The village of Aderemi had always slept to the sound of crickets. Their chorus filled the night like a living blanket, steady and reassuring. But on this particular night, the silence was so deep it felt heavy, as though the air itself was holding its breath.
Tunde noticed it first.
He stood by the small window of his room, staring out at the river that cut through the village like a dark scar. The moon hung low, its reflection trembling on the water. No crickets. No frogs. Not even the rustle of palm leaves.
Something was wrong.
Tunde had grown up beside the river. He knew its moods—the way it laughed during the rainy season and whispered secrets during harmattan nights. Tonight, it did neither. It only stared back at him, black and unreadable.
A sudden chill crawled up his spine.
From somewhere far away, a sound broke the silence. A splash. Then another. Slow. Deliberate. As if someone—or something—was stepping into the water.
"Tunde!" his mother called softly from the other room. "Come and sleep."
He hesitated, then closed the window. But even as he lay down, the image of the river stayed with him. In his dreams, the water began to move.
And it was calling his name.