No one visited the village of Nsumia anymore. It wasn’t marked on any map, and those who stumbled upon it never returned the same.

Kwame, a journalist, and his friend Kojo, a photographer, had ignored the warnings. A forgotten village with no history? That was the perfect story.

They arrived at dusk. The air was unnaturally still. The huts, made of mud and straw, leaned as though weary from time. In the centre of the village stood a towering tree, ancient and gnarled, with strange symbols carved deep into its bark.

Kojo lifted his camera and pressed the shutter. The flash illuminated more than just the tree; shadowy figures stood at the edge of the village, watching silently.

“Did you see that?” Kojo whispered, lowering his camera.

Kwame swallowed hard and nodded. “Yeah... but maybe it’s just..”

Before he could finish, a whisper sliced through the silence. “Leave.”

Both men turned sharply, but no one was there. Then another whisper followed, closer this time. “You shouldn’t have come.”

Kojo’s grip tightened on Kwame’s arm. His voice trembled as he said, “Man, we need to go. Now.”

Before Kwame could reply, the ground beneath Kojo cracked open. He screamed as unseen hands pulled him toward one of the nearby huts. Its wooden door creaked open, revealing a thick darkness that seemed to swallow light itself.

“Kwame! Help me!” Kojo clawed at the dirt, his nails scraping against the ground. Snapping out of his shock, Kwame lunged forward and grabbed Kojo’s wrist, shouting, “Hold on! I’ve got you!” But something cold and invisible was pulling Kojo back. The hut’s walls expanded, as if they were breathing, stretching wider to swallow him whole.

“Don’t let go!” Kojo screamed as a tear slid down his cheek. He knew, in his bones, that whatever was inside that hut was not human.

As the men straggled to hold firm to each other's hands, the haunting whispers turned into laughter, rising all around them. Then, something cold brushed the back of Kwame’s neck, and a voice hissed directly into his ear. “Run. That startled Kwame, causing him to lose his grip on Kojo for just a second, but that was enough to separate them. The last thing he saw was Kojo’s wide, terrified eyes as he was being dragged across the dirt into the darkness. The hut’s door slammed shut, and the laughter vanished.

Kwame stumbled backwards on his buttocks onto the ground, gasping for air. Everything looked normal again. The village was quiet and empty as before. Their car remained parked exactly where they had left it. Then he felt something warm run down his cheeks. He touched his face and realised he was crying. A moment later, a different kind of dampness registered. He looked down in horror. He had wet himself. Then his breath hitched as he lifted his head forward.

There were handprints, human handprints he knew too well, smeared across the dirt, as though someone had been dragged. And they led straight to the hut. Then it all came rushing back. The hut had swallowed Kojo. Oh no. Kwame’s mind screamed, Kojo was gone. Kwame was about to scream for his friend when a sudden rustle behind him snapped him out of his trance. This time, he didn’t wait to see what it was. He turned and ran, sprinting straight to the car, Kojo’s screams still echoing in his head, but he never looked back. With trembling hands, he drove so fast out of there, leaving behind his laptop and Kojo's camera lying at the mouth of the human-eating hut.

By morning, Nsumia stood just as it always had, silent, forgotten, and waiting for the next curious souls to devour.