The Forest That Watches
The forest was alive in ways the village never was.
It breathed. It watched. It whispered.
The moment we stepped into its shadows, I felt it. The air turned heavy, thick—like unseen hands pressing against my skin. The trees stretched endlessly above us, their twisted branches clawing the sky like angry fingers. Behind us, the path vanished almost immediately, swallowed by creeping vines and the silence of the wild.
We were truly alone.
Before he vanished into the shadows, Baba Jide had warned us.
"Stay on the narrow paths," he said. "Do not answer if the forest calls your name. And do not eat anything that grows here… unless you want to lose your mind."
I didn't ask how he knew. I just nodded and held Mama's frail hand tighter.
The boy led the way, moving slowly, his steps careful. Every movement felt like a battle—against sharp thorns, roots that tried to trip us, and the strange noises that echoed from nowhere and everywhere.
Mama was getting worse.
Her fever had grown since we left the village. Her skin was burning hot, her breath ragged, her eyes rolling with every step. I half-carried her, her weight dragging me down, but I didn't let go.
I couldn't.
I didn't know what sickness had taken her. Maybe it was hunger. Maybe it was the years of being mocked and rejected. Or maybe—just maybe—it was what the villagers had always whispered about her.
Something… not of this world.
The first night was the worst.
No food. No fire. No shelter.
We found a small clearing and gathered dried leaves to cover Mama. The boy and I took turns staying awake, listening. Every sound felt like danger—the rustle of leaves, the howl of something far off, the soft crunch of a step that didn't belong to any of us.
I couldn't see much.
But I heard everything.
The second day brought hunger. The boy dug up roots, sniffed them, tasted them. When he didn't fall or cry out, I took a bite too.
Mama refused to eat.
Her lips were cracked. Her eyes far away. She mumbled broken words, as though caught between this world and another.
That night, I woke to find her sitting up, staring into the trees.
"Mama?" I whispered.
She didn't blink.
She just stared—body still, breath calm, as if she was listening to someone I couldn't hear.
I crept closer and touched her hand.
It was cold.
"Mama…" I said again, my voice shaking.
She blinked slowly, turned toward me like someone waking from a deep sleep.
"They are watching," she whispered.
My skin crawled.
"Who?" I asked.
But she said nothing else.
She lay down again, curling into herself like a frightened child.
I didn't sleep the rest of the night.
By the third day, her skin had changed. Pale. Almost gray.
She was dying.
I knew it.
Terror gripped my chest. I couldn't let her die here—not in this cursed place. Not like this.
The boy saw it too. He knelt beside her, touched her forehead, and said, "We need water. Clean water."
I nodded, heart racing.
We left Mama under the trees and followed the faint sound of running water. It felt like walking through a dream—branches brushing our arms, the forest closing in tighter.
Finally, we found a stream. Cool. Clear.
I drank deeply.
Then, using cupped leaves, I carried water back to Mama.
She barely reacted.
"Please drink," I whispered, pressing drops to her dry lips.
A few slid down her throat.
She was still breathing.
Barely.
The boy sat beside me. "We can't stay in one place for too long," he said. "The forest listens. It remembers."
I nodded.
But I didn't move.
Because deep inside, I was afraid.
Afraid that even if we made it out of this place…
Mama wouldn't make it with us.
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