Long ago, in the quiet village of Ayede, there was a rule no one dared break: never follow the sound of drums into the forest at night. It was said that the forest belonged to the spirits, and the drumming was their way of luring the living to their doom.
Obi, a headstrong boy of fourteen, didn’t believe in such tales. One moonless night, as the village lay still, the deep, rhythmic pounding of a drum echoed through the air. It was distant but unmistakable, coming from the heart of the forest.
"Just a trick by the elders to scare us," Obi whispered to himself, gripping his lantern. He decided to prove his bravery.
The path into the forest was a tangle of roots and shadows, but the drumming grew louder with every step. It was hypnotic, compelling. Suddenly, the lantern’s flame flickered and died. Obi was plunged into darkness.
Still, the drums called to him. He pressed on, his heartbeat matching their cadence. As he reached a clearing, the drumming stopped.
There, in the pale starlight, stood a circle of figures, their faces hidden behind intricate, carved masks. Masquerades. They moved in perfect silence, their feet not touching the ground.
Obi’s courage wavered, but before he could flee, one of the figures turned to him. It removed its mask.
What lay beneath wasn’t a face but a swirling void of darkness. It reached out with hands that seemed to stretch and shift, pulling Obi toward the circle.
He screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the void. The drums began again, louder and faster, drowning his cries. By dawn, the villagers found his lantern near the forest's edge. There was no sign of Obi—only the faint echo of drumming fading into the trees.
To this day, the rule remains: never follow the sound of drums into the forest. Not all who enter return.