EPISODE 7 : THE SEVENTH OATH
996 Words
The crowd stood frozen around the old woman's body.
No one dared to move.
No one dared to speak.
The only sound was the river flowing lazily behind them, carrying streaks of red clay downstream.
Amara's mind raced.
"I just spoke to her."
She had heard the woman's voice. Seen the wrinkles on her face. Felt the warmth of her hand on her shoulder.
Yet the villagers insisted she had been dead for twenty years.
Chief Nworie slowly knelt beside the body.
"Cover her."
Two elderly women stepped forward with a white wrapper. Neither looked directly at the corpse. They kept their eyes fixed on the ground as though afraid the dead might look back.
Amara couldn't take it anymore.
"I spoke to her!"
The villagers turned.
"She told me the man beneath the iroko tree was my father."
A murmur swept through the crowd.
An old man dropped the walking stick he was holding.
Another woman began praying under her breath.
Chief Nworie closed his eyes.
"Then she has chosen you."
"What does that mean?"
"It means the ancestors are no longer whispering..."
He looked straight at Amara.
"...they are speaking."
That night, the village was swallowed by an uneasy silence.
No drums.
No insects.
Not even dogs barked.
Obinna refused to let Amara stay alone, so they barricaded themselves inside her father's house.
Every window was sealed.
Every door was locked.
The leather journal lay open on the dining table between them.
"I've read this page a hundred times," Amara said, pointing to a sentence written in her father's shaky handwriting.
The Seventh will betray the others before the moon drinks the river.
"I still don't understand."
Obinna leaned closer.
"The seven men..."
"The ones in the photograph?"
He nodded.
"What if one of them made a deal?"
"A deal with who?"
Before he could answer...
A loud knock echoed through the house.
Not three knocks.
One.
Heavy.
Powerful.
The walls trembled.
Both of them looked toward the front door.
Another knock.
Dust fell from the ceiling.
"Don't open it," Obinna whispered.
Amara nodded.
Then a familiar voice drifted through the wood.
"Amara..."
Her heart skipped.
It was her mother's voice.
Soft.
Gentle.
Exactly as she remembered it.
"My baby..."
Tears filled Amara's eyes.
Her mother had died when she was thirteen.
No...
This couldn't be real.
"I know you're inside."
The voice sounded tired.
"I've been looking for you."
Obinna grabbed Amara's wrist before she could move.
"Listen carefully."
The voice outside continued.
"If I wanted to hurt you..."
A long pause followed.
"...would I still call you the name I gave you?"
Amara froze.
Only her mother had ever called her...
Nkem.
It was the private nickname she used when no one else was around.
No one knew it.
Not even her father.
Obinna's grip loosened.
"How..."
Amara slowly stepped toward the door.
"Nkem..."
The voice cracked with emotion.
"I don't have much time."
Her hand reached the wooden latch.
Then she remembered something.
Her mother never knocked.
Whenever she came home from the market, she always sang before entering the house.
Always.
No matter how tired she was.
Amara stepped back.
"No."
Silence.
Then the voice changed.
The warmth disappeared.
"Nkem..." it growled.
Its tone became deeper.
Angrier.
"Open..."
The wood around the doorframe began to groan.
Long cracks spread across it.
Whatever was outside wasn't pretending anymore.
It was trying to get in.
Without warning, every lamp in the house went out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Something moved across the ceiling.
Slowly.
Like a giant spider.
Amara switched on her phone flashlight.
The beam landed on the roof.
Nothing.
She lowered it.
A drop of cold water landed on her forehead.
She wiped it away.
Her fingers came back red.
Blood.
Another drop.
Then another.
The ceiling wasn't leaking rainwater.
It was bleeding.
A loud crash came from the kitchen.
Obinna sprinted toward the sound.
Amara followed.
Every cupboard door had swung open.
Plates lay shattered across the floor.
The old wooden table had been dragged to the center of the room.
And scratched into its surface...
...were seven names.
Six had deep lines carved through them.
Only one remained untouched.
AMARA OKEKE.
Beneath it, fresh letters slowly appeared as though an invisible knife was writing them.
THE SEVENTH OATH IS YOURS.
The room suddenly grew ice-cold.
A low whisper surrounded them.
Not one voice.
Hundreds.
Repeating the same sentence.
"Finish what was started..."
"Finish what was started..."
"Finish what was started..."
The whispers became louder until Amara clamped her hands over her ears.
Then, just as suddenly...
Silence.
Everything stopped.
The blood vanished from the ceiling.
The broken plates were back on the shelves.
The table was clean.
As if nothing had happened.
Except...
The message remained.
Before sunrise, Amara could no longer ignore the questions haunting her.
She returned alone to the council hut.
Chief Nworie was already awake, seated before a small fire.
He didn't look surprised to see her.
"You came for answers."
"I'm the seventh, aren't I?"
The old chief stared into the flames for a long time.
Then he spoke.
"No."
Amara frowned.
"What?"
"You were never supposed to become the seventh."
He looked up, his eyes heavy with guilt.
"That place belonged to your father."
Amara's breath caught.
"But he refused."
"What did he refuse?"
The chief's voice dropped to a whisper.
"To sacrifice you."
Before Amara could react, the doors of the hut burst open.
A young hunter staggered inside, covered from head to toe in mud and blood.
"They've opened it!" he gasped.
"They've opened the grave beneath the Sacred Iroko!"
The fire in the hut suddenly flared blue.
Outside...
The ancient drums began beating again.
This time they weren't slow.
They were frantic.
As the first rays of sunlight touched the village, the earth shook violently.
Across Umuoji, cracks split open in the red ground.
And from those cracks...
Human hands began reaching toward the sky.
End of Episode 7
- Writer
