The cracked earth of the plateau baked under the relentless sun. Mohato, a man weathered by forty-two seasons in Lesotho's highlands, squinted at the horizon.
Dust devils, though not danced from the earth this day, were a common sight, swirling reminders of the arid land's capricious nature.
He had journeyed far from his village, driven by whispers carried on the dry wind, tales of strange occurrences in this desolate region.
The whispers spoke of holes. Not the usual sinkholes that pockmarked the landscape, remnants of geological shifts, but something different.
Something… wrong. They said these holes were shallow, almost deliberately carved, and within them, sometimes, faces appeared. Faces of the departed.
Mohato, a man grounded in the tangible world of sheep farming and weather patterns, had dismissed the tales as fireside ramblings.
Yet, a persistent unease had taken root, a gnawing at the edges of his practical mind. He needed to see for himself.
He walked for hours, the sun beating down on his worn hat, the silence broken only by the crunch of his boots on the parched ground.
The landscape was unforgiving, a monochrome palette of browns and greys, stretching towards a horizon blurred by heat haze.
There was a stillness here, deeper than mere quiet; an absence, a vacuum where life seemed reluctant to venture.
Then he saw it. A depression in the earth, circular and unnaturally smooth, like a bowl gouged from the hard-baked soil.
It was shallower than he expected, perhaps only a foot deep, and about the width of a large cooking pot. Hesitantly, Mohato approached.
His heart, usually steady and calm, began to thump against his ribs. He peered into the hole.
At first, it seemed empty. Just dark earth. He leaned closer, shading his eyes from the glare. And then he saw it. A face. Formed from the very soil itself, yet undeniably a face.
Pale earth for skin, darker clumps for eyesockets, and a thin line of cracked clay for a mouth, slightly agape as if in a silent gasp.
It was a woman's face, recognizable, though he couldn't immediately place it. The features were softened, blurred at the edges as if melting back into the earth from which it had emerged, but the essence was undeniable.
A faint tremor ran through Mohato. This was no natural formation. This was… crafted. Or… born.
He circled the hole cautiously, his gaze fixed on the earth-face. It didn't move, didn't blink. It simply stared upwards, its empty sockets fixed on the blinding sky.
A coldness, distinct from the dry heat of the day, emanated from the hole, prickling his skin. He took a step back, a primal fear stirring within him.
He tried to rationalize it. A trick of the light? Pareidolia, the mind's tendency to find patterns where none exist?
But no, this was too defined, too deliberate in its shape. And the stories… they weren't just stories after all. They were warnings.
Mohato moved to another area a short distance away, scanning the ground. It took some time, the depressions were subtle against the uneven terrain, but he found another.
And another after that. Each one a shallow bowl in the earth, and each one containing a face.
This one was a man, older, with deep lines etched into the earth-skin. His mouth was a tighter line, almost grim. This face, Mohato recognized.
It was Old Man Thabo, who had passed in the village the previous rain season, taken by a fever. A shiver ran down Mohato's spine.
He knew Old Man Thabo. He had shared stories with him by the fire, listened to his wisdom. And now, his face was here, staring from a hole in the ground.
He stumbled back, his breath catching in his throat. This was not right. This was deeply, fundamentally wrong. He had to leave. He had to get away from these… things. He turned to flee, his boots churning up dust.
"Hello?"
The word, spoken softly, stopped him in his tracks. It was a woman's voice, close by. He spun around, his eyes scanning the empty landscape.
There was no one there. Just the silent earth and the blinding sky. He told himself it was his imagination, his nerves playing tricks on him.
He started walking again, faster this time, his pace bordering on a run. He needed to put distance between himself and the holes, to escape the oppressive silence and the earth-faces that stared upwards with vacant eyes.
"Are you lost?"
The voice again, closer this time, clearer. It wasn't his imagination. Someone was there. He stopped abruptly, his heart pounding. "Who is there?" he called out, his voice strained.
Silence answered him, the silence of the plateau, heavy and absolute. He scanned the horizon again, desperation rising within him. Nothing.
He started to walk once more, more cautiously now, his senses on high alert. He felt watched, scrutinized by unseen eyes.
The sun seemed to beat down harder, the air to thicken, though not with moisture, but with something else, something intangible, something… malevolent.
Then he saw another hole. This one was different. Larger, deeper, and instead of a face, it was filled with shadow. A darkness that seemed to absorb the light, to emanate cold.
He approached it warily, drawn by a morbid fascination he couldn't explain.
As he neared, he heard the voice again, this time coming from the shadowed hole. "Down here." It was the same woman's voice, soft, almost pleading. He hesitated, peering into the darkness. He could see nothing, just an impenetrable blackness that seemed to go on forever.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "What is this place?"
"We are the earth," the voice replied, the words echoing faintly from the depths of the hole. "And this is where we wait."
A wave of nausea washed over Mohato. The air grew colder, the silence more profound. He felt an overwhelming urge to run, to flee as far as he could from this place, but his feet seemed rooted to the spot. He was trapped, held captive by an unseen force.
"Wait for what?" he managed to ask, his voice trembling.
"For the return," the voice whispered. "For the earth to reclaim what was once hers."
The words made no sense, yet they resonated with a deep, primal fear within him. He looked around at the other holes, the faces staring blankly at the sky, and a horrifying understanding began to dawn.
These weren't just holes. They were… graves. But not graves in the way he knew them. They were something older, something… different.
He wanted to scream, to shout, but his voice was frozen in his throat. He felt a presence, not physical, but palpable, surrounding him, pressing in on him from all sides.
The silence was no longer empty; it was pregnant with something unseen, something waiting.
"Go away," he croaked, his voice weak. "Leave me alone."
A soft chuckle echoed from the shadowed hole, a sound that sent ice through his veins. "You cannot leave," the voice said. "You are part of this place now. You are one of us."
He felt a tugging sensation, a subtle pulling at his feet, as if the earth itself was trying to draw him down. He fought against it, his muscles straining, but the pull was relentless, growing stronger with each passing moment.
The shadowed hole seemed to deepen, to widen, its darkness expanding to engulf him.
Panic seized him. He thrashed, he yelled, but no sound escaped his lips. He was trapped in a silent nightmare, a world where the earth itself was alive, and hungry.
He looked down at his feet, and saw the soil around them beginning to soften, to loosen, as if turning to liquid. He was sinking.
He tried to pull himself back, to scramble away, but it was useless. The earth held him fast, its grip tightening. He could feel the cold seeping through his boots, chilling him to the bone.
The faces in the other holes seemed to turn towards him, their blank eyes now filled with a chilling anticipation.
He looked into the shadowed hole, into the impenetrable darkness, and for the first time, he saw something within it.
Faintly, indistinctly, a form began to coalesce, to take shape in the blackness. It was large, amorphous, and it pulsed with a cold, internal light. It was reaching for him.
He closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable. He thought of his village, of his family, of the life he was leaving behind.
He felt a profound sadness, not just for himself, but for all those faces in the holes, for all those trapped in this silent, desolate place.
The pulling intensified, drawing him downwards with irresistible force. He opened his eyes one last time, and looked up at the sky.
It was a vast, indifferent blue, offering no comfort, no solace. He saw a hawk circling high above, a tiny speck against the immensity of the heavens. Then, the earth closed over him.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. The sun continued to beat down on the plateau, the silence remained unbroken. The holes were still there, scattered across the landscape, silent witnesses to an unseen tragedy.
And then, in one of the smaller holes, a new face began to form. It was a man's face, weathered and lined, with eyes that held a deep, lingering sadness.
The earth-face stared upwards, unblinking, at the indifferent sky. Mohato had joined them. He was now one of the earth-bound, forever gazing at a world he could no longer touch, a silent testament to the land that claimed him, his face an eternal echo in the desolate silence.
His story lost to the whispering winds, a permanent resident of the holes in the ground.