In a remote village bordered by a thick, dark forest, a tradition loomed over the
inhabitants like a curse. That forest was home to Oro, the most feared spirit. When
he chose to emerge, it was as though the world stood still. Drums echoed at dusk,
and the chief’s messengers roamed the streets, shouting:
“Women, return to your homes! Do not step outside under any circumstances! Oro
walks tonight.”
Inside the huts, doors were bolted, curtains drawn, and candles snuffed out. The
night became a silent abyss. For women, this rule wasn’t just advice—it was a matter
of life and death. Stories claimed that Oro could sense even the smallest glimpse
cast upon him, even through the tiniest crack in a curtain. If a woman dared to look
at him, he would know. And he would come for her.
But in this village lived a young woman unlike any other: Léwémi, an orphan known
for her boldness and boundless curiosity. At twenty-two, she dismissed the stories
the elders whispered by the fire as mere tools to keep women fearful and obedient.
That evening, as Oro’s drums thundered through the village, Léwémi felt a strange
excitement rise within her. She watched the villagers scramble in controlled panic,
locking doors and dragging children indoors. The fear in their eyes both irritated and
intrigued her.
“Oro, Oro…” she muttered. “Just a name, just a mask, nothing more.”
As darkness enveloped the village, she did something no one had ever dared to do:
she stayed outside. Hidden in the shadows behind a small hut, she waited.
The drums grew heavier, more intense, like the monstrous beating of a heart
reverberating through her bones. The village was completely silent, yet a strange
vibration seemed to hang in the air, as if the night itself was alive and breathing.
Then, she saw him.
A reddish light emerged from the forest, dancing through the mist creeping along the
ground. Oro had arrived. Draped in sacred cloth that seemed to float around him like
a living aura, he moved slowly, each step resounding like muffled thunder. His
mask—immense and engraved with ancient symbols—radiated an overwhelming
power.
Léwémi froze. Her curiosity had collided with an unbearable reality: Oro wasn’t just a
legend. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to run, but her feet were rooted to
the ground.
Then, she did the unthinkable.
She crept closer, her steps light and cautious, until she reached a massive tree at
the edge of the forest. From there, she hoped to see more without being seen.
Climbing onto a low branch, she held her breath, her heart pounding like Oro’s
drums.
When her eyes fell on him again, a cold wave washed over her. She had expected
fear, but this was something deeper, something stranger. It was as if a part of her
was unraveling, as though Oro was probing her soul from afar.
Then everything stopped.
Oro froze in the middle of the clearing. The drums fell silent in an instant, plunging
the night into a deafening stillness. Léwémi’s breath caught in her throat.
“He can’t have seen me,” she thought. “He can’t know.”
But Oro slowly lifted his head. Beneath his mask, invisible eyes seemed to pierce
through the darkness, searching every shadow, every whisper of the wind. Léwémi
felt a strange heat rise within her, as though her skin burned under a gaze she
couldn’t even see.
She gripped the branch tightly, silently praying. But it was too late. Oro turned his
mask toward her. His scream shattered the night—a sound inhuman, a blend of rage
and triumph that shook the trees.
Before she could react, an invisible force enveloped her. Her body was yanked from
the branch and dragged through the air, as if the wind itself had seized her. She
thrashed, screamed, but no door opened. The villagers knew what was happening.
She was carried deep into the forest, to a place no human had ever dared tread.
The further they went, the darker the forest became. The trees seemed to part to let
Oro pass, only to close behind him, trapping Léwémi in this forbidden realm. The
ground beneath her grew damp, almost sticky, as if she were walking on blood.
At last, they reached a clearing. At its center stood an altar carved from black stone,
covered in ancient runes. Surrounding it were human and animal skulls arranged in a
silent circle, witnesses to sacrifices long past.
Oro placed her before the altar, his silence more terrifying than anything. Léwémi
tried to speak, to plead, but her voice was gone.
Then he spoke.
Not with words, but with a vibration, an energy that resonated through her entire
being. She understood. She had broken an ancestral taboo, defied a force beyond
her comprehension. And now, she had to pay.
Oro raised a sacred knife, its blade glowing with a reddish light. Léwémi knew there
would be no miracle.
By morning, Oro’s drums were silent. At the forest’s edge, villagers found a trail of
blood and a pair of sandals that had belonged to Léwémi.
No one spoke her name aloud, but her story became a warning. Every time Oro’s
drums echoed again, no woman—not even the boldest—dared to break the silence
of the night.
And in the shadows of the forest, Oro waited. Always.

Tony Hemrix