We Run the Night

by Peace Mbengei

Genres: Young Adult; YA Contemporary; YA Horror

Synopsis

An elite, isolated Kenyan boarding school is terrorized by supernatural entities, grotesque maladies, and strange transformations in a chilling YA horror debut inspired by the urban legend of “night runners.”

Perfect for fans of She Is a Haunting and White Smoke

When Shani returns to her elite, isolated boarding school after her father’s mysterious death, she just wants to finish senior year with her scholarship intact—which means focusing on her work and staying out of trouble. Even with her best friend, Pendo, by her side, she’s never quite fit in at Taji Academy. But soon, strange things start happening at school—not only are students coming down with odd, grotesque skin maladies, someone is causing chaos on campus after curfew. Are they night runners, the supernatural entities that terrorize rural neighborhoods in the dark?

The strict administration insists it’s just students pulling pranks. Everyone knows that night runners are just an urban legend. But when one of the popular students, Adila, goes missing—and Shani wakes up one morning with mud on her feet, torn clothes, and a pounding headache—she knows it’s more than that. As she and others at Taji begin to transform with no way to contact the outside world, she must figure out what is happening—before it’s too late.

Release date: September 15, 2026

Publisher: Soho Teen

Print pages: 336

Sample

Prologue

A strangler fig is not planted—it is summoned.
It grows where a life was unjustly taken, its roots crawling down like hands searching for what was lost.

The elders say the first strangler fig grew on a night of murder long ago. According to them, a man was beaten and left beneath the stars, his blood soaking into the earth. A sapling rose from his ribs at dawn. When the villagers found his killers, their feet were black and swollen, as if they had been running all night.

Since then, people have whispered that the strangler fig remembers blood. That when it drinks from the soil of the wronged, it does not forget. And those who spill innocent blood, those who touch the body of one already claimed—the fig finds them all. It marks them quietly. Sometimes with cracks that don’t heal. Sometimes with dreams of soil and the taste of earth on their tongue.

And sometimes, when the moon swells full and white, the marked wake—and run. Barefoot. Naked. Unseeing. Hunted by the tree’s memory.

If you ever find a strangler fig with fresh blood on its roots, do not touch it.

Do not breathe too close.

Do not listen when it whispers your name.

Because once the fig remembers you, it will never forget.


DAY ONE
CHAPTER ONE

It’s outside my window again.

I burrow deeper under the plaid blue comforter as something raps at the glass—sharp, insistent, like a bird pecking at wood.

“Go away!” Pendo grumbles from the opposite bed, her voice thick with sleep.

“Shh,” I whisper, too late.

The night runner outside caws, rending the quiet of the dark. It seems to feed on our irritation. That’s the only thing we’ve figured out since the visits began three weeks ago.

Taji Academy has beefed up security since then with extra guards patrolling the school’s hundred-acre fence line, but no one’s caught the night runner yet.

Pendo curses and turns over, sending something clattering to the floor. I sit up, pulse hammering. Cold air pricks my bare arms and I shiver. January should be warm, but the rain hasn’t stopped since this term began. Everything feels off this year.

Senior year was supposed to be simple: study hard, ace exams, get into the University of Cape Town to study medicine. Escape this glossy academic prison of dynasty heirs who care more about fashion trends than the real world.

The door across from our dorm room groans open and soft footsteps patter down the hallway. Someone sneaking out again. It’s forbidden to be outside past curfew, even before the night runner’s visits, but no one listens. The housemistress, Mrs. Nuru, doesn’t care as long as we stay quiet.

I stay upright, listening. There are no more sounds. My eyes move slowly to the window, which is on the wall near my bed. Our curtains are drawn, except for a narrow gap in the middle where the sheer fabric glows with artificial light from the garden just outside. The golden beam cuts between our queen beds, thin as a blade.

I lean forward to close the gap.

That’s when a head presses against the glass.

A face dark as night stares back. Green pupils shaped like open umbrellas narrow at me. My throat closes.

The night runner lifts itself until it stands fully extended, body flush with the glass. Its toes spread and flex, testing the surface. Blood streaks one shin. It’s wearing nothing but underwear. Even through the window, I can sense an earthy scent that clings to it, of rain-soaked ground after a storm.

Its chest rises and falls too fast, as though it can’t get enough air. Then it arches backward until its head hangs upside down between its legs, muscles rippling under the strain. It grins at me like a gymnast mid-routine.

Then it snarls.

I finally scream. My heart slams against my ribs.

“Shani, what the—?” Pendo shouts, throwing off her blankets, silk mask slipping from her face.

The thing laughs. High-pitched. Unrestrained. Like it’s watching the funniest scene of its life. It’s laughing at me. Enjoying my fear.

And then I see it—the tongue. Long, wet, turquoise blue, glowing like an ocean on fire.

Pendo yanks the curtain fully open.

And it’s gone.

Just like every other night.

“Coward!” she yells, then squats beside my bed and squeezes my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Her voice is gentle, but her upturned lips suggest annoyance. Lately, I’ve thought that no one at Taji Academy seems as terrified of the night runner visits as I am—even Pendo. But nothing scares my best friend.

We’re all tired. Life as a boarder in high school is hard enough without the added stress of interrupted sleep. This could be my last term at Taji if my grades continue to slip. The school granted me a scholarship on condition that I maintain my stellar performance, but it’s hard to study on four hours of sleep. I wish Mama could afford the fees so I wouldn’t have to worry. Even though it’s not her fault, I still blame her.

I should blame Papa. Except he can’t defend himself.

He died two weeks before Christmas. Five weeks ago now. Someone rammed his car off the highway, and he crashed into a tree. The medical examiner said he died on the spot, as though that makes things better.

When I think of Papa, I try to remember the good: family trips to Santorini, my sixteenth birthday in Barcelona, the debit card he’d slip me across the breakfast table despite Mama’s protests. But it’s hard to overlook the wreckage he left behind. The debt collectors swarmed before we’d even buried him—bill statements, eviction notices, foreclosure papers. He’d lost everything, including our home in Nairobi and my trust fund. If it weren’t for Aunt Mali, Mama’s only sibling, we’d be homeless.

Losing Papa is already hard enough. But the school hasn’t made things easier. You’d think the administration would cut us some slack because of the night runner, whose visits began when the term started. Instead, the administration has doubled down, adding morning preps and stealing half of Saturday for revision classes. They think exhaustion will cure the problem. That if we’re too tired, the night running will stop. They’re convinced it’s just a pack of delinquent students sneaking out in turns every night. As if that makes any sense. Who would climb windows in the dead of night, freezing in their underwear, just for a few laughs?

“I’m fine,” I mutter, though chills creep up my spine.

Pendo cracks her knuckles. “I swear, one day I’ll catch that thing and wring its neck.”

Pendo may be braver than I am, but she’s helpless too. The school banned cell phones after last term’s cheating scandal when they busted a sophomore for selling leaked exams. Thanks to her, we can’t call home. Letters are the only option, but the canteen’s always out of stamps. Whether that’s true or the administration’s doing, I can’t tell. The principal’s already on thin ice with the board and she can’t risk another dent in the school’s pristine reputation. Apparently, that means a zero-tolerance policy with regard to electronics. We can’t even use the library’s computers to send an email.

The lights flicker on. I blink.

“Girls! Step outside your rooms,” the housemistress calls from the corridor, her voice low and tired, stripped of its usual cheer.

Pendo groans and stretches, arms overhead, bending back like her spine’s made of elastic. She could be a dancer, maybe a ballerina. But she wants to be a journalist, just like her mother, and win a Pulitzer.

My dreams have nothing to do with my parents. Probably for the best, since investment banking didn’t work out for Papa, and Mama’s fashion career fizzled the minute she had me. Or at least, that’s what she claims.

I climb out of bed and slip on the satin robe folded on the bench.

“Girls! Out now,” Mrs. Nuru calls again, punctuating the command with the sharp tinkling of a bell.

I tighten the knot on my robe and pull my braids into a low bun. It may be the middle of the night, but that’s no excuse to appear shabby.

Sleepy students crowd the carpeted hallway. The house​mistress, Mrs. Nuru, stands in the middle beneath a giant painting of the school and surrounding property. Her silver hair is pulled into a loose braid, strands escaping to frame her weary face. She’s wrapped in a thick cotton robe, wool socks pulled halfway up her calves.

“Is everyone alright?” Mrs. Nuru asks, scanning both ends of the hallway. “I heard noise. Was someone yelling?”

My gaze snaps up. Mrs. Nuru’s eyes are red and swollen. A pang of guilt twists my stomach. Did she hear me scream and rush upstairs without shoes?

“It was Shani,” Lyra says, confirming my fear. She’s leaning against her doorway opposite mine, arms crossed, her lace nightdress doing little to hide her perfectly toned body.

Of course she’d point me out. We’ve never gotten along—not since I started beating her in every exam. You’d think being dorm captain, running the school with her Barbie-doll posse, and dating Ziki, the hottest boy on campus, would be enough. Apparently not.

Everyone’s attention shifts to me. My throat dries and I stare at the floor, wishing I could melt into the carpet. Mrs. Nuru’s soft shuffles stop beside me.

“Are you alright, dear?” she asks, her eyes crinkling with concern.

Heat crawls up my cheeks as a few girls giggle.

“It’s the night runner,” Pendo says, throwing a protective arm around my shoulders. “Came right up to our window and scared her.”

Tears of gratitude prick my eyes. Pendo’s had my back since freshman year, when we paired for a chemistry project. I taught her a song to memorize chemical symbols and she decided I was her new best friend.

“Get a grip, Shani,” Lyra says. “It’s probably some stressed-out kid doing midnight laps to cope. You’re acting like you saw a demon.”

A few girls murmur.

“Could be a sprinter training for nationals,” someone whispers down the hallway. Her tone is airy and amused, as though the idea of danger is laughable.

“Or just a sleepwalker on overdrive,” another girl offers.

Their voices swirl around me, each explanation attempting to turn my fear into an absurdity. But when I look around, there are enough scared faces to reassure me that I’m not the only one trembling in the dark.

“Alright, enough,” Mrs. Nuru says, her tone firm. She fixes Lyra with a look sharp enough to slice through the tension. “Everyone back to bed. Now.”

Excited chatter muffles as doors close. Mrs. Nuru sighs and pushes past us into our room. She marches straight to the window then peers outside. Pendo joins her, and I stand behind them. Brown streaks the shade of weak coffee smudge the otherwise pristine glass.

Mrs. Nuru slides open the window and pokes her head out to sniff. An acrid smell wafts inside.

“Is that urine?” Pendo turns to me, her shaggy eyebrows raised. They’re the only part of her face that needs improvement. The rest of her delicate features—smooth caramel skin, heart-shaped lips, eyes the color of melted chocolate—could land her on any magazine cover. I know she’d rather write the articles, but I don’t see why she can’t do both.

I nod, and Pendo curses under her breath. Mrs. Nuru shuts the window and curtains in one fluid movement, then pulls a small brown vial from the pocket of her nightgown. She dabs oil onto her fingertips and traces a quick cross over the curtain’s edge, murmuring something under her breath.

“Say your prayers before you sleep,” she says. “These things feed on fear.”

The faint scent of garlic lingers as she tucks the vial back into her pocket and smooths the front of her nightgown.

“Well,” she says briskly, forcing cheer into her tone. “The cleaners will handle this in the morning. Try to get some rest, girls.”

I nod, although I doubt I will. Not with that maniacal laughter playing on a loop in my head.

Pendo escorts her out, locking the door behind her. She yawns and climbs back into bed. I follow suit and listen to the sound of her breathing until it slows.

“Pendo?” I whisper, panic gripping me.

I can’t stand the silence. Just because it’s quiet doesn’t mean the night runner isn’t out there. Once it’s done with our side, it moves to the boys’ dormitory across the lawn. At least it doesn’t discriminate.

I curl myself into a ball and count down from one hundred. Around fifty, I lose track, and everything goes black.