The day Pa Ezekiel died, the wind never stopped blowing.
It began as a soft breeze at dawn, barely ruffling the tall grasses that surrounded the quiet village of Umueze. By midday, it whistled through the banana trees with a sound like someone humming a sad, broken song. And by evening, as the family gathered for the burial, the wind had become restless—tugging at clothing, rattling windows, and flinging red dust into every corner of the compound.
Some said it was a sign that his soul was not at rest.But no one understood the truth.
Not yet.
The grandchildren arrived late that day—four of them, stepping off the rusted bus with tired eyes and heavy hearts. The village hadn't changed much since their last visit, but the air felt different now. Not just because of death, but because of something waiting.
Ada, the first to step down, was sixteen, tall for her age and sharp-tongued. Her braided hair was tied back, her face set in that determined scowl she always wore when adults started whispering around her.
Her younger brother, Emeka, followed—quiet, observant, always with a sketchbook under his arm. He didn't speak much, but he listened to everything.
Then came Kosi, their cousin. Twelve, superstitious, and convinced she could sense spirits. She had cried the entire trip from Lagos and whispered things into her palm that made the others nervous.
And last was Tobe, only nine, small and eager to be accepted, tagging along like a shadow behind the others.
They were close, bound by blood and boredom. And on that day, they were reunited for one reason: to bury the old man whose house had always felt too big, too quiet, and too full of secrets.
The burial was a blur.
Men dug the grave with shovels that struck earth like dull thuds. Women wept behind thick black veils. Someone muttered prayers into the wind, but their words were swallowed up by the gusts tearing through the trees like something searching.
And after the dust was thrown and the casket lowered, the adults disappeared into murmurs, drinks, and laments.
That's when Ada turned to the others and said, "Let's explore."
The house was older than it looked.
Long hallways stretched like narrow tunnels. The walls were lined with dusty portraits of ancestors whose eyes seemed to move when no one was watching. The air was cold inside—colder than it should have been. And in the main sitting room, one bookshelf stood awkwardly tilted, as if guarding something behind it.
Ada spotted it first.
"There's a door," she whispered, brushing her fingers along the edge of the frame.
Behind the shelf was a small wooden door with a rusted brass handle and no keyhole. It creaked open on its own when Emeka touched it.
Inside was a room neither of them had ever seen. The windows were boarded, the air dry like a crypt. There was a desk, a broken lamp, and in the center: a thick black book resting on a faded red cloth.
The cover had no title. The edges were stitched with something that didn't look like thread. The moment they stepped inside, the wind outside stopped.
Not slowed.
Stopped.
The silence was deafening.
Kosi shivered. "This place isn't right," she whispered.
Ada, already halfway to the book, grinned. "That's why we're here."
She opened the book.
The pages were brittle but dark with ink. Strange symbols, some drawn in circles, others in bleeding lines. And beneath them, in shaky English, instructions. A ritual. A chant. A name.
To awaken the One in the Wind,
Speak the Breath of the Lost.
Circle the air with salt and ash.
And call it by its name three times...
Eku-Ife-Ufufe.
Eku-Ife-Ufufe.
Eku-Ife-Ufufe.
Kosi stepped back. "That's not Igbo. That's not any language I know."
"It's just a game," Ada said, her voice too eager. "Old people used to believe this stuff. Why not try it?"
Emeka hesitated. "What if it's real?"
Tobe looked scared. "What if it's not?"
They should have left.
But instead, they made the circle.
They found salt in the kitchen. Ash in the fireplace. They went behind the compound, drew the circle, stood within it, and read the words together.
Three times.
Nothing happened.
At first.
Then the candle they hadn't lit blew out.
And the shadows on the ground shifted—but the children hadn't moved.
Then came the whisper.
It sounded like wind. But not wind. It spoke. But not in words.
Tobe stumbled out of the circle.
Kosi screamed.
Emeka dropped the book.
Ada stood frozen as if the air had solidified around her.
The wind, which had stopped before, now returned—not gentle, not wild—but purposeful. It rose and rose, spiraling through the compound like a living thing.
And in the sky above them, the clouds cracked open… without lightning. Just darkness.
A howl.
And then, silence.
The children ran inside.
They told no one.
They tried to sleep.
But that night, in the far end of the village, someone screamed.
In the morning, old Mama Ngozi was found dead.
Her house had been torn apart from the inside. There were no wounds on her body. But her mouth was open in a silent scream, and her eyes were missing.
The only sign was the wind. It circled her hut like a whisper that didn't want to leave.
The elders said it was a curse.
The others said it was madness.
The children said nothing.
That evening, Emeka opened his sketchbook. In the center of a blank page, he had drawn a figure he didn't remember drawing: tall, faceless, wrapped in long bands of wind like a burial cloth unraveling mid-air.
He called it, in small, shaking letters:
The Wind Taker.