Chapter 3: A LOOK BACK
Owuye was a retired police officer, a man whose badge had long lost its shine. Now, he lived quietly by the bank of the famed River Odo Ogun, a river whose currents carried the stories of Abeokuta. Since his retirement, he'd taken up fishing, casting his lines into the murky waters by day, while nursing old scars and memories with gin by night. Everyone in town knew him, and more importantly, they knew that Owuye's tongue grew loose with each bottle. His eyes, shadowed with a history of violence and secrets, grew sharp when he spoke of things he should have kept buried.
It was on one such night, when the damp warmth of the bar parlor thickened with the buzz of laughter and the sweet stench of palm wine, that Owuye interrupted the drunken gossip. News of Chief Ajumobi's death was the flavor of the evening, and the bar patrons—Baba Shittu, who always sat closest to the bar, and Madam Funke, whose laugh was like a clap of thunder—were busy spinning their tales and theories. Owuye, half-drunk and glaring, slammed his glass on the table, the sound sharp enough to silence the room.
"You're all fools," he growled, his voice roughened with age and drink. "Chief Ajumobi wasn't killed by any man... it was a wolf attack. A real one. I've seen it before, years ago, back when I was leading investigations. But you wouldn't know because you all prefer lies to truth." He let the weight of his words hang in the smoke-filled air, watching as confusion and disbelief rippled through the faces around him.
"A wolf? In Abeokuta?" someone muttered, barely audible above the rising murmur.
Owuye's eyes narrowed as he leaned back, a haunted look passing over his face as the memories clawed their way back to the surface.
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Flashback: The Night Everything Changed
It had been a long, grueling day at the head office. Owuye's visit there had not gone as planned. His superior had dismissed his theories about the wealthy men dying of supposed wolf attacks—wolves, in the heart of Abeokuta, were deemed impossible. But Owuye knew what he'd seen, what he'd found; the claw marks, the way flesh had been torn, it was no man's doing. Exhausted and frustrated, he had driven home that night, cursing under his breath, thinking of how to make them believe him.
But there was an itch at the back of his mind, a feeling that something was off. He couldn't shake it, so before he settled in for the night, he called his team. They were supposed to meet early the next morning to investigate another unsolved case—a family that had disappeared without a trace. But strangely, none of them picked up. Not a single one.
A cold shiver of dread curled up his spine. It wasn't like them to be unavailable, especially when an investigation was hanging by a thread. His instincts, honed over decades on the force, screamed at him to move. He grabbed his gun and dashed to his car, his hands sweating as he gripped the wheel, racing through the narrow streets to his colleague Makodi's house—the one who lived closest.
Makodi was a good man, a solid officer, and he'd told Owuye earlier that his elderly mother was visiting, staying with him, his wife, and their two young children. Owuye thought he'd stop in, say hello to the old woman, and check on the family.
But when he arrived, something was wrong. The house loomed silent, unnaturally still. The door—Makodi's door, which was always bolted shut—hung ajar. Owuye's pulse quickened. He slid out of the car, gun in hand, and moved toward the entrance with measured steps, a dark dread unfurling in his stomach.
Inside, the silence was worse. A tinny sound of static floated up from somewhere in the dim living room. It was a radio, half-buried under a toppled table. Owuye froze, his breath shallow. He tightened his grip on the pistol and eased deeper into the house, his senses sharp as razor blades. There was no sign of struggle, no broken furniture, no blood. Just... emptiness, as if the house itself was holding its breath.
He called out their names softly, his voice barely above a whisper, but only the radio answered him with a hollow hiss. He moved further, checking the bedrooms, the kitchen, even the attic. Nothing. It was as if the whole family had vanished into thin air. But there were signs—small, subtle things—that told him they hadn't left willingly. The kitchen table was set for dinner, half-eaten meals abandoned. The old woman's shawl was draped over the armchair, Makodi's favorite leather boots still sat by the door.
Then, Owuye saw it. A smear on the wall, faint and barely noticeable, but unmistakably a streak of dried blood. It was no bigger than a handprint, but it was enough. His heart pounded in his chest, sweat running cold down his back. There was a message here, he was sure of it—one meant for him. A warning, a threat, or something worse. The echo of his own investigation crashed in his mind like a wave.
And then he remembered the case—the very case he'd been chasing, the one about wealthy men, supposedly attacked by wolves.
He knew then, standing in that quiet, haunted house, that this wasn't the end. It was just the beginning. Whatever had taken Makodi and his family, it wasn't a man, and it wasn't done yet.
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Back in the present, Owuye drained his glass and slammed it down again, his eyes burning with a ferocity that had long been absent from his weary face.
"You think you know about Chief Ajumobi's death? You don't know a damn thing. None of you do. But I do," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. The bar fell silent again, the air thick with tension, the familiar comfort of the bar suddenly feeling cold and unfamiliar.
Madam Funke leaned in, her eyes wide with curiosity, Baba Shittu shifted nervously, and someone in the back muttered a quick prayer under his breath.
Owuye stood up, swaying slightly, his face set in grim determination. "I'll find out the truth, even if it kills me. Because whatever killed Ajumobi... it's not finished yet." He walked out into the night, leaving behind a stunned silence and a room full of frightened eyes, the ghost of his past trailing him like a shadow into the darkness.
No one dared to follow.
Title: Shadows of the Forest
Owuye had never been the kind of man to frighten easily. Years of experience as a security officer had hardened him, and nothing ever surprised him anymore—except, perhaps, the events of that night.
It had all begun when he stopped by his usual bar, Ogun's Tavern, a run-down joint at the edge of town. It was a hole in the wall, a sanctuary for drunks and drifters alike. Owuye was a regular there, and the owner, Tayo, knew to keep a bottle of palm wine ready for him. The crowd was thin, only a few regulars: Gbenga, the barkeep's cousin who spoke more with his fists than his mouth, and Shola, an old fisherman who nursed the same glass of gin for hours while spinning tales of mythical creatures haunting the nearby woods.
Owuye, half-drunk, sat alone in a corner, his mind wandering. Suddenly, a sense of unease settled over him. He couldn't place it, but it was there—a feeling like eyes watching from the dark. Brushing off the sensation, he gulped down the last of his drink, paid his tab, and headed home.
Then came the call. One of his team members had gone missing. Owuye, always suspicious of coincidences, gathered a few trusted colleagues, and together they searched the town, starting with the last place they'd been seen. That's when he heard it—a soft, faint breathing coming from the kitchen of an abandoned house. It grew louder as he neared an old refrigerator. His heart pounded.
There was a padlock on the fridge door. He didn't hesitate—his adrenaline surged as he broke the lock with the butt of his flashlight. The door creaked open, and he staggered back. Inside, crumpled among shelves of rotting food, was a frail, 96-year-old woman, barely alive. She stared at him with a vacant, almost mocking grin, blood crusted around her like a grim halo. Her eyes had a glimmer of madness.
Owuye acted fast, rushing her to the nearest hospital. The nurses took her in, treating the wound that marred her back—a gaping, festering injury that looked as if it had been left untreated for weeks. The woman kept muttering in the old Egba dialect. Owuye could only catch a few words: "Ajagbo Abese Ajao." He had no idea what it meant, but he wrote it down on a crumpled piece of paper before handing her over to the nurses. There was something about her eyes that unnerved him—something that suggested she knew far more than she was saying.
As the nurses tended to her, Owuye knew his work wasn't done. His team members were still missing, and he had no time to waste. He drove to each of their homes, only to find them abandoned. The silence was suffocating, the air heavy with the stench of fear. There were signs of struggle, scattered furniture, splintered wood, but no bodies—only blood, and the unmistakable prints of heavy paws in the dirt.
It was just past midnight when he saw the shadow—a figure standing far off in the distance, half-shrouded in the pale light of a dying moon. He called out, his voice swallowed by the oppressive stillness. The figure didn't respond, just turned and melted into the forest. Owuye's instincts flared. Whoever—or whatever—it was, he knew it was tied to the disappearances. He followed, his feet moving of their own accord, his hand tightening around the grip of his gun.
The forest was a maze of twisted branches and thick undergrowth. Hours passed in a blur, and just as he was about to give up, a force struck him from behind—a heavy blow to the neck that sent him crashing against a tree. He lay there stunned, the wind knocked out of him, his gun lost somewhere in the shadows.
He struggled to his feet, but the creature was on him before he could react, moving faster than his eyes could follow. It was no ordinary attacker—it had the strength of a beast. His bones cracked under its blows, each strike more savage than the last. Owuye's vision blurred, and the last thing he saw was the creature's outline—a towering figure, its eyes glowing like embers in the dark.
He lay there, waiting for death to claim him. The creature paused, standing tall on two legs, a grotesque hybrid of man and wolf. It grabbed him roughly and threw him over its shoulder, its rank stench overwhelming him. Half-conscious, Owuye's hand drifted to the small pistol tucked in his boot—his last, desperate hope.
The creature carried him to a clearing, a graveyard of sorts, where the mutilated bodies of his team and their families lay in grotesque piles. The sight was horrifying, but he had no strength left to cry out. It dropped him among the dead like a rag doll, seemingly convinced he was already one of them.
But something made the creature pause, perhaps a flicker of movement, a hint of breath. It approached him, lowering its muzzle to his face. Owuye's fingers tightened around the handle of the pistol, and with every ounce of strength he had left, he pulled the trigger. The shot echoed like thunder, the bullet tearing through the creature's throat. It staggered, its eyes widening in shock and fury, before collapsing into the dirt beside him.
Owuye blacked out, drifting into a darkness deeper than the forest itself.
He woke up in the hospital, bandaged and barely alive, haunted by the faces of his fallen friends and the creature that had almost claimed him. The nurses told him he'd been found in the woods at dawn, half-dead, clutching a blood-streaked pistol. No one had seen the creature's body; it had vanished without a trace. The words the old woman had spoken still lingered in his mind—Ajagbo Abese Ajao. He would learn their meaning, eventually, but that's another story.
For now, the shadows of the forest remained—waiting. And Owuye, once a simple drunk, knew he'd never find peace until he uncovered the truth behind the monster that lurked there.
Owuye woke in a cold sweat, the ghostly memories of that night clawing at his mind. He was still in pain, his wounds not yet fully healed, but he had no time to rest. His comrades were all dead, ripped apart in a massacre he could barely understand. The creature—a thing that defied any name he could put to it—was like a man, but not a man. It was faster, stronger, smarter, with a ferocity that seemed almost supernatural. Its eyes had burned with a primal intelligence, and it had known. Known their plans. Known their every move.
Now, as he lay staring at the hospital ceiling, Owuye realized something he had missed in his fevered dreams: the creature's body had vanished. It had fallen, lifeless, from the pistol he had emptied on that cursed beast, but by the time his vision cleared, it was gone. Only the corpses of his teammates were left behind, their eyes wide and lifeless. Who had taken the creature's body? And why? There was no way it could have moved itself. It had allies—he was certain of it now—silent watchers in the shadows.
They wanted him to speak, to tell his story, to reveal what he had seen. But he said nothing, not yet. He knew they were watching.
Discharged from the hospital, he returned home. His wife, Adaeze, and his children were there, waiting, their faces tense with concern. Adaeze had tried to make the house look welcoming: there were bright flowers on the table, cheerful cards welcoming him back, and the faint smell of incense in the air. Owuye managed a smile for their sake, but inside he was a storm, a maelstrom of anger and grief, knowing that he had survived while his friends had not. Justice—it was the only thing that could make him whole again, the only way he could purge the guilt that gnawed at his soul.
Later that night, he lay beside Adaeze, his mind a fever of nightmares and blood. He reached for her, needing her warmth, needing to feel alive. Their bodies moved together, but something was different—his touch was rougher, his desire more urgent, almost desperate. It was as if something had changed inside him, some primal force awakening beneath his skin. Adaeze shivered under his touch, feeling the edge of something dark, something new. When it was over, she lay in his arms, breathless and unnerved, wondering who the man beside her had become.
But Owuye couldn't sleep. He lay staring at the ceiling, his mind racing over every detail of that night. He knew he was being hunted, that whatever had begun in that forest was far from over. And now, he wasn't sure if the hunter was still the creature...or if it had somehow become him.
He rose quietly, careful not to wake Adaeze, and poured himself a drink, the first of many that night. The liquor burned down his throat, but it did little to dull the edge of his thoughts. He had to find the truth, even if it meant becoming something unrecognizable.