The Curse of the Prince

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I was ten when the prince came to our village.

He came with soldiers, dressed in red cloth and gold, and he smiled like he was already king. Everyone was scared, even Baba. And Baba never feared anyone, not even spirits.

The prince said he was there to “learn the ways of the people.” But we knew that was a lie. He was hiding. The old king had sent him away after a scandal at the palace. People whispered that he was cursed. That he liked blood. That something followed him.

He stayed in the big chief’s compound, eating goat meat and drinking palm wine every night. But when the sun went down, strange things happened. Dogs barked at nothing. Children got sick. One boy even vanished.

That boy was my brother.

His name was Kelechi. He was thirteen. Strong. Fast. Loud. Always teasing me. Always running. That night he didn’t come home after helping with the goats.

Mama cried so hard she vomited.

The next morning, we found a finger. Just one. Near the prince’s hut. No one said anything. No one asked questions. The chief told us to go home and “let the spirits handle it.”

I knew something was wrong. So I waited.

That night, I climbed a tree near the prince’s hut. I wanted to see if he had taken my brother. I didn’t expect to hear Kelechi’s voice.

It was weak. Crying. Like he was in pain.

I stayed quiet. Then I saw the prince come out. His face was different. Long. Twisted. His eyes glowed faintly, like red coal. And his teeth… they were too many. Too sharp.

He dragged something out. It was my brother. Tied up. Bleeding from his shoulder.

I bit my hand to keep from screaming.

The prince didn’t speak. He just looked up at the moon, then sank his teeth into Kelechi’s neck. My brother screamed once. Then it was quiet.

I stayed in that tree until morning.

No one believed me when I told them. Not even Mama. They said I was dreaming. That grief made me mad.

But the prince left two days later. No explanation. Just gone.

After he left, we found more bones behind the chief’s hut. Small ones. Children’s bones.

The village never spoke of it again.

But I remember.

And every full moon, I hear chewing outside my window. Slow. Wet. Chewing.

And I never look.