He was back in Grandpa's little house. No. It wasn't Grandpa's. But he'd been there before. As he took tentative steps forward, the sound of his feet crunching what must be dry leaves echoed in the eerie silence of the compound, the air getting thicker and thicker with a sense of foreboding as though the darkness itself held secrets that were best left undisturbed, the sinister glow from the window of the hut in front of him casting long shadows that danced across the ground like ghostly figures, a shiver ran down his spine and he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. 

The old wooden door of the hut creaked in protest as he pushed it open, revealing an interior that was dimly lit by a flickering lantern, his eyes stayed on the ancient stools arranged around five white burning calabashes for a while, then moved to the familiar artifacts lying beside each stool. Was it his imagination or did one of the artifacts—the one that looked like the exact figurine he’d been seeing since he was a kid—come alive and look at him? And... and... there were echoes in his head, laughter, cries...the room was alive, and something was pushing him to the center of the room where a low table held an intricately designed box, adorned with patterns that seemed to shift and writhe. 

As he drew near, the box pulsed with a faint energy, and there was a whisper in the back of his mind;

“Tunji, Oya sii.”

Hands trembling, he lifted the lid, fragments of images, emotions, and experiences that he couldn't quite grasp flooded the room at the same time he heard hushed hums. 

He wasn’t alone in the room anymore. 

Beings he could only recognize from his many nightmares had occupied three of the stools, and on the fourth stool sat an aged woman who had a black wrapper tied around her chest, the upper parts of her body and her face were painted white.

“Kaabo sile, olujosin orisa atijo. Welcome home, worshiper of the ancient god,” the woman said in a withering voice.

That was when it clicked: the compound, the hut, and even the box, all were intertwined with his curse, his burden. This place was more than just a strange location—it was a key to unlocking the mysteries of his past, and he had been led here for self-discovery.

He watched as three of the artifacts beside the stools tremble and in a split second, they grew large and alive, their eyes blazing. Fear surged through his veins, his heart pounded as the presence began to hypnotize him. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! He could no longer move any part of his body!

His mind began to fight. But despite his efforts, there was an invisible force tightening its grip around him, rendering his struggle futile. His limbs grew heavy as though encased in lead. He tried to scream but his voice caught in his throat, stifled by an overwhelming sense of dread.

Their voices grew stronger, mocking his resistance. With a sudden and violent surge, he was lifted off the ground, his body rendered weightless and vulnerable as he was suspended in the air. 

The ritual had begun, and there was no escape for him this time. He racked his brain for the right prayer—chants, bible verses that could free him, but none came. His memories seemed to be wiped off every religious mantra. He thought of Father Ray, his heart reached out for the old priest, but he was rewarded with silence.

Jesus! He’s fast slipping away. The powerful grips of the beings were suffocating him. He wished he could close his eyes, and shut out the surreal nightmare, but his gaze remained locked on the swirling of their forms.

“The elders chose you when your father rejected them,” The woman who spoke earlier, said as the world around him blurred and twisted as though reality itself was deforming. Ancient Yoruba Symbols and sigils shimmered in the air around him. As he focused on them, he began to understand—names, dates, genealogy. 

“We have watched you do things that no ordinary man can do. People are put in awe of your supernatural abilities—powers we allow you to exercise even when you constantly fight us. Now is the time to take your place with us.”

His place with them…Yes, that’s where he's meant to be. His fate was sealed when he was born. But was that really what he wanted? To become a medium and offer sacrifices to a deity who’s struggling to remain relevant in a changed world, was that what he fancied? 

That didn’t sound attractive enough to him.

“This is your fate,” the woman said.  

That’s a lie. His fate was anything he what it to be. Father Ray taught him that. “No one else decides what you are or who you become except you. If fate comes at you swinging, then you hit back,” the old man would always say, and those words had guided him all these years. although sometimes, they weren’t able to stop the darkness from stealing moments of his life.

“We can take away your sleeplessness, your torments. You can love again and even get married because you'll no longer embarrass and frighten your women. Just embrace who you are, and you will have everything.” 

Everything? He didn't want everything. What he wanted was peace, the kind that came with no condition, no threats. And this place would not offer that to him.  

“You don't have any choice, this is your destiny. You can't refuse it…” 

Someone already did and nothing happened. Bishop Timini, his biological father, turned his back on this bullshit and these losers did nothing.

“Don’t make the same mistake your father made. This is your destiny, refuse it and you will die.”

Oh, go to hell. 

King began to fight again, every fiber in him screaming for release. But his mind was caught in a vice, squeezed by an invisible hand that refused to relinquish its hold. Time lost all meaning as he hung there, trapped between the earthly realm and whatever twisted dimension these beings hailed from. The only certainty was his overwhelming desire to be free from their grasp, to return to the safety of the world he knew.  

As he was teetering on the edge of letting go, something began to bloom at a corner of his waning heart, a Latin chant from a faint, distant voice.

“Tantun ergo Sacramentum

Veneremur cernui...”

At first, it was barely a whisper, like a fragile echo. But gradually, it gained strength, like a distant melody that grew clearer with each passing moment. It was a Latin prayer he learned while serving as an altar boy many years ago.

“Et antiquum documentum

Novo cedar ritui...”

The more prominent the voice became, the more his focus shifted, his mental energy realigning toward this newfound source of strength. He clung to the prayer, letting its words wrap around him like a protective shield, as though the words held a power of their own, pushing back against the encroaching darkness.

He had said those chants with other parishioners on several evening benedictions and had felt nothing but excitement during those times. Now, the chant was no longer just exciting words but a connection to something greater, something beyond the immediate battle he found himself in. He was sure he was repeating the words to himself because their rhythm was now synchronizing with his heartbeat. With each utterance, the beings shrilled, and their grip fractured.

The atmosphere changed as he continued to repeat the mantra. Minutes might have passed, or perhaps hours—he couldn't quite tell. But in that timeless space, he experienced a transformation. The darkness finally relented, retreating as if defeated by the sheer force of his will. The voices that had tormented him faded into the background, their influence diminished to mere echoes, and he was on his feet again in the center of the room. Right there before his eyes, everything began to vanish—the artifacts, the box, the table, the shadowy things, the hut itself. 

Then he was standing in a field, listening to the sound of a church bell ringing in the distance. 

He followed it, walked a few miles, and then everything faded, and his senses slowly returned from the vivid dream world to the waking reality.

He was in his room again, bathed in the harsh light from the electric bulb while the remnants of the dream clung to his thoughts.

He was a little groggy due to the transition from sleep to waking up when his phone began to ring. He reached over, his movements a tad sluggish, and grabbed his shirt from the nearby chair. Using it to wipe his face, he raked his fingers through his hair, attempting to clear his mind.

With a deep breath, he picked up his phone from under the pillow, squinting at the screen to see the caller's ID, and swiped to answer. 

It was the first call he had picked up in four days.

“King, Jesus. What had happened to you?” Obi’s voice came through, his tone a mixture of relief and worry. “Okezie said he’d been trying to reach you for days now. Where the hell are you?”

“I am home,” King said, his voice a little rough from just waking up.

“Home? Do you know how many times Okezie has been to your place?”

Kingsley groaned, got up from the bed, and left the room. His body was quite light to his amazement, and his inside soothingly empty—that kind of feeling one gets after having a satisfying bowel movement. “I... Obi, I needed to be alone,” he said, groping on the wall of his sitting room for the light bulb switch. As the space became alive with light, he walked in deeper, stood by the center table, and stared at the briefcase he’d left there before going to bed. “I was losing my mind.”

“I understand your pain, man. I know what Father meant to you.” 

No, Obi didn’t understand shit, but King was going to allow him to talk anyway.

“That’s why I’ve been calling you since I heard about it. I want to be there for you, we all do.”

When the call ended, he sat down on the floor and opened the briefcase again. One by one, he picked up the items inside, felt them with his fingers, and hung the Stole across his neck the way he saw the old man do. Then with the two ends of it, he covered his palms and carefully picked up the monstrance, lifted it the way he’d watched Father do when he blessed communions, set it do, and opened the center of the sunburst to take out the half-eaten host. 

“You know a half of this has never been enough for me,” he muttered as he chewed slowly, laughing at his words, sobering when he remembered that the man he was addressing wasn’t there to listen. And would never be present again. Going behind to eat the reminder of the communion, after a typical church service was one of the many mischievous acts that his old man came to accept. As he got mature, it no longer interested him, yet he’d continued with it—when he was home— because he suspected that the old man looked forward to it.

Readjusting his legs on the floor, he began to place the items back in the briefcase. 

Everything in that was sacred vessels. And he did not need them. The old man was indirectly telling him to go into priesthood since marriage seemed not to be made for someone like him.

Laughter burst out of his mouth as he imagined himself a priest. “Nice joke, Father,” he said. Even in death, the old man didn’t lose his sense of humor. His eyes caught the note that had an individual’s contact details. He picked it up, mouthed the name written on it, and placed it in the case before shutting it. He would give the person a call when he’s up to his. For now, he would concentrate on healing and living, and exploring this strange peace and alertness he was feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

With a newfound sense of peacefulness, he stood up, stretching his limbs. The dream still lingered in his thoughts, a peculiar mixture of emotions and images that he couldn't quite shake off. But, unlike before, there was no monotonous bullshit accompanying it. Even when he pondered the significance of the dream as he walked back to his room, he didn’t feel disturbed. He sat on the bed and checked his calls. There were a lot of them. He’d got a lot of messages too; condolences from his friends and some parishioners. Two of his drivers had called, and a few unknown numbers.