THE PRICE
425 Words
For three nights, the house was quiet. No whispers, no shadows creeping along the walls. Blessing began to hope that the ritual had worked. She even dared to laugh again, sweeping the yard in the mornings, cooking beside her grandmother, listening to the voices of the market women in the distance.
But peace, she learned, is often the mask of something waiting.
On the fourth night, the dreams began.
She dreamed of the bush, taller now, its roots breaking through the soil like bones. From its heart, the shadow stretched toward her, whispering her name. She tried to run, but the earth swallowed her feet. When she screamed, no sound came out—only whispers, endless whispers.
She woke drenched in sweat, her voice raw.
Her grandmother sat by the fire, eyes heavy with sorrow. “It calls you still.”
Blessing’s hands trembled. “But we ended it. I saw it burn.”
Her grandmother shook her head. “Spirits do not die the way flesh does. You poured its anger into the ground, but the ground belongs to it. Now, it seeks another way.”
That morning, one of the elders returned. He carried grim news. The soil around the bush had cracked open, revealing bones—human bones, old but restless. “The covenant blood is stirring again,” he said. “The spirit demands payment.”
Blessing felt her heart drop. “Payment?”
The elder’s gaze fell on her. “The ritual weakened it, but it has bound itself to you. The price must be taken from your bloodline. Either you… or your grandmother.”
Blessing turned to her grandmother in horror. “No—”
But the old woman’s eyes were calm, resigned. “I knew this day would come. I have carried this burden too long.” She touched Blessing’s cheek gently. “If one life can end it, let it be mine.”
Tears filled Blessing’s eyes. “There must be another way.”
The elder shook his head. “The land remembers, child. It does not forgive so easily.”
That night, as the moon rose high, the whispers returned. This time, they did not circle outside. They filled the house, thick and suffocating, crawling into every corner.
The Ancient spoke again, its voice a chorus of many:
“One must be taken. Choose, or I will claim you both.”
Blessing clutched her grandmother’s hand, trembling. She could feel the choice closing in around her like a noose.
The price could no longer be avoided.
- Writer
