The survivors decided to run.
They did not plan it. Fear planned it for them.
There were twelve of them left—men, women, two children. They hid inside one compound, breathing quietly, listening to the forest shift and stretch outside like a living thing.
"We leave before midnight," one man whispered. "Before it notices."
They did not say him.
They did not say the boy.
Names felt dangerous.
They carried nothing but fear and small charms that already felt useless. No lamps. No prayers spoken aloud. Just bare feet and shaking hands.
When the moon climbed high, they moved.
The path out of Ụmụọkụ used to be straight. Now it bent. Twisted. Trees leaned in, blocking the way. Roots rose from the ground like snakes warming themselves.
Still, they ran.
Then the first child screamed.
Something grabbed her ankle from beneath the soil.
Her mother pulled. Screamed. Begged.
The ground opened.
Roots wrapped around the child's body, squeezing, tightening. Her bones snapped loudly, like dry firewood. She was dragged under while still screaming.
The ground closed.
Silence followed.
No one stopped running.
They reached the old footbridge near the stream—the last line between them and freedom. The bridge shook as they stepped onto it.
Then they heard footsteps.
Slow.
Calm.
Behind them.
Chukwuemeka stood at the edge of the path.
The moonlight touched his face and revealed something wrong.
His eyes were no longer fully human. Dark veins spread from them, crawling across his face like cracks in dry earth. His shadow did not match his body—it stretched backward, long and twisted, shaped like branches.
"You cannot leave," he said softly.
One man rushed him with a cutlass.
The blade hit Chukwuemeka's chest.
It sank in.
Then stopped.
The metal rusted instantly, flaking away like old leaves. The man screamed as roots burst from Chukwuemeka's wound, wrapping around his arm, climbing into his mouth.
They pulled him inside-out.
His body collapsed empty.
The bridge snapped.
Those standing on it fell into the stream below.
The water turned black.
Something moved beneath the surface.
Screams bubbled up, then stopped.
Only three people were left.
They fell to their knees before Chukwuemeka.
"Please," one whispered. "You're still a child."
Chukwuemeka blinked.
For the first time in days, his head hurt.
Memories pushed forward—his mother's face, warmth, laughter, being held. His mouth trembled.
"I didn't want this," he said.
The tree roared inside him.
LIES WEAKEN ROOTS.
His body stiffened.
The ground beneath the three survivors split open.
Roots rose slowly, gently, almost lovingly—and pulled them down without a sound.
When it was over, Chukwuemeka stood alone.
The village was silent.
No birds. No insects. No wind.
Only the sound of roots growing beneath the earth.
Far inside the forest, Ọkụ Mmụọ shifted its weight.
It was almost complete.