Setting: A remote village in southeastern Nigeria, near the Omo Forest. Present day. A place where elders say, *“When you dream too loud, the dream-eaters come.”*
---
It started with the **hanging trees**.
Not bodies.
Not fruit.
But **shapes**.
Silhouettes in burlap sacks, dangling from the high branches of the **iba trees**, swaying in the windless nights.
No one touched them.
No one spoke of them.
But every child knew:
> *Don’t sleep with the window open.
> Don’t dream out loud.
> And never, ever look up after midnight.*
Yet **Temi**, a city doctor returning to bury her father, did all three.
And the No-Face came for her.
---
### 🛏️ The First Dream
She dreamed of her father.
Standing in the family compound.
Mouth moving.
But no sound.
She stepped closer.
“Papa?” she said.
He turned.
Smiled.
Then **peeled off his face**.
Like a mask.
Underneath — nothing.
Just smooth, featureless skin.
She screamed.
Woke up.
Sweating.
Heart pounding.
Outside her window — the **iba tree**.
And in its branches?
One of the sacks.
Lower than before.
Swinging.
As if recently occupied.
She told her aunt.
Auntie Moyo spat on the floor.
“You woke it,” she said. “Dreaming like that. Calling his name. The **No-Face** feeds on grief. On memory. On dreams too loud to ignore.”
Temi scoffed. “It’s just a local myth.”
Auntie Moyo’s eyes hardened.
“Then why did your father hang burlap sacks in the trees every full moon? Why did he never speak of his brother who vanished in his sleep? Why did he wear a blindfold at night?”
Temi had no answer.
But that night…
She dreamed again.
---
### 🌙 The Dream-Eater
She was back in the compound.
But now, the house was **inside out**.
Furniture on the ceiling.
Doors leading to sky.
Her father sitting at the dinner table — upside down.
He looked at her.
No face.
Just blank.
Then he **spoke** — not with a mouth.
With her **own voice**.
> “You miss me,” he said.
> “You cry at night.
> You dream of my hands.
> My voice.
> My love.
> So I came back.”
“No,” she whispered. “You’re not him.”
> “I am,” it said. “I wear your dreams like skin.”
It reached for her.
She ran.
But the house had no exit.
Walls closed in.
Then — she woke.
But the room was **wrong**.
The mirror showed her sleeping in bed.
But she was standing.
And the reflection?
It wasn’t her.
It was **her father**.
Faceless.
Smiling.
She screamed.
Turned.
The mirror shattered.
But the glass didn’t fall.
It **floated**.
And in each shard — a different dream.
Her first kiss.
Her mother’s funeral.
Her father’s last breath.
All being **eaten**.
By something with no mouth.
---
### 🧠 The Truth of the No-Face
Auntie Moyo refused to sleep in the house that night.
Instead, she lit a fire in the yard and told the old story:
> Long ago, the village suffered a plague of nightmares.
> Children woke screaming.
> Adults wasted away, never rested.
> One by one, they died in their sleep.
>
> The elders discovered the cause: **the Dream-Eaters**.
> Spirits with no face, no name, no past.
> They lived in the *space between dreams*, feeding on strong emotions.
>
> To stop them, they made a pact:
> Hang empty sacks in the iba trees — offerings.
> Fill them with dry grass, old clothes, false memories.
> Let the No-Face feed on lies.
>
> But if someone dreams with true sorrow?
> The pact breaks.
> And the No-Face comes to wear their face.
> To live their life.
> To replace them.
Temi stared into the fire.
“I didn’t know,” she said.
“You did,” Auntie Moyo said. “You just forgot.
Your uncle — my brother — he dreamed of his dead wife every night.
The No-Face took him.
Wore him.
Lived in his house.
Ate at his table.
Until one day, the real him was gone.
And the faceless thing… was the only one left.”
Temi’s blood turned to ice.
Because she’d been dreaming of her father every night.
And last night?
She’d begged him not to leave.
She’d cried.
She’d **called him back**.
---
### 👁️ The Infection Spreads
That night, she tried not to sleep.
Drank bitter herbs.
Chanted prayers.
Burned sage.
But exhaustion won.
She fell into blackness.
And the dream began.
She stood in the village.
But no one looked like themselves.
Their faces — smooth.
Blank.
Peeling off like paper.
And above, in the iba trees?
Hundreds of sacks.
Swinging.
Full.
And from one — a **hand** reached out.
Hers.
She woke — or thought she did.
She got up.
Washed her face.
Looked in the mirror.
Her reflection smiled.
But she wasn’t smiling.
She stepped back.
The reflection stepped forward.
Through the glass.
Now standing in the room.
Faceless.
Wearing her nightgown.
> “I’ve been so tired,” it said — in her voice.
> “Dreaming every night.
> Missing him.
> Feeling empty.
> But now… I’m full.”
Temi ran.
But the house had no doors.
Walls pulsed.
Ceiling dripped **liquid dreams** — memories, fears, lullabies.
She crawled to the window.
Opened it.
Jumped.
Landed hard.
Looked up.
Her reflection — now **her** — stood in the window.
Waved.
Then closed the shutters.
Temi ran to Auntie Moyo’s hut.
Banged on the door.
“No! Don’t open!” the old woman shouted.
“Let me in! It’s me!”
“Prove it,” Auntie Moyo said.
Temi froze.
Then whispered: “When I was six, I drowned in the river. You pulled me out. You said, *‘The water took your breath, but I’ll give you my voice until you find yours.’* And you sang to me for seven nights.”
Silence.
Then the door opened.
Temi collapsed inside.
“I have to destroy the sacks,” she said. “Before it becomes me.”
Auntie Moyo nodded.
“But if you do… the No-Face will have no lie to eat.
It will starve.
And it will take its **true form**.
One you cannot survive.”
“I don’t care,” Temi said. “I want my face back.”
---
### 🔥 The Final Offering
They went at dawn.
Torches in hand.
The sacks hung low, **swollen**, pulsing.
As if alive.
Temi lit the first.
Flames licked the burlap.
A **scream** — not from fire.
From the air.
From the trees.
From **inside her head**.
The other sacks **twitched**.
Then — one **ripped open**.
Out spilled **dreams**.
Not smoke.
But **images**.
Her childhood.
Her father’s laugh.
Her first love.
Her deepest fears.
All being **devoured** by a shape in the air.
No body.
No face.
Just a **void** with her voice.
It turned to her.
> “You were delicious,” it said.
> “So full of sorrow.
> So easy to wear.
> Now, I’ll wear you until you forget you were ever real.”
Temi didn’t run.
She stepped forward.
Held out her father’s **funeral shroud** — white cloth, stitched with protective symbols.
“I offer you this,” she said. “A dream of peace. Of rest. Of letting go.”
The No-Face hesitated.
Then **lunged**.
Not at her.
At the shroud.
It wrapped itself in the cloth.
And for a moment — it **wept**.
Not tears.
**Smoke**.
Then it rose.
Up into the trees.
Wrapped in the shroud.
And hung.
Like the others.
But this sack… **glowed**.
Soft.
Calm.
Finally fed.
---
### 🌅 Epilogue
Temi left the village the next day.
She returned to the city.
But she never dreams.
Not of her father.
Not of love.
Not of fear.
She takes pills to keep the mind blank.
Because she knows:
If she dreams too loud…
She might not wake up as herself.
And sometimes, late at night, she checks the mirror.
Not to fix her hair.
To make sure **her reflection is crying**.
Because if it’s not…
Then the No-Face isn’t gone.
It’s just **waiting**.
For her to remember.