The Living Dead
In a small town, there was a legend about the Living Dead—people who had been buried yet were seen walking the streets at night, blank-eyed, moving in eerie silence.
One evening, Tunde was on his way home when he noticed someone familiar down the darkened street: his old friend Chike, who had died a month ago. Tunde froze. Chike’s skin was pale, his eyes vacant, and his clothes were caked in dirt. Slowly, Chike turned his head toward Tunde, and in a voice that sounded distant and broken, he whispered, “Come with me. It’s cold… down there.”
Tunde stumbled backward, but Chike kept moving toward him, his hand outstretched. The air grew icy, and whispers filled Tunde’s ears, as though hundreds of voices were calling from the grave. Desperate, Tunde ran, but no matter how fast he went, he felt those cold eyes watching him.
At home, Tunde locked the doors, trembling, only to hear faint scratches against the walls. He looked through the window and saw not just Chike, but others from the town who had died, their lifeless faces staring back at him, all whispering the same haunting words: “Join us… join us…”
Days passed, and Tunde became a shell of himself, barely sleeping, haunted by the whispers that echoed through his mind. One night, he finally vanished, his house empty, only a trail of dirt leading to the graveyard, where a freshly dug hole lay open, waiting.
Now, people say they see Tunde among the Living Dead, wandering the streets, his eyes hollow, still whispering, “Join us…”
The Living Dead
In a small town, there was a legend about the Living Dead—people who had been buried yet were seen walking the streets at night, blank-eyed, moving in eerie silence.
One evening, Tunde was on his way home when he noticed someone familiar down the darkened street: his old friend Chike, who had died a month ago. Tunde froze. Chike’s skin was pale, his eyes vacant, and his clothes were caked in dirt. Slowly, Chike turned his head toward Tunde, and in a voice that sounded distant and broken, he whispered, “Come with me. It’s cold… down there.”
Tunde stumbled backward, but Chike kept moving toward him, his hand outstretched. The air grew icy, and whispers filled Tunde’s ears, as though hundreds of voices were calling from the grave. Desperate, Tunde ran, but no matter how fast he went, he felt those cold eyes watching him.
At home, Tunde locked the doors, trembling, only to hear faint scratches against the walls. He looked through the window and saw not just Chike, but others from the town who had died, their lifeless faces staring back at him, all whispering the same haunting words: “Join us… join us…”
Days passed, and Tunde became a shell of himself, barely sleeping, haunted by the whispers that echoed through his mind. One night, he finally vanished, his house empty, only a trail of dirt leading to the graveyard, where a freshly dug hole lay open, waiting.
Now, people say they see Tunde among the Living Dead, wandering the streets, his eyes hollow, still whispering, “Join us…”
