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Utomobong sat on the edge of the wooden bench, his fists clenched tight against his knees. The voices of his siblings echoed in the courtyard, sharp and dismissive, like stones thrown against his skin. Imaobong, the eldest, spoke with finality: "You dream too much, Utomobong. Dreams don't feed a family."
Iyeneobong laughed, a cruel sound that carried across the compound. Edidiong smirked, his eyes gleaming with rivalry. Even his parents, silent and stern, had already decided his fate. The Oyokmo family's whispers had poisoned their ears, convincing them that Utomobong's ambitions were foolish, dangerous even.
That evening, his mother's voice broke through the tension. "You will go to Itakom. Stay with my mother. Perhaps the village will teach you sense."
The words struck him harder than any blow. Itakom was a place of shadows, a village spoken of in hushed tones. He had heard stories—of nights filled with rattling noises, of spirits that prowled the forest, of people who vanished without trace.
As dawn broke, Utomobong stood at the threshold of his family's compound, a small bag slung over his shoulder. His siblings watched with satisfaction, their eyes cold. His father avoided his gaze, and his mother's lips pressed into a thin line. No blessing, no farewell—only exile.
The path to Itakom wound through thick forests, where the air grew heavier with each step. Birds fell silent as he passed, and the rustling of leaves seemed to whisper his name. By the time he reached the village, the sun had dipped low, painting the huts in long shadows.
His grandmother greeted him with weary eyes, her frail hands trembling as she held his. "You are here now," she said softly. "But remember, the night in Itakom is never silent."
That night, Utomobong lay on a bamboo mat beside her. The hut creaked with age, the air thick with the scent of smoke and earth. He tried to close his eyes, but sleep would not come.
Then it began.
A faint rattling, distant at first, like bones clattering in the dark. It grew louder, closer, until the walls seemed to tremble. Utomobong pressed his hands against his ears, but the sound was inside him now, crawling beneath his skin.
He turned to his grandmother, but she was already awake, her eyes wide with fear. "Do not move," she whispered. "The rattling has found you."
And in that moment, Utomobong understood: his exile was not punishment. It was a trial. Survival in Itakom would demand more than strength—it would demand courage against the fear that never slept.
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