Sema Jambo
The Girl Who Was Buried Pregnant (Part3)
2nd Jul, 2025 Views 36
????The Girl Who Was Buried Pregnant (Part3)
The forest swallowed the mother’s screams like it had swallowed so many before.
Silence.
But not peace.
Above the open grave, the newborn thing writhed in Ifeoma’s arms, its pale skin already sprouting tiny, black vines that twisted and coiled like veins.
Its eyes opened—blind, milky white—and yet it saw.
The other pregnant dead gathered closer. Their hollow eyes leaking soil, their bellies pulsing with unnatural life. They circled Ifeoma and the child, chanting low, broken words that made the trees shudder.
From the ground, another hand burst forth.
Then another.
Old sins.
Forgotten curses.
The forest, once asleep, was wide awake now.
At the center of it all, Ifeoma raised the creature high into the moonless sky. Its cry was no cry at all—just a hollow sucking sound, like the air itself was being devoured.
Behind her, the graves cracked open further, revealing twisted skeletons clutching swollen, pregnant bellies. Souls trapped in the endless moment of unfinished birth.
The mother, half-buried in the sucking earth, clawed desperately toward the edge.
She almost escaped.
Almost.
Until the vines erupted from the newborn’s mouth—shooting like spears across the graveyard—piercing her wrists, her ankles, her throat. They dragged her screaming back to the pit.
Into the earth.
Into the waiting arms of the dead.
Above, Ifeoma knelt by the collapsing grave, the newborn cradled at her breast. She hummed an ancient lullaby—the same one her mother used to sing to her long ago.
But twisted.
Broken.
The words now promised death, not dreams.
One by one, the other dead girls placed their "children" at Ifeoma’s feet—each monstrous in its own way. Babies with black eyes, hollow mouths, skeletal wings, twisted limbs.
A family born from betrayal.
Born from the forest’s rage.
Born from forgotten promises.
The ground quaked again, and at the center of the clearing, a tree burst from the earth—black and gnarled, its branches heavy with hanging umbilical cords instead of fruit.
And on every cord…
A newborn.
Still wriggling.
Still breathing.
Waiting.
Ifeoma stepped forward and pressed the newborn thing against the base of the tree. It merged into the bark with a sickening, wet sound.
The tree pulsed—alive.
A womb of vengeance.
The forest had not just remembered.
It had given birth to its army.
And somewhere, far beyond the edge of the cursed woods, the first cries of the forgotten children drifted on the wind…
Calling to their next mother.
Their next host.
Their next sacrifice.
— TO BE CONTINUED —
If the forest chose you to carry its vengeance… would you resist—or would you carry its seed into the living world?
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Whispers
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