lay awake, staring at the cracked ceiling of his room. Sleep had eluded him, chased away by the memory of shadows writhing in the square and the red-eyed figure's gaze. His body ached with exhaustion, but his mind refused to rest. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the stone pulsing in his pocket, as though reminding him it was still there, still alive, still waiting.
Then it happened.
At first, he thought it was the creak of wood, the shifting of the house in the cool night air. But the sound was too steady. Too deliberate.
A whisper.
"Jabari…"
His breath caught in his throat. He sat up sharply, eyes darting across the room. The lantern on his nightstand flickered faintly, its flame shrinking as though afraid. Shadows gathered along the corners, thickening unnaturally.
"Jabari…" The voice again—smooth, low, curling around his thoughts like smoke. It wasn't heard with his ears but inside him, resonating in his chest, in his bones.
He clutched his pocket, the stone burning against his palm. The whisper came from it.
"You are chosen," it breathed, every syllable deliberate, intoxicating. "Not cursed. Not burdened. Chosen. The village fears you because they are blind. But I—" the voice stretched, deepened, "I see you."
Jabari's heart hammered. He stumbled to his feet, pacing the narrow room. "No… no, you're not real. You're—" He pressed his hands against his ears, though it did nothing. The voice was within, not without.
"You are mine," the stone hissed. "Every breath you take, every thought you whisper, every fear you taste—I know them. And I will give you what you cannot find in your prayers: power."
The word shivered through him. Power. For a fleeting second, his body leaned into it. The memory of villagers staring at him, whispering, treating him as a threat—they had looked at him with fear, with suspicion. What if he didn't have to be the outcast? What if he had the strength to command respect instead?
"No," he muttered, shaking his head violently. "I don't want this. Leave me alone."
The shadows quivered, shifting as though laughing. The voice grew smoother, almost tender. "Do not lie, Jabari. I am part of you now. Your blood carries me, your breath fuels me. And when they shun you, when they blame you, when they turn away—who will remain? Not them. Not your prayers. Only me."
Jabari pressed his palms against his temples, trying to block it out. His mother's voice echoed faintly in his memory, words she had whispered when fear once kept him awake as a child: 'When you are afraid, call on the Lord. He hears you, even in silence.'
"The Lord is my shepherd…" he whispered shakily.
The warmth flickered in his chest, fragile but real. For a heartbeat, the voice faltered. The shadows hesitated.
Then the stone pulsed, harder, sharper. The whisper turned venomous. "Your shepherd cannot save you. Not from me. Not from what you carry. Do you not see how they already suffer? Their screams, their fear—it feeds me. They are mine because of you."
Jabari staggered, pressing himself against the wall. His breath came in ragged gasps. He wanted to throw the stone away, to cast it into the night—but when he tried to pry it from his pocket, his fingers refused to let go. The stone clung to him as much as he clung to it.
The lantern's flame guttered out, plunging the room into near-total darkness. Only the faint glow from the window remained, mist pressing thick against the glass. The voice wrapped around him like chains.
"Do not fight me, Jabari. You were born for this. Chosen for this. Surrender, and I will give you strength beyond your imagining. Resist… and watch your village fall, one by one, until none remain."
Jabari's chest heaved. His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor. He whispered the prayer again, louder this time, forcing the words out even as the stone pulsed with rage: "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want."
Warmth spread again—stronger this time, firmer. Not enough to silence the voice, but enough to anchor him, to remind him that he was not entirely alone.
The stone hissed, its pulse frantic, angry. "You cannot cling to scraps of hope forever. They will fail you. And when they do, I will be waiting."
The shadows in the room shifted violently, then stilled. The voice receded, though its presence lingered like a stain. The stone quieted in his pocket, its throb subsiding to a slow, steady rhythm.
Jabari sat trembling on the floor, drenched in sweat, the echo of the whisper still curling in his mind. He knew this was no dream. The stone had spoken. And it would speak again.
He pressed his palms together, forcing another prayer past his lips, his voice hoarse but determined. "Be strong… and courageous."
The warmth stayed with him, faint but steady, like a candle fighting against a storm.
But outside, unseen, the red-eyed figure stood at the edge of the mist, its gaze fixed on Jabari's trembling silhouette. It did not move. It did not need to. The night was still young, and the game had only just begun. The night deepened into a silence that was not peace but pressure. Mist swelled through the streets, rolling over rooftops, sliding into alleys like a living tide. Jabari sat on his floor, clutching his knees, the stone's faint throb pressing against his chest like an unwelcome heartbeat.
He dared not sleep. The whisper still coiled in his skull, lingering even though it had receded. Each time his eyelids grew heavy, the memory of its voice surged back: You are chosen. You are mine.
But sleep is a stubborn thief. Exhaustion pulled him under despite his resistance. His chin sank to his chest, breath slowing, and then—
Darkness.
He stood in the village square, though it was not the same square he had walked that morning. The sky was a canvas of sickly gray, the sun a faint, lifeless orb. Houses leaned inward as though listening. Shadows stretched long and thin, converging on him. The fountain gurgled, but instead of water, black liquid seeped from its mouth, thick and slow.
"Jabari…" The whisper again—softer now, but everywhere, echoing through the dream. "You see what I see. You feel what I feel."
Villagers appeared around the square. Not whole, but blurred, their faces smudged like charcoal sketches half-erased. They moved stiffly, heads turning in unison toward him. Mouths opened, but instead of words, a low hum rolled out, vibrating through his chest.
He backed away, but their gaze followed. The stone pulsed violently in his pocket, and the hum grew louder, pressing against his skull.
Then their voices merged into one, a cry that split the air: "Chosen."
Jabari fell to his knees, clutching his ears. "No! I don't want this! Leave me alone!"
The villagers' blurred faces twisted into shapes of terror. Their hands stretched toward him, skin unraveling into shadow. Their bodies convulsed as if invisible strings pulled them apart. One by one, they collapsed, dissolving into the black liquid spilling from the fountain.
Jabari screamed, stumbling backward. The liquid spread across the square, swallowing everything. The whisper grew louder, booming in his skull: "This is what you are. The ruin you bring. The fear that feeds me."
He wanted to shut his eyes, to vanish, to undo this nightmare. But in the center of the square, amid the flood of black liquid, the red-eyed figure stood, gaze locked on him. Its eyes glowed brighter than ever, twin embers piercing the darkness.
"You cannot run from me," it said. Unlike the whisper, this voice was clear, cutting, resonant. "You will learn to embrace me. Or your people will drown in their own fear."
Jabari's legs buckled. He clenched his fists, forcing a whisper past his lips. "The Lord is my shepherd…" His voice cracked. "I shall not want."
The words shone faintly in the gray air, fragile sparks hovering for a heartbeat before fading. But the effect was real. The liquid slowed, its spread faltering. The figure tilted its head, eyes narrowing.
"You think your prayers matter?" it hissed. "They are crumbs tossed into a storm. You cannot silence me with scraps of faith."
The ground shook. Jabari fell to his hands and knees as the square cracked apart. From the fissures rose more blurred villagers, each with hollow eyes and twisted mouths. Their cries joined together into a chorus: "Chosen… chosen…"
Jabari tried again, voice trembling but firm: "The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want!"
The sparks grew brighter, more numerous. The blurred villagers recoiled slightly, their forms flickering, as though struggling to hold together. For the first time, the red-eyed figure stepped back. Just one step.
Then the dream shattered.
Jabari jerked awake, heart hammering, sweat soaking his shirt. His room was silent, the lantern still dead. But muffled cries seeped through the mist outside. He froze, listening.
It wasn't only his dream.
The village groaned with restless voices. From one house came a scream. From another, sobbing. A baby wailed, shrill and unending. The sound swelled as though the entire village were trapped in the same nightmare, writhing in sleep, powerless.
Jabari stumbled to the window. The mist outside pulsed faintly, almost in rhythm with the stone. Shadows slid across walls and roofs, curling toward every home. He realized with horror: the stone was no longer speaking only to him.
It was speaking to everyone.
And they were listening. Musa's hut smelled of smoke and herbs, the air thick as Jabari staggered inside, still shaken from the nightmare. Musa's eyes told him that the old man had dreamed it too.
"You saw them," Musa said quietly. "The blurred faces. The shadow rising."
Jabari nodded, unable to trust his voice.
Musa reached under a reed mat and drew out a brittle scroll, edges darkened by time. He laid it between them. Strange symbols covered its surface, but one stood out: a circle pierced by jagged lines, a stone at its center.
"This has happened before," Musa said. "The stone always chooses one. Always whispers. Always tempts. None resisted for long." His voice trembled. "They thought themselves strong, but the stone devoured them. And with each, the village suffered."
Jabari's stomach twisted. "Then I'm doomed."
Musa gripped his arm. "Not doomed—tested. You are different, Jabari. You spoke words of light. That has never been written."
Before Jabari could reply, a scream tore through the night. They rushed outside. Villagers writhed in their sleep along the street, bodies convulsing as though choking on air. A young woman collapsed near the well, skin paling, lips blue.
Jabari froze. The stone in his pocket throbbed wildly, feeding on the chaos. The red-eyed figure emerged at the far end of the street, more solid than before, its gaze sweeping over the villagers like a predator choosing its meal.
"Stop this!" Jabari shouted. "Leave them alone!"
The figure tilted its head. "Their fear sustains me. Their dreams are my feast. Deny me, and they die."
Jabari's fists shook. The woman's breaths grew shallow. He felt the stone's lure—Give in, accept me, save them. His knees weakened under its weight.
But another voice flickered in him, not the stone's, not his own—something quieter, steadier. He clenched his teeth and whispered, "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…"
The words flared in the mist, light piercing the shadows. The figure hissed, staggering backward, its edges blurring. The villagers stilled, gasping as though released from drowning.
Jabari fell to his knees, drained but alive. Musa pulled him up, eyes wide with awe. "You drove it back. Jabari… you truly did."
But before relief could root, the stone pulsed harder, angrier, veins of red searing across its surface. The figure's laughter echoed from the mist, bitter and sharp.
"You think you've won? This is only the beginning. Each prayer you breathe awakens me further. Soon your faith and your fear will both be mine."
The mist swallowed the figure, leaving the village trembling in its wake.
Jabari clutched the stone, heart pounding. For the first time, he realized this was no burden he could carry alone. Yet as he looked at Musa and the shaken villagers gathering, one truth was clear: he had no choice but to fight.
And the stone was not done calling.