The Curse Land

 

Author’s Note: This story was inspired by a village I visited as a child. It was a place steeped in deep tradition, and while I was there, I learned things that have stayed with me ever since. This is a glimpse into that world of mystery and ancient customs.

The Curse of the Blood Forest

In the isolated town of New England, nestled deep within the Blood Forest, fear gripped the hearts of its five hundred inhabitants. Death was a constant shadow, claiming three lives every week without fail. No one knew why, and no one was safe. The townsfolk lived in simple wooden huts along a single street that led to the market square, which doubled as a playground and a venue for important events. The forest provided all their resources—food, wood, and water—but it also confined them. For a hundred years, no one had seen an outsider, and those who dared to cross the town’s boundary perished instantly.

One quiet morning, when the market square lay deserted, two friends, Charles and Yamal, played at its center. At the heart of the square stood a massive, ancient tree, its leaves as wide as a man’s body. Strangely, no one could recall it ever shedding a single leaf—not even Old Man Ezra, the town’s eldest resident at one hundred and thirty years, who had lived in New England his entire life. The tree was a mystery; its unchanging presence was both a comfort and a source of unease.

The Challenge and the Crimson Sign

“I challenge you to a game of darts,” Charles said to Yamal, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“What’s the stake?” Yamal asked, leaning against a wooden post.

“You drop your interest in Rihanna,” Charles replied.

“No way!” Yamal laughed, shaking his head. “You know how beautiful Rihanna is. Now that we’re of marriageable age, I’m not giving up my chance to marry her.”

“That’s why it’s a challenge,” Charles said, grinning. “Winner takes all.”

Yamal smirked, undeterred. “I’m in. Where’s the target?”

Charles pointed to the ancient tree. “What’s stopping us from using that?”

Yamal shivered, eyeing the tree warily. “That thing gives me the creeps.”

“I’ll go first,” Charles said, brushing off his friend’s hesitation. He positioned himself, steadied his dart, and took aim. With a flick of his wrist, the dart soared through the air at incredible speed, piercing the tree’s trunk dead center in the bullseye.

Yamal wasn’t looking at Charles; his face was frozen in horror. “What’s wrong with you?” Charles asked, his voice sharp with concern.

Yamal could only point, trembling, toward the tree behind Charles. Turning slowly, Charles froze, his eyes locked on the impossible sight before him. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but the vision remained unchanged. “Is that… blood dripping from the tree?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. Yamal nodded, too terrified to speak.

“Come on, we need to tell the elders!” Charles said, grabbing Yamal’s arm. They sprinted toward the chief’s hut, shouting at the top of their lungs.

The Chief’s Awakening

Chief Donald had been resting after a grueling night hunting a wild boar nearly as large as a horse. A nasty gash on his chest, inflicted by the boar’s tusk, throbbed painfully—a wound everyone called a miracle he’d survived. He was lost in a dreamless sleep, pain gnawing at him, when the commotion outside his hut jolted his eyes open.

“Who’s making all that racket?” he grumbled, wincing as he sat up. “Can’t an injured man get some rest?” He shuffled to the door and peered outside. Nearly the entire village stood gathered, clamoring to enter, held back only by his son’s firm stance at the threshold.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Donald roared, his deep voice cutting through the chaos before dissolving into a ragged cough. A towering man, packed with muscle, he commanded attention whenever he spoke.

"The tree is bleeding!" Dembele, the village tanner, shouted as Chief Donald poked his head out.

"The land is cursed," Ballon, the village carpenter, added grimly.

"What are you lot yapping about now?" Chief Donald snapped, his voice sharp despite the pain gripping his chest.

"There’s a mystery to be solved," the village wizard, Gyokere, declared, his eyes glinting with knowing.

The Secret of the Births and Deaths

Dembele rolled his eyes, not even glancing at Gyokere. "Don’t start with your mystery talk again, old man. You’ve been at it for years."

"Aren’t you troubled by the deaths?" Gyokere pressed, undeterred. "Every time a new baby is born, someone in the village dies. Haven’t you noticed?"

"This isn’t about your riddles," Ballon said, shaking his head. "This is about a tree bleeding."

"What tree?" Chief Donald asked, wincing as another wave of pain hit him.

"The one in the town square," Gyokere replied, his voice low and ominous.

Supported by his son, Salah, the chief stumbled toward the town square, the villagers trailing behind in a somber procession. Uncertainty hung heavy in the air. As they reached the square, the sight stopped them cold: the ancient tree stood drenched in dark, glistening blood, the ground beneath it sticky with a thick, crimson pool.

Chief Donald’s voice cracked as he rasped, "What is happening?"

The Ritual of the Ancestors

"Let us consult the gods of the land," Wizard Gyokere declared. He led the villagers to his hut, but realizing it was too small, he brought his tools outside. "Charles, fetch a stool for the Chief from behind my hut. He’s exerted himself enough today."

Once everyone was settled, Wizard Gyokere opened his divination bag. He drew out a rat’s skull. "The rat knows every nook and cranny of our village. It has seen the evil committed and will guide us." Next, he revealed an eagle’s eye. "The eagle sees all from above. No evil escapes its gaze." Finally, he produced a bone, weathered and ancient. "This is the bone of our ancestor. Let their spirit whisper the truth to us."

Gyokere raised them to the sky and intoned, "Gods of our land, witness this! Gods of our ancestors, accept this! Gods of the harvest, hear us!" He cast the items onto the ground. Suddenly, he shouted, "We obey, Ancient One!"

He turned to Chief Donald, his expression grave. "The gods demand our blood. Each of us must offer a drop to the ancestors to answer our plea."

"So be it," Chief Donald said, extending his hand. One by one, the villagers squeezed a drop of blood into a calabash. When all had contributed, Gyokere poured the blood onto the ground. A shimmering apparition rose before them.

The Ancient Crime Revealed

"My children," the apparition began, its voice heavy with sorrow, "long ago, a crime cursed this land. The gods demanded each villager sacrifice their right eye, hand, and leg to lift the curse. We, your ancestors, could not comply, and so the curse took hold. It sealed our village, preventing visitors from entering and taking a life whenever a new child was born."

"What was the crime?" Gyokere asked, his voice trembling.

The apparition shuddered, closing its eyes. "We killed the children of the gods." With that, it vanished.

Silence fell over the villagers. Chief Donald rose from his stool, his face resolute. "We must return to our homes and consider this. The gods have spoken, but the choice is ours." With his son Salah at his side, he walked toward home, the weight of the decision heavy on his shoulders.

What would you do?

Next story: One Day Of Sanity