The forest swallowed them up, just like that.
As soon as Ade and Baba Ikuomola left the last hut behind in Ajeji Village, the air shifted. It pressed down on them—heavy, thick—breathing turned into work. The trees stood tall and crowded close, blocking out most of the morning light, so their shadows stretched and slithered. It felt like the shadows moved on their own, no wind, no reason, just there.
Ade tried to keep his cool, but something deep inside screamed at him: You're not supposed to be here.
"Stay close," Baba Ikuomola murmured, barely above a whisper. "And whatever you hear… don't answer."
They kept going, not saying a word. Every step crunched twigs underfoot. Leaves rustled—though the air stayed dead still. Every so often, Ade felt something brush against him. He couldn't see it, but it was definitely there.
Then it started.
A whistle. Soft at first, barely a sound. Almost a song, almost pretty, but somehow all wrong.
Ade froze.
"Baba…" he whispered.
"I hear it." Baba Ikuomola's voice went tight. "Keep moving."
The whistle came again, closer this time.
Then, suddenly—
"Ade…"
His heart stuttered. That voice—it was his mother's. Quiet. Fragile. Floating through the trees, deep in the forest.
"Ade… help me…"
He stopped.
Baba Ikuomola grabbed his arm. "Don't! That's not your mother."
"But—she sounds just like—"
"That's exactly how they hunt."
Again, his mother's voice, raw and pleading now.
"Ade… I am here… please…"
Tears blurred his vision. Every part of him screamed to rush toward her, but he remembered the warning. Don't answer.
Ade squeezed his fists shut and closed his eyes.
"I'll find you, Mama," he whispered. "But not like this."
The voice twisted. Something dark slid into it. It scraped, low and ugly.
"Adegboyega…" it hissed. "You cannot save her."
Ade's eyes snapped open. Silence. Not a bird or leaf. Even the air held its breath.
Baba Ikuomola slowly lifted his bow.
"They know your name now," he said, his voice barely audible. "That's bad."
Ade had to swallow, throat too dry. "What's that mean?"
The hunter scanned the trees. "It means you aren't just a visitor anymore."
Then, like the whole forest let out a breath, a gust swept past. In that blink-long moment, Ade thought he saw them—shapes sliding between the trees. Tall, spindly, eyes aglow.
He blinked. Gone.
"You saw that, right?" he asked.
Baba Ikuomola didn't answer. He pointed ahead, silent.
"There."
Through the tangled brush, something emerged—a shrine, old and battered, blanketed in vines and stained dark in spots that looked too much like dried blood. Strange markings covered its walls: three circles, one jagged line. Ade shuddered; he'd seen that symbol at home.
His chest tightened. "This place…"
"The Forbidden Shrine," Baba's voice sounded hollow. "Iya Aje's home."
They stepped closer. The ground crunched and cracked under their boots—bones, everywhere. Most animal, but some… not quite.
Ade couldn't breathe.
A voice echoed out of the darkness.
"You shouldn't be here."
He froze again.
From the deep shadows, a figure stepped forward. An old woman—well, almost. Her eyes glimmered, her hair wild and long. She wore layers of dark cloth sprinkled with charms and cowries.
Iya Aje.
She looked right at Ade.
"I've been waiting for you, Adegboyega."
His voice wobbled. "You know me?"
She smiled, faint and sharp. "I know your blood. I know your father. I know why the Night People are back."
Baba Ikuomola edged forward, wary. "Then tell us—what's going on in the village?"
The smile faded. "The past has woken up."
She pointed straight at Ade.
"And he's the key."
Ade's heart beat so hard it hurt. "What do you mean?"
Iya Aje drew closer, her gaze pinning him. "Your father didn't die naturally," she said, voice level. "He was killed. Because he learned the truth about the Night People—and tried to stop them."
The world spun around Ade.
"No. That… can't be…"
She leaned in. "Now, they've taken your mother, to finish what they started."
Anger burned through him. "Where are they?!"
Iya Aje turned, looking into the deepest dark. "Across the river of shadows. Their lair. No living soul goes there."
She paused, studied him, then looked back. "If you go, Adegboyega… you won't come back the same."
Ade straightened, eyes fierce. "I don't care. I'm getting my mother back."
She held him with her gaze, nodded finally.
"So be it."
She lifted her hand, and a small carved wooden charm appeared, inscribed with that same strange symbol.
She pressed it into Ade's palm.
"This will protect you. But only once."
He clung to it, his hand shaking. "Once?"
She nodded. "When it breaks… run."
Just then, a scream ripped through the forest. A woman's scream.
Ade's pulse stopped and then hammered. "Mama…"
Baba Ikuomola's face twisted in horror. "They've started the ritual."
Ade didn't wait. He dashed after the scream, sprinting straight into the darkness.