#fictionalwriting — Public Fediverse posts

SHORT STORY: The Dance of the Lost Souls (part two)

“Mya…”

The whisper drifted through the night once more.

My grandmother.

It had to be.

For years I had longed to hear her voice again. I had replayed memories in my mind, afraid that one day I would forget the way she laughed, the softness of her hands, the way she always called me by the name no one else dared use.

Now, somehow she was calling me.

The music swelled, rising and falling with the wind.

The forest had become a place without life.

Yet I did not feel alone.

I felt watched.

Then I saw it.

A pale mist drifted between the trees as though it already knew where it was going.

I followed.

The trees suddenly gave way to an enormous clearing.

At its centre stood the ancient silk-cotton tree my grandmother had spoken of so many times.

It was larger than any tree I had ever imagined.

Its roots rose from the earth like the backs of sleeping giants, winding around one another until they formed natural arches.

The branches stretched into the sky, disappearing into darkness.

The moonlight shimmered across the fog, creating shapes that appeared and vanished.

Then the shapes became people.

Transparent. Their feet never truly touched the ground.

They glided over the mist in perfect harmony, moving as though one heartbeat guided them all.

Their dance was impossibly beautiful.

For a brief moment, I forgot to be afraid.

The music welcomed me.

Each soul carried an unfinished story.

Lives interrupted.

Promises broken.

Words left unsaid.

I felt every one of them.

Tears rolled down my cheeks without my understanding why.

Then I saw her.

She stood perfectly still while everyone else danced.

She wore a faded blue wrapper embroidered with tiny white flowers.

I knew that wrapper.

“Grandma…”

“My little Mya.”

The sound of my name broke something inside me.

I ran toward her.

My arms passed through her like cold smoke.

I stumbled.

She remained standing exactly where she was, but the dance continued.

The music grew louder.

The souls began moving closer.

Their glowing eyes watched me with desperate hope.

“You should not have come.” Grandma said

“You called me.” I said tear filling my eyes

“No.” She said

“I prayed you wouldn’t even hear them.”

A cold shiver travelled through me.

“The voice you heard…”

“…wasn’t mine.”

The dancers circled us.

Closer.

Closer.

Their movements became faster.

The music deepened.

It no longer sounded beautiful.

It sounded fast paced and had like a screeching sound like discs being merged together.

I tried to step backward.

My feet refused.

The mist wrapped itself around my ankles.

Cold fingers brushed against my skin.

Then more.

Hands.

Dozens of invisible hands.

“I can’t move.”

“I know.” Grandma said

One by one, the dancers reached toward me.

Their fingertips barely grazed my shoulders.

Each touch stole something.

The smell of my mother’s cooking.

Gone.

My father’s laughter.

Gone.

The sound of rain against my apartment window.

Gone.

My first day at school.

Gone.

I gasped.

I couldn’t remember what month it was.

Then…

I couldn’t remember how old I was.

Fear gripped my chest.

Not because of the ghosts.

Because I was disappearing.

The music wrapped around me.

It made me feel

No more pain.

No more loneliness.

No more goodbyes.

Just dance.

Forever.

I looked down.

My feet no longer touched the ground.

I was floating.

The mist curled around my body like a second skin.

Grandma tried to grab me but couldn’t so she closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, she looked exactly as she had when I was a little girl telling me bedtime stories.

“You still have birthdays left.”

“You still have stories you haven’t written.”

“You still have people waiting for you.”

Tears filled my eyes and I asked “What about you?”

“My story ended long ago my child…”

“…some endings become someone else’s beginning.”

The invisible hands pulled at me harder.

The circle tightened.

The music became deafening. I tried lifting my hands but couldn’t.

Grandma stepped forward and entered the circle.

Every soul stopped dancing.

They turned toward her.

And there was sudden silence.

Then she looked back at me and lifted both my hands.

Though her hands never touched me, I felt my hands go up and warmth explode through my body.

The invisible fingers released me.

The mist tore away from my skin.

The music had faded

“Run.”

“I can’t leave you.”

“You already did.”

“What?”

“The day you chose to keep living.”

The wind roared.

The circle broke.

Something pushed me backward with tremendous force.

I fell.

The clearing blurred.

The tree disappeared.

I felt hands shake my shoulders violently.

I opened my eyes.

My mother knelt beside my bed.

Her face was pale with fear.

“Thank God.”

“You wouldn’t wake up,” my mother whispered.

I sat up slowly. 

“I’m fine mum” “I had the strangest dream.” I said

The room spun.

My mum sighed and left. 

My memory of the night felt so real but it became hazy, like a fading dream, but one thing remained clear: the dance of souls was real.

We went back to the city after the birthday party. Years passed but I could never forget that night, I had always wished to go back to the village but where was the time. 

The dance went on each year, deep in the heart of the forest, but never again did I venture near for I knew now that some things were meant to remain undisturbed, secrets best left unsaid. 

Thank you for reading!!!

Love,

Dupe Abiona.

SHORT STORY: The Dance of the Lost Souls (part two)

“Mya…”

The whisper drifted through the night once more.

My grandmother.

It had to be.

For years I had longed to hear her voice again. I had replayed memories in my mind, afraid that one day I would forget the way she laughed, the softness of her hands, the way she always called me by the name no one else dared use.

Now, somehow she was calling me.

The music swelled, rising and falling with the wind.

The forest had become a place without life.

Yet I did not feel alone.

I felt watched.

Then I saw it.

A pale mist drifted between the trees as though it already knew where it was going.

I followed.

The trees suddenly gave way to an enormous clearing.

At its centre stood the ancient silk-cotton tree my grandmother had spoken of so many times.

It was larger than any tree I had ever imagined.

Its roots rose from the earth like the backs of sleeping giants, winding around one another until they formed natural arches.

The branches stretched into the sky, disappearing into darkness.

The moonlight shimmered across the fog, creating shapes that appeared and vanished.

Then the shapes became people.

Transparent. Their feet never truly touched the ground.

They glided over the mist in perfect harmony, moving as though one heartbeat guided them all.

Their dance was impossibly beautiful.

For a brief moment, I forgot to be afraid.

The music welcomed me.

Each soul carried an unfinished story.

Lives interrupted.

Promises broken.

Words left unsaid.

I felt every one of them.

Tears rolled down my cheeks without my understanding why.

Then I saw her.

She stood perfectly still while everyone else danced.

She wore a faded blue wrapper embroidered with tiny white flowers.

I knew that wrapper.

“Grandma…”

“My little Mya.”

The sound of my name broke something inside me.

I ran toward her.

My arms passed through her like cold smoke.

I stumbled.

She remained standing exactly where she was, but the dance continued.

The music grew louder.

The souls began moving closer.

Their glowing eyes watched me with desperate hope.

“You should not have come.” Grandma said

“You called me.” I said tear filling my eyes

“No.” She said

“I prayed you wouldn’t even hear them.”

A cold shiver travelled through me.

“The voice you heard…”

“…wasn’t mine.”

The dancers circled us.

Closer.

Closer.

Their movements became faster.

The music deepened.

It no longer sounded beautiful.

It sounded fast paced and had like a screeching sound like discs being merged together.

I tried to step backward.

My feet refused.

The mist wrapped itself around my ankles.

Cold fingers brushed against my skin.

Then more.

Hands.

Dozens of invisible hands.

“I can’t move.”

“I know.” Grandma said

One by one, the dancers reached toward me.

Their fingertips barely grazed my shoulders.

Each touch stole something.

The smell of my mother’s cooking.

Gone.

My father’s laughter.

Gone.

The sound of rain against my apartment window.

Gone.

My first day at school.

Gone.

I gasped.

I couldn’t remember what month it was.

Then…

I couldn’t remember how old I was.

Fear gripped my chest.

Not because of the ghosts.

Because I was disappearing.

The music wrapped around me.

It made me feel

No more pain.

No more loneliness.

No more goodbyes.

Just dance.

Forever.

I looked down.

My feet no longer touched the ground.

I was floating.

The mist curled around my body like a second skin.

Grandma tried to grab me but couldn’t so she closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, she looked exactly as she had when I was a little girl telling me bedtime stories.

“You still have birthdays left.”

“You still have stories you haven’t written.”

“You still have people waiting for you.”

Tears filled my eyes and I asked “What about you?”

“My story ended long ago my child…”

“…some endings become someone else’s beginning.”

The invisible hands pulled at me harder.

The circle tightened.

The music became deafening. I tried lifting my hands but couldn’t.

Grandma stepped forward and entered the circle.

Every soul stopped dancing.

They turned toward her.

And there was sudden silence.

Then she looked back at me and lifted both my hands.

Though her hands never touched me, I felt my hands go up and warmth explode through my body.

The invisible fingers released me.

The mist tore away from my skin.

The music had faded

“Run.”

“I can’t leave you.”

“You already did.”

“What?”

“The day you chose to keep living.”

The wind roared.

The circle broke.

Something pushed me backward with tremendous force.

I fell.

The clearing blurred.

The tree disappeared.

I felt hands shake my shoulders violently.

I opened my eyes.

My mother knelt beside my bed.

Her face was pale with fear.

“Thank God.”

“You wouldn’t wake up,” my mother whispered.

I sat up slowly. 

“I’m fine mum” “I had the strangest dream.” I said

The room spun.

My mum sighed and left. 

My memory of the night felt so real but it became hazy, like a fading dream, but one thing remained clear: the dance of souls was real.

We went back to the city after the birthday party. Years passed but I could never forget that night, I had always wished to go back to the village but where was the time. 

The dance went on each year, deep in the heart of the forest, but never again did I venture near for I knew now that some things were meant to remain undisturbed, secrets best left unsaid. 

Thank you for reading!!!

Love,

Dupe Abiona.

SHORT STORY: The Dance of the Lost Souls

“Some dances are meant for the living. Others are meant to remind the dead they are not alone.”

That was a saying children in my village learned long before they even knew what words were. 

“When the wind begins to sing, go home.”

No one laughed at the warning.

No one questioned it.

As a young adult, I thought the adults were simply trying to frighten us into behaving. Every village had stories meant to keep curious children from wandering into rivers, climbing dangerous trees, or disappearing into the forest.

Ours simply happened to involve spirits.

Deep beyond the river, where the forest grew so thick that sunlight rarely reached it, stood an ancient silk-cotton tree. Its roots were as wide as houses, curling through the ground like enormous sleeping snakes.

No one went there. Not hunters. Not herbalists. Not even the oldest elders who claimed to fear nothing.

According to the stories, that was where the lost souls gathered every year on the Eve of Hallows.

Not to haunt.

Not to hunt.

To dance.

The dead, my grandmother used to say, were not always angry.

Sometimes… they were simply lonely.

My grandmother loved stories more than anyone I had ever known.

Every evening, after supper, she would spread an old woven mat and I would curl up beside her, resting my head against her lap. She always smelled of shea butter, and smoke from the kitchen fire. 

She would tell me the story of “The Dancing Souls.” But whenever she was about to tell me  that story, her voice became quieter.

The smile disappeared from her face.

“Grandma,” I once asked, “have you ever seen the dance?”

Instead of answering, she looked toward the forest.

For a very long time.

“I’ve seen enough.”

“Are they evil?” I asked

“No.”

“Then why can’t people watch them?”

“Because sorrow can be just as dangerous as evil.”

“I don’t understand.”

She placed a wrinkled finger against my forehead.

“One day you will.”

Another evening, I asked why everyone hurried home before eight.

Grandma looked around to make sure no one was listening.

Then she leaned close enough that I could hear the softness in her breathing.

“If anyone calls your name from the forest after sunset…”

“…don’t answer.”

“What if it’s you?”

“It won’t be.”

“What if it sounds exactly like you?”

Her eyes met mine.

“Especially then.”

“What happens if someone answers?”

Grandma stared toward the forest again.

“The dead miss being alive.”

She said

“And sometimes…”

“They don’t want to be lonely anymore.”

I never forgot those words. I also never truly understood what she meant but they lingered on my mind even after we left the village, even after life changed. 

My parents moved us to the city. They said there were better schools and better opportunities. I mean they weren’t wrong but moving to the city was quite stressful, it was loud, bright, and always awake. There were roads that stretched farther than I could see, buildings that touched the sky, and neighbours who barely knew each other’s names.

Life became busy. School became harder. Friends came and went.

The village slowly became something I remembered only in fragments. Then… Grandma died.

She passed peacefully in her sleep. I never got to say goodbye.

For months afterward, I would wake believing I had heard her calling my name.

“Mya.”

No one else called me that.

Only her.

I had always hated my middle name.

Grandma insisted it carried an ancient blessing.

I’d wish I could hear her say it just once more.

Years slipped by. Life became work. Work became routine. Routine became years.

The village slowly faded into memory. I had no one to tell me these stories and soon after I forgot about it all. 

Until my father’s seventieth birthday.

“I’m celebrating at home,” he announced one Sunday over lunch.

My mother blinked.

“Here in the city?”

“No.”

“Our village.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then my father looked at me.

“You haven’t been back since your grandmother’s funeral.”

He was right.

I hadn’t.

The journey took nearly five hours from the city.

As we left the highways behind, smooth roads gave way to narrow dusty paths lined with towering palm trees and thick forests.

The air changed, it smelled of rain, fresh leaves, wood smoke, and rivers.

Almost nothing had changed.

Children still chased tyres down the road.

Women still sold roasted corn beneath umbrellas.

Old men still gathered beneath the giant iroko tree, arguing about politics no one intended to solve.

Only the houses looked different.

Many now had painted walls and metal gates instead of mud bricks and wooden fences.

Progress had found its way here, but not enough to erase the soul of the village.

Our family house stood exactly where I remembered. Not far from the river and during the evenings, the townspeople came out to the river to play.

That evening, while my parents had visitors already trooping in to visit, I wandered to the riverbank alone, and there it all started coming back to me. 

I watched as children laughed as they splashed one another. Women washed clothes while humming songs. Everything felt beautifully ordinary, yet beneath that familiarity something felt missing. 

My Grandma, she would have been sitting on her mat waiting for me. I knew I had to visit her the next day as it was already getting late and people had begun leaving the riverbank. 

The next day, while my parents were out preparing for the birthday party, I decided to go visit Grandma’s grave. I sat there telling her stories about my life in the city and lost track of time. I had to rush back home, I knew my parents would been worried as there was no cellular network to reach me. 

By the time I reached home, my parents were waiting outside.

“Mya!”

My mother rushed over.

“We’ve been worried sick.”

“You know there isn’t any phone signal,” my father added.

“I know, I’m sorry, I lost track of time.”

The following morning, the village buzzed with unusual excitement.

Young boys hurried through the streets handing out printed flyers.

Across the top, written in bold black letters, were the words: EVE OF THE HALLOWS

I immediately remembered when my grandma used to tell me stories about it, but I didn’t think they were real obviously I just thought they were meant to scare children. 

I sneaked out of the house later that night, I found my way to the forest and the deeper I went the more I kept hearing strange music and it kept drawing me closer. It was like I was chasing something but couldn’t quite name it. 

As the moon shined brighter as if directing my path, I soon reached the clearing, a place filled with mist over the ground, the moon shined brightly through it as if creating figures with it. It was silent and cold, yet I was anticipating as I walked through it and came to a big tree. That’s when I saw them, pale, translucent figures, floating through the mist past me toward the tree. Their faces were blurred, but between the mist they became figures. 

My heart started racing as I had never seen anything like this. My feet rooted in place, I was both terrified and mesmerized. I wanted to turn back and run as I kept getting a feeling I wasn’t supposed to be there.

A voice, soft and familiar, whispered my name. 

Not the name everyone knew.

The one only one person had ever used.

“Mya…”

Every hair on my arms stood upright.

My heart forgot how to beat.

Because I knew that voice.

I had known it since childhood.

It clicked in my head. 

To Be Continued…

Thank you for reading!!!

Love,

Dupe Abiona

SHORT STORY: The Dance of the Lost Souls

“Some dances are meant for the living. Others are meant to remind the dead they are not alone.”

That was a saying children in my village learned long before they even knew what words were. 

“When the wind begins to sing, go home.”

No one laughed at the warning.

No one questioned it.

As a young adult, I thought the adults were simply trying to frighten us into behaving. Every village had stories meant to keep curious children from wandering into rivers, climbing dangerous trees, or disappearing into the forest.

Ours simply happened to involve spirits.

Deep beyond the river, where the forest grew so thick that sunlight rarely reached it, stood an ancient silk-cotton tree. Its roots were as wide as houses, curling through the ground like enormous sleeping snakes.

No one went there. Not hunters. Not herbalists. Not even the oldest elders who claimed to fear nothing.

According to the stories, that was where the lost souls gathered every year on the Eve of Hallows.

Not to haunt.

Not to hunt.

To dance.

The dead, my grandmother used to say, were not always angry.

Sometimes… they were simply lonely.

My grandmother loved stories more than anyone I had ever known.

Every evening, after supper, she would spread an old woven mat and I would curl up beside her, resting my head against her lap. She always smelled of shea butter, and smoke from the kitchen fire. 

She would tell me the story of “The Dancing Souls.” But whenever she was about to tell me  that story, her voice became quieter.

The smile disappeared from her face.

“Grandma,” I once asked, “have you ever seen the dance?”

Instead of answering, she looked toward the forest.

For a very long time.

“I’ve seen enough.”

“Are they evil?” I asked

“No.”

“Then why can’t people watch them?”

“Because sorrow can be just as dangerous as evil.”

“I don’t understand.”

She placed a wrinkled finger against my forehead.

“One day you will.”

Another evening, I asked why everyone hurried home before eight.

Grandma looked around to make sure no one was listening.

Then she leaned close enough that I could hear the softness in her breathing.

“If anyone calls your name from the forest after sunset…”

“…don’t answer.”

“What if it’s you?”

“It won’t be.”

“What if it sounds exactly like you?”

Her eyes met mine.

“Especially then.”

“What happens if someone answers?”

Grandma stared toward the forest again.

“The dead miss being alive.”

She said

“And sometimes…”

“They don’t want to be lonely anymore.”

I never forgot those words. I also never truly understood what she meant but they lingered on my mind even after we left the village, even after life changed. 

My parents moved us to the city. They said there were better schools and better opportunities. I mean they weren’t wrong but moving to the city was quite stressful, it was loud, bright, and always awake. There were roads that stretched farther than I could see, buildings that touched the sky, and neighbours who barely knew each other’s names.

Life became busy. School became harder. Friends came and went.

The village slowly became something I remembered only in fragments. Then… Grandma died.

She passed peacefully in her sleep. I never got to say goodbye.

For months afterward, I would wake believing I had heard her calling my name.

“Mya.”

No one else called me that.

Only her.

I had always hated my middle name.

Grandma insisted it carried an ancient blessing.

I’d wish I could hear her say it just once more.

Years slipped by. Life became work. Work became routine. Routine became years.

The village slowly faded into memory. I had no one to tell me these stories and soon after I forgot about it all. 

Until my father’s seventieth birthday.

“I’m celebrating at home,” he announced one Sunday over lunch.

My mother blinked.

“Here in the city?”

“No.”

“Our village.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then my father looked at me.

“You haven’t been back since your grandmother’s funeral.”

He was right.

I hadn’t.

The journey took nearly five hours from the city.

As we left the highways behind, smooth roads gave way to narrow dusty paths lined with towering palm trees and thick forests.

The air changed, it smelled of rain, fresh leaves, wood smoke, and rivers.

Almost nothing had changed.

Children still chased tyres down the road.

Women still sold roasted corn beneath umbrellas.

Old men still gathered beneath the giant iroko tree, arguing about politics no one intended to solve.

Only the houses looked different.

Many now had painted walls and metal gates instead of mud bricks and wooden fences.

Progress had found its way here, but not enough to erase the soul of the village.

Our family house stood exactly where I remembered. Not far from the river and during the evenings, the townspeople came out to the river to play.

That evening, while my parents had visitors already trooping in to visit, I wandered to the riverbank alone, and there it all started coming back to me. 

I watched as children laughed as they splashed one another. Women washed clothes while humming songs. Everything felt beautifully ordinary, yet beneath that familiarity something felt missing. 

My Grandma, she would have been sitting on her mat waiting for me. I knew I had to visit her the next day as it was already getting late and people had begun leaving the riverbank. 

The next day, while my parents were out preparing for the birthday party, I decided to go visit Grandma’s grave. I sat there telling her stories about my life in the city and lost track of time. I had to rush back home, I knew my parents would been worried as there was no cellular network to reach me. 

By the time I reached home, my parents were waiting outside.

“Mya!”

My mother rushed over.

“We’ve been worried sick.”

“You know there isn’t any phone signal,” my father added.

“I know, I’m sorry, I lost track of time.”

The following morning, the village buzzed with unusual excitement.

Young boys hurried through the streets handing out printed flyers.

Across the top, written in bold black letters, were the words: EVE OF THE HALLOWS

I immediately remembered when my grandma used to tell me stories about it, but I didn’t think they were real obviously I just thought they were meant to scare children. 

I sneaked out of the house later that night, I found my way to the forest and the deeper I went the more I kept hearing strange music and it kept drawing me closer. It was like I was chasing something but couldn’t quite name it. 

As the moon shined brighter as if directing my path, I soon reached the clearing, a place filled with mist over the ground, the moon shined brightly through it as if creating figures with it. It was silent and cold, yet I was anticipating as I walked through it and came to a big tree. That’s when I saw them, pale, translucent figures, floating through the mist past me toward the tree. Their faces were blurred, but between the mist they became figures. 

My heart started racing as I had never seen anything like this. My feet rooted in place, I was both terrified and mesmerized. I wanted to turn back and run as I kept getting a feeling I wasn’t supposed to be there.

A voice, soft and familiar, whispered my name. 

Not the name everyone knew.

The one only one person had ever used.

“Mya…”

Every hair on my arms stood upright.

My heart forgot how to beat.

Because I knew that voice.

I had known it since childhood.

It clicked in my head. 

To Be Continued…

Thank you for reading!!!

Love,

Dupe Abiona