The Four of Them

113 16 52

This is An entry for the Wattpad Naija Ojuju Calabar Contest. I am creating something wholesome from a variety of horror stories. I hope you do enjoy it.

Sing for fear
My fiend so dear
He who by presence
Brought us to existence
Sing loud now would you
Let us make four songs for two.

At the foot of an ancient tree, one too far away, one so close either way. At a time in time when the ghouls and daemons performed the mystic dance, their embodiments in surrender to the aura of darkness. At a time as such, there sat four strange figures, lost in an unholy communion. Each held a cup from which they drank at intervals; their heads stooped, save for one, their legs crossed, save for one. The moon seemed interested in their gathering, his gaze was cast squarely upon them. The stars seemed afraid of them, they stayed away this night. They sat around a table, one facing one, the other facing another. The thrum of the night was their party song, the silence, music to them.

One then began to speak. You all know me so well. I who's name has been heard so well by all; young and old, male and female. I who the thought of, sends the oldest man peeing in his bed. I who's tale the mothers use, to send their rebellious ones scurrying home. I who the little children whisper of in hushed tones as they lay in bed. I have summoned us here all together to throw a question at our entities, to relieve the ideals of our existence, to speak of reality. So let's telltale of ourselves to ourselves, that we might learn of us from us. Let us speak muses of mystics to mysteries, that we might understand the ruse that ruins. I shall take the baton first, then pass it to another, and so it shall go till each has had a say.

They each took a sip from their cups and raised their voices in ululation for the one who just spoke. The sound was eerie, the sound was this.

Listlessly he moves,
Swaying to the rhythm
Of an unknown drum.
His head in hand
A gift, to human all
Who by some ill-fated fate
Should pass his way.
Their screams to hear
To nourish his wounds.
The terror they wear
To sate his sores.

My name is Mr. Headless. That is what they call me, that is what they choose to identify me as. I want to tell you of past, a present that the future may retell. I want to tell you of a false, the one of a man without a head.

I never was like this, I never had this form. I never wished for this, just to be like others I prayed. An average Joe you could have called me. Not too rich, not too poor, just simple enough to be enough, for myself enough for my family enough. I lived in the suburbs of a town so far away, so close either way. The town where I was born, the town that made me gone. I was a land agent, trading land from man to man, the middle man I was to them. Ah! I loved my job. Not just the money, or the money, but the experience it gave of the human. I got to meet men from men, some rich, some poor, some reserved, some desperate, some proud, some humble, some picky, some needy. It was a good thing, to grasp such essence, to witness such revelations. Ah! I loved my job. I had been deep in it for eight ten-twelve years, and it put bread on my table, raised me a family, and set my future in motion. I walked this content path until on a day I in the end choose to curse, I sold a land, that had a feud on its hand. Richly line my wallet? Yes, it did. Cost me my head? That for sure.

You all see it now, don't you? The sight of enmity. The rest nodded their heads in unison, took a sip from their cups, and raised their voices once more and again.

Mother calls you home so
Only the deaf heedless
Outside will go
To meet Mr. Headless.

I was kidnapped, murdered in cold blood, my head placed in my hands. I was thrown into an evil forest, there I was immortalized, set in motion, to avenge my death notion. So out I go every night, seeking my killers. I never found them, but each night I see a man, a woman, a boy, a girl. Maybe two, maybe three, maybe four, maybe five and I take them home, to stay with me. That is my story, so they say. That is what I am, so they tell. On to another, I pass the baton. Tell us, my friend, tell us of you.

The CoagulumWhere stories live. Discover now