The village of Orugun sat cradled by the wide River Ase, a restless body of water that never truly slept. At dawn it glittered gold, feeding fishermen and farmers alike. But at dusk, when the sky bled into crimson, the river changed. The mothers of Orugun whispered warnings to their children as they tucked them into raffia mats:
“When the sun dies, keep far from the water. The river is jealous.”
It was not a tale to frighten—it was law. Too many had disappeared to doubt it.
But Efe, twelve years old and stubborn as drought, was tired of warnings. She loved the river. She loved the reeds that swayed like dancers, the soft mud that molded between her toes, the hum of frogs rising with the night. It was her secret kingdom, her escape from chores, her place of freedom. And so, on the evening when the village gathered for the yam festival, she slipped away.
Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind—stay away when the sun dies—but Efe only laughed. “It’s just water,” she muttered, clutching her sandals as she ran barefoot down the dusty path.
⸻
The sun sagged heavy on the horizon, painting the river blood-red. The air was thick, the insects restless, and the first chill of night crept across her skin.
Then she saw them.
Small footprints pressed into the mud by the bank. Dozens of them. All the same size. They led from the water into the reeds, vanishing where the shadows thickened.
Efe frowned. Who else would be here? Everyone was still at the festival.
“Hello?” she called, her voice small against the rushing current.
For a moment, only silence answered. Then came laughter—thin, high-pitched, childlike. It rose from the reeds, a chorus of giggles that made the hair on her arms stand stiff. Something was wrong with the sound. It was dry, brittle, as if it scraped against the inside of her skull rather than her ears.
Shapes emerged.
At first, Efe thought they were children caked in mud. But as they stepped closer, she saw their skin was not covered in clay—it was clay. Cracked and flaking, damp with river slime. Their eyes were hollow pits, their smiles split too wide, carved into faces with no teeth beneath.
Efe stumbled back. “Who… who are you?”
One of them tilted its head. A soundless laugh trembled from its throat, though its mouth never moved. A voice bloomed inside Efe’s head, cold and slippery:
“Come play.”
⸻
She spun to run, but something cold clamped around her wrist. She screamed. The clay child’s grip was heavy, gritty, and left dark smears on her skin. More hands reached from the reeds, small and damp, tugging at her dress, clutching her ankles.
“Let me go!” she cried, thrashing.
The children only giggled, their hollow sockets glowing faintly in the dying light. Another voice pressed into her mind, louder, heavier:
“Do not wake the river.”
Her chest tightened. The reeds bent violently as the children dragged her toward the water. The river rippled though no wind stirred, black waves shivering as if something beneath were rising.
“No! Mama! Mama!” she screamed.
But the festival drums still thundered in the village; no one heard.
The clay children laughed without sound, their eyeless faces fixed on her as the first wave touched her toes. The water was colder than ice, burning her skin. She kicked and kicked, but their grip never loosened.
The last thing Efe saw was the surface folding over her head. A thousand bubbles rose, and beneath them, wide shapes moved—arms, faces, limbs, half-formed and reaching. The river swallowed her whole.
⸻
Morning came.
Her mother found her scarf tangled in the reeds. The entire village searched the banks, dragging hooks through the mud, chanting prayers, calling her name until their voices broke. But the river gave nothing back.
For days, her mother wailed at the water’s edge. The elders shook their heads. “The river has claimed another,” they murmured.
But something had changed.
That very evening, new footprints appeared in the mud. Small, clay-stained, leading from the water into the reeds. The mothers pulled their children close, whispering prayers. But no one dared to follow the trail.
⸻
Weeks later, fishermen returning at dusk swore they heard laughter. Children’s laughter, drifting across the current. When they peered into the water, they claimed they saw faces—not fish, not spirits they knew, but small faces with hollow eyes staring back.
Efe’s mother began leaving food by the riverbank. Yam, fruit, bowls of stew. In the morning, the offerings were gone, and more footprints stamped the mud.
⸻
Now, every sunset, the warning grows sharper in Orugun: stay away from the river when the sun dies. Mothers repeat it until their throats are raw. Fathers bar doors and windows. Children listen—most of them.
Because sometimes, at night, small hands knock on windows. Voices whisper from the reeds:
“Come play.”
And those who answer are never seen again.
⸻
But if you walk the riverbank at dawn, you may find new footprints. Always the same size. Always too many.
The river is still building its family.
