Once upon a time, nestled in the shadows of a forgotten world, there stood a kingdom called Ethiopia. But this was no ordinary realm. Behind its velvet hills and silver rivers loomed a forest — ancient, cursed. There was an old proverb whispered among the people of Ethiopia:
"The creatures of the forest are not human, though they wear human skin. Even their blood flows differently — black as night, cursed by the gods themselves."
No one remembered when the saying began, only that it was spoken as truth. Mothers would whisper it to children who wandered too close to the trees. Elders would mutter it when smoke rose from the woods at night. At night, when fires burned low, everyone listened for the sounds — the rustle of leaves when no wind blew, the guttural cries that echoed too long to be beasts.
It was not a proverb. It was a curse. It was a warning.
The people of the kingdom believed that something terrifying lived deep inside – Monsters.
Every month, the people of the kingdom would leave offerings at the edge of the forest — baskets of warm bread, jars of crimson honey, ripe fruit still bleeding juice. They dared not look beyond the trees. They dared not ask for thanks. It was a silent agreement — a way to keep the monsters satisfied and the kingdom safe.
And this offering ritual had been held for years.
But no one — not a soul—had ever seen the monsters.
Some of the younger ones didn't believe the old stories. They called it superstition — just tales to scare children. The offerings, the whispers, the warnings… all nonsense from a fearful past. They laughed at the elders, mocked the rituals, and dared each other to get closer to the forest.
"It's just trees," they said.
But when night came and the fires burned low, the wind began to carry strange sounds. Not howls. Not animals.
They stopped laughing then. And no one dared to speak aloud the one question that curled in every heart:
What if the monsters were real… and listening?
To be continued…