The Night I Escaped What I Couldn't See

In the village where I grew up, nightfall was a thing to be respected — almost feared.

The earth turned cold, the trees whispered secrets, and the world belonged to the creatures that thrived in darkness.

That night, I had stayed longer than I should have at my uncle's house, helping him prepare palm wine for a festival. By the time I left, the moon was only a dull silver sliver hiding behind thick clouds, and the path home twisted through thickets that even daytime wouldn’t dare to cross without prayer.

I wasn’t scared — not yet.

The familiar sounds of the night filled the air: the deep, throaty croaks of bullfrogs, the shrill gossip of toads hidden under leaves, and the sharp, almost human-like chattering of bats weaving through the trees above me.

I clutched my small lantern tighter and began to hum a tune, an old habit to keep my heart steady.

That’s when I heard it.

A second set of footsteps behind mine.

At first, I thought it was just the echo of my own steps bouncing off the trees, but these footsteps were heavier — too heavy.

I paused.

They paused.

I moved.

They moved.

The frogs' chorus grew louder, almost mocking, and the bats overhead screeched a sound that almost — almost — resembled a laugh.

Goosebumps prickled my skin.

I quickened my steps, the thin beam of my lantern shaking wildly ahead of me. Shadows danced on the narrow path, twisting into shapes that looked far too much like hands reaching out.

Suddenly, a bat swooped low, brushing the top of my head with its leathery wing. I cried out, dropping my lantern. The glass shattered, and the precious light blinked out, leaving me alone in thick, suffocating darkness.

That’s when the voices started.

Low murmurs, as if someone — or something — was mimicking the frogs, mimicking me.

I heard my own hurried breathing echoed back at me from somewhere deeper in the bush.

I ran.

I didn’t think, I didn’t look back. My bare feet pounded the dirt, dodging rocks and roots that seemed to claw at my ankles. Branches tore at my clothes, my arms, my face. But I ran like my life depended on it — because I was sure that it did.

Behind me, the sounds followed — not just footsteps now, but strange, choked laughter. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t animal. It was somewhere in between.

At the edge of the forest, just before the path opened up to the safety of my village, I tripped.

I hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from my lungs.

And in that moment of weakness, as I gasped for air, I felt a cold, heavy presence pass right by me — close enough to brush my cheek like a damp, rotting cloth.

No face. No body. Just a heavy, angry emptiness.

I scrambled up and bolted for the village gates. As soon as I crossed into the faint orange glow of the fire lamps, the pressure lifted. The croaks, the whispers, the mimicry — all stopped, as if a door had slammed shut behind me.

I didn’t speak of it to anyone.

In my village, you learned quickly that some stories were better left untold — because sometimes, when you speak about them...

they listen.