" One Foot In."

 

A young man standing on a rock by the stream, under a sign Welcome To The Spirit Land.

An Innocent Invitation

Wayne wasn’t happy about going home for the holidays. Trouble waited there like clockwork—one misunderstanding, one spilled cup of water, and the whole house erupted. He came from a polygamous family where his mother and the other wives turned peace into a myth. Just thinking about it drained him.

He sighed, staring out the dormitory window. Could I just stay here? For two years, this school had been his real home.

A sudden bump snapped him back. Wale grinned beside him. “A penny for your thoughts?”

“Don’t be dramatic. I wasn’t dreaming.”

“Yeah, but thinking, eh?” Wale teased.

“Just a little. Nothing big.”

Wale laughed. “If I know you, that’s a lie. You were thinking something huge.”

“Not this time,” Wayne said with a sad sigh.

“Come on, man. Spill.”

“You know my house. I’ve told you enough.”

“Yeah, so?”

“I don’t want to go back. Not to that chaos.”

Wale raised an eyebrow. “So what’ll you do?”

Wayne shrugged. “Beats me.”

“How about you come to my village instead?”

“Your village?”

“Yeah. Problem?”

Wayne hesitated. He’d heard rumors—whispers about Wale’s people and their “diabolic ways.” He took rumors seriously. But staying at school wasn’t an option, and home was worse.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll come.”

The journey north was fun at first. They talked, bought roasted corn and bottled soda from roadside hawkers, laughed like brothers. Wayne never asked the village’s name. Wale just said it was “up north,” and six hours in, that still felt true.

But then the highway narrowed. They took five sharp turns, each one swallowing them deeper into thick forest. No cars passed. None followed. A wooden arch loomed ahead, vines curling over faded letters: WELCOME TO THE SPIRIT LAND.

Wayne craned his neck as they rolled beneath it. “What was that?”

Wale waved it off. “Old sign. Ignore it. Look—see that baobab? Looks like a fist, right?”

Wayne tried to laugh, but the forest pressed closer. The air grew heavy, sweet with rot. Then he saw the man.

A lone figure jogged along the dirt path—on one leg. No crutch. No limp. Just a single foot striking the earth, steady as a heartbeat.

Wayne nodded politely as they passed. The man nodded back, smiling with too many teeth.

“What the hell was that?” Wayne whispered.

Wale frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“That guy had one leg. And he was running.”

Wale burst out laughing and slapped Wayne’s back. “Bro, you high? That man had two perfect legs.”

Wayne swallowed. “And where are all the cars? We’re the only ones on this road.”

“There’s another route two kilometers back,” Wale said smoothly. “This one’s just for going in.”

Hours later, they stopped at a river. Black water slid past like oil. On the far bank, mist curled between unseen trees.

“We cross here,” Wale said. “Village is on the other side.” He pointed to a flat stone platform by the water’s edge, smooth as polished glass. “But first—bare feet on that stone. Rule for first-timers.”

Wayne stared. “You’re kidding.”

Wale grinned. “Wish I was. Should’ve seen your face back when I invited you—priceless.”

Wayne kicked off his sneakers. The stone was warm. Too warm. As his soles touched it, the river hushed, like it was listening.

He looked up. Wale’s smile hadn’t moved—but something behind his eyes had.

After Wayne stepped on the smooth stone, they both crossed the stream and started making their way to the spirit land. Wayne soon noticed that everyone they met along the road had no shoes and walked barefoot. He cringed inside, wondering what he had gotten himself into. He regretted his earlier complaint about going home during the holidays.

They walked for about four hours through that bushy part until suddenly Wale stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Over that hill is my village,” he said, nodding at the imposing hill that dwarfed them and cast a shadow over the surroundings.

“So why are we stopping?” Wayne asked, dreading what might come next.

“Well,” Wale said nervously, scratching his head, “eh… he stammered. See, don’t take it the wrong way, but before you enter the village, you need to pull off your shoes.”

“Why?” Wayne replied with irritation. “I’ve been seeing people barefoot, and now you’re asking me to go barefoot—for what purpose?”

“This is the land of spirits. Most of the people you saw are ghosts, and they don’t like it when you walk in shoes.”

“What the hell!” Wayne exclaimed. “I cover myself with the blood of Jesus!”

“Yeah, all the same, get your shoes off.”

Wayne frowned as he looked around. He saw the malice in the eyes of the people nearby—something he hadn’t noticed before because his mind was preoccupied. He bent down to unlace his shoes. As he did, he realized Wale wasn’t wearing any either. He looked up. He didn’t know if it was the hill’s shadow playing tricks on him, but Wale now had a horn on either side of his forehead. Wayne blinked and looked again. This time, Wale grinned, and Wayne could see two fangs forming on his upper teeth.

Wayne heard a sound behind him and turned to see a beautiful woman coming their way. She was so beautiful that the breeze parted for her and the shadows never touched her. He blinked in astonishment and opened his mouth to say something—then noticed her legs weren’t touching the ground. He took a step backward, stumbled over a root, and fell to the ground.

He could hear Wale saying to the woman, “That is my friend, Spirit One, and he is not to be drained. He is under protection.”

At that point, Wayne couldn’t take any more. He ran blindly back the way they had come. He heard Wale calling his name, but he never turned back. He ran with the full force of the Flash. As he neared the stream they had crossed, he saw an old man blocking the path. The man had both eyes closed, held a knife in one hand and an axe in the other, and kept his mouth open as flies flew in and out.

Wayne skidded to a stop. The old man opened his eyes with a grin. Wayne lost his voice when he saw that the eyes didn’t match—one yellow, the other green. He tried to turn back toward Wale, but the old man was there again. Wayne fell to his knees, weeping. The old man glided toward him.

“Ha, ha, ha, young man. You have to choose between the axe and the knife.”

“For what purpose?” Wayne stammered, looking up.

“You want to go back, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then choose between these two.”

“What are they for?” Wayne asked.

“To be thrown at you. If you survive, you will find yourself at home.”

“And if I don’t survive?”

“Then you’re welcome to the land of the spirits,” the old man said with a laugh that echoed around the area.

Wayne fell to his knees, weeping. The old man glided closer, the axe in one hand, the knife in the other. Flies buzzed in and out of his open mouth like black confetti.

“Ha, ha, ha, young man,” the old man rasped, voice echoing off the trees. “You want to go back, abi?”

Wayne could only nod, throat raw.

“Then choose.” The old man lifted both weapons higher, moonlight glinting off the blades. “Axe… or knife.”

Wayne’s eyes darted between them. The axe was heavy, chipped, stained dark at the edge. The knife was thin, curved, still wet with something that smelled of iron.

“Choose,” the old man whispered again, leaning so close Wayne felt cold breath on his face. “Or I choose for you.”

Wayne opened his mouth. No sound came.

The old man’s grin widened. One yellow eye. One green. Both waiting.

Axe… or knife?

The night held its breath.

Wayne stood frozen, his mind racing, as the old man with the mismatched eyes—one yellow, one green—grinned down at him.

“Do you want me to choose for you, boy?” the man growled, taking a step forward.

Wayne dropped to his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks. He would carry this regret for the rest of his life. He had complained endlessly about his polygamous family back home, whining about too many wives and too much noise, yet compared to this—death threats, restless spirits, and a cackling madman delighted by his terror—he’d had it good.

The old man’s shadow fell over him like a shroud.

“How many has the axe killed?” Wayne asked, voice trembling, staring up into those unnatural eyes.

The old man paused, frowned, then looked at the massive axe in his hand. A slow, childish grin spread across his face.

“Now that you mention it… nobody’s ever asked how many lives Lucy has taken.”

“Lucy?” Wayne whispered.

“Yes. Lucy is the axe. Forged from the bones of a fallen goddess. Look here—” He tilted the weapon so the firelight caught the blade. “The edge is made from her teeth. Rumor says she was a giant.”

Wayne swallowed. “And… how did you come to own it?”

The old man waved a hand. “Long story. Let’s just say Lucy has tasted about five hundred thousand souls.”

Wayne’s gaze drifted to the knife dangling from the man’s belt.

The old man noticed and grinned wider, yellow and green eyes glinting.

“And the knife?” Wayne asked, throat dry.

“Trump’s been a good boy,” the old man said fondly. “Fair when he needs to be, strict when he must. Carved from the frozen gut of a fallen god.”

Wayne blinked. “A knife… made from a gut? And why call it Trump? That name belongs to a very powerful man.”

The old man chuckled. “The name changes with the times. Used to be Putin. Then Kim. Now Trump—because he’s a no-nonsense man. Solves problems with brute force when necessary, but always claims it’s for justice. He goes all the way.”

“And how many souls has it sent to the great beyond?”

The old man’s smile turned sly. “That, my young friend, is the puzzle.”

“Puzzle?”

“I just gave you a hint. Choose. Now. Or I choose for you.”

“Please… give me a minute.”

“Thirty seconds,” the old man said, shifting his weight like a pitcher about to throw.

Wayne’s mind spun faster than it ever had. How had his life come to this—kneeling before a lunatic, forced to pick his own execution weapon? He was ready to give up, to let fate decide, when the word “hint” finally clicked.

Three names. Three leaders.

Putin—cold, ruthless, clinging to power long past his welcome. Kills quietly, without trial, or with trials that are theater.

Kim—worse. Paranoid. Merciless. Snuffs out life for a cough, a glance, a whisper.

And Trump… loud, brash, obsessed with justice and “fairness” and the Constitution. Flawed, yes. Chaotic. But in a democracy. Where people still get to choose. Where force is (supposedly) a last resort.

Wayne looked up, breath shaking.

“I choose Trump.”

The air turned to ice. The spirits circling the clearing hissed and writhed. The old man’s grin vanished. His hand—the one holding the knife—trembled.

“Boy,” he said slowly, almost pleading, “are you sure?”

“Yes,” Wayne said, voice steadier now. “I choose Trump.”

The old man’s face twisted—with rage, or fear, Wayne couldn’t tell. Then, with terrifying speed, he hurled the knife.

Wayne never saw it coming.

The blade punched into his heart, cold as a glacier, sharp as truth.

He gasped once.

Then darkness.

Wayne woke with a start when a heavy kick landed on his head. He jumped up screaming, “I’m dead! I’m dead!” and then he received a hard slap on his cheek.

“Cut the noise, fool, and let me have my sleep in peace,” his brother said with an annoyed look.

Wayne was confused. “Am I still dreaming? Where am I?”

“Shut it, kid, and go back to sleep. It’s still dark, and I don’t want to hear any whining from you.”

“But how am I home?”

“What has really gotten into you? You’ve been home three days now.”

“But how?” he asked with a baffled look.

“Ask me again and I’ll break your head,” his brother said with a nasty look as he prepared to go back to sleep.

Wayne sat down with his heart racing. He clutched his chest and felt a lump. He pulled open his shirt, and there was the mark of a knife. He shuddered and wondered what would have happened if he had chosen the axe. But was it real?

He could hear the family noise of the family in the house and the start of arguments by the wives even though it was not yet light. They bickered and quarrelled, and his siblings were worse. He looked at the familiar room, shook his head as he saw how they were packed together in a tiny room, and wondered what really was the matter was with polygamous men.

But then he reflected, I would choose to be here, no matter how it is, than to go to Ola’s village.

He lay down to sleep, and his phone pinged. He fished it out of his pocket and wondered when he had even put it there. He opened the message, and it was from Ola. It read:

WE ARE COMING FOR YOU. YOU KNOW OUR SECRET.

What secret, he wondered as he sat there brooding until sleep finally took him.

What would you do?

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