They hid in the old church.
Not because it was holy, but because it was old enough to remember fear.
The building sat on a small rise, its walls cracked, its wooden benches eaten by termites. The cross above the door hung crooked, as if it wanted to fall but hadn't found the courage yet. People gathered inside in silence—those who had survived the morning. No prayers were loud. No songs were sung.
Everyone could feel it.
The ground was listening.
Chukwuemeka lay on the floor near the altar, breathing shallowly. Every breath hurt. His ribs were cracked. Blood stained his shirt. Sadiq sat beside him, holding his hand tightly like if he let go, the earth would take him.
"I'm sorry," Sadiq whispered.
Chukwuemeka managed a weak smile.
"You didn't choose it," he said. "That matters."
Outside, the soil shifted.
Dust fell from the ceiling with every movement underground. Somewhere close, roots scraped against stone, searching.
An old man spoke from the back of the church.
"It wants something," he said. "That's how these things work."
No one argued.
The door creaked open slowly.
Everyone froze.
Nothing entered.
Instead, the voice filled the church.
Not loud.
Clear.
You have broken my binding.
People clutched their ears. Some cried. Others vomited as the sound pressed against their minds.
You sealed me once, it continued. You starved me. You forgot me. Now you wake me again.
Sadiq shook violently.
"It's talking to me," he whispered.
Chukwuemeka struggled to sit up.
"What does it want?" he demanded.
The ground beneath the church pulsed.
Not blood, the voice said. Not anymore.
The words chilled the room.
I want a keeper.
Silence fell like a weight.
Chukwuemeka closed his eyes.
Of course.
Not a sacrifice.
A guardian.
Something human enough to walk the surface. Rooted enough to keep the binding alive. Someone to stand between it and the world.
Someone like him.
Or Sadiq.
"No," Chukwuemeka said weakly. "You don't get to choose again."
You already chose once, the voice replied. When you survived.
Sadiq stood up suddenly.
"I'll do it," he said.
Chukwuemeka's head snapped up.
"No!" he shouted. "You don't understand what it takes!"
Sadiq's hands shook, but his voice held.
"I've seen what happens if no one stands there," he said. "I hear it every night. It won't stop."
The ground quieted.
Listening.
The voice softened.
Wise child.
Chukwuemeka dragged himself up, pain screaming through his body.
"It will eat you from the inside," he said. "Slowly. It will replace your thoughts with its hunger. I barely escaped."
Sadiq looked at him, eyes wet.
"You escaped because someone showed you how," he said. "Now you're here for me."
The voice stirred, pleased.
The choice must be willing.
Outside, the earth split again.
The church floor cracked down the middle. Roots burst upward, wrapping around benches, snapping wood, tearing through the altar.
Screams filled the air.
"We don't have time," Sadiq said.
He turned toward the door.
Chukwuemeka grabbed him, pulling him back with surprising strength.
"If anyone does this," he said, voice breaking, "it's me."
The ground froze.
You are already broken, the voice said to him. You cannot hold me again.
That was the truth.
Chukwuemeka felt it deep inside. He was cracked. Scarred. Leaking. He could not be a prison anymore.
Sadiq could.
That terrified him more than the thing beneath the earth ever had.
The church shook violently.
Walls split.
The voice rose, impatient now.
Decide.
Sadiq met Chukwuemeka's eyes.
"Teach me," he said softly. "Before it's too late."
And in that moment, Chukwuemeka understood the real horror.
The tree did not just survive through fear.
It survived through inheritance.