Following Through On My New Year's Resolution: September UpdateShaina TranquilinoSeptember 30, 2024

Following Through on My New Year's Resolution: September Update Shaina Tranquilino September 30, 2024

At the beginning of the year, I set a resolution that felt deeply meaningful and personal: every month, I would donate to a different organization that I felt called to support. My goal wasn't just to give financially, but to invest in causes that resonate with my values, communities, and ongoing efforts for change. As we are at the end of September, I want to share a little about this month's donation and reflect on what this journey has meant so far.

For the month of September, I chose to donate to the Legacy of Hope Foundation (LHF), an Indigenous-led charitable organization that is dedicated to educating the public and raising awareness about the history and lasting impacts of the Residential School System in Canada. Established in 2000, the LHF has been doing the vital work of helping Canadians understand the trauma and ongoing challenges faced by Indigenous communities—particularly those who survived these schools, as well as their families and descendants.

I was moved to donate to the Legacy of Hope Foundation because of the important role they play in truth-telling, healing, and reconciliation. The Residential School System is a painful chapter in Canadian history, one that forcibly separated Indigenous children from their families, stripped them of their languages, cultures, and identities, and subjected them to harsh, abusive conditions. The effects of this system continue to ripple through generations, impacting the well-being of Indigenous communities.

Through education, exhibitions, and workshops, the Legacy of Hope Foundation not only illuminates this dark history but also provides a pathway for healing and fostering just and equal relationships between Indigenous Peoples and Canadians. Their work in expanding awareness, honouring survivors, and encouraging reconciliation is inspiring, and supporting them this month felt like a small but meaningful way to contribute to this vital movement.

What has been particularly powerful for me is the Foundation's focus on creating a space for healing and understanding. The work they do to showcase the resilience and strength of Indigenous Peoples, while also making known the injustices they have faced, is something we need more of in our world. It’s a reminder of the importance of not only learning from history but also taking active steps towards repairing harm.

Over the course of this year, each donation I've made has been an opportunity to reflect on what I value and how I can help create positive change in the world. From environmental causes to social justice initiatives, each organization I've supported has been a piece of a larger puzzle, one that is about compassion, equity, and the belief that even small actions can lead to big differences.

As I continue with this New Year's resolution, I'm filled with gratitude for the work being done by organizations like the Legacy of Hope Foundation. Their commitment to truth, reconciliation, and healing reminds me that while the road may be long, we are all part of the process of building a better, more inclusive future.

In the months ahead, I look forward to learning about new organizations, supporting diverse causes, and keeping the spirit of this resolution alive. It's been a rewarding and eye-opening journey, and I'm excited to see where the next few months take me.

If you're interested in learning more about the Legacy of Hope Foundation or supporting their work, I encourage you to visit their website and explore the many ways they're contributing to education and reconciliation across Canada.

Here’s to continuing the path toward positive change, one month, and one organization at a time. https://www.canadahelps.org/en/charities/legacy-of-hope-foundation/

The Echo in the Walls Shaina Tranquilino October 1, 2024

Amelia and Jonathan had been searching for a fresh start, away from the noise and chaos of the city. The mansion they found, nestled deep within a forest, seemed like the perfect escape. Towering and ancient, with ivy crawling up its stone walls, it was a place shrouded in mystery. But the price was too good to ignore.

“This feels like a dream,” Amelia said as they stood in the grand foyer, gazing at the high, arched ceilings and marble floors. The place had a cold beauty to it, untouched by time, as though it had been waiting for them.

Jonathan smiled, squeezing her hand. “It’s perfect.”

But on the first night, as they lay in bed, Amelia heard something strange—a soft, almost imperceptible whisper, like wind sliding through cracks in the walls.

“What was that?” she asked, sitting up, her heart quickening.

Jonathan shrugged sleepily. “Probably just the wind. The place is old, after all.”

Amelia nodded, though she wasn’t convinced. As the days passed, the whispering became more persistent. At first, she thought it was her imagination. But then the whispers began to take shape, forming words—words she didn’t want to hear.

"He’s going to leave you."

She froze the first time it happened, standing alone in the long, dark hallway outside their bedroom. The voice was faint, almost tender, but unmistakable. It sounded like her own thoughts echoing back to her from the walls.

Amelia told herself it was stress. Moving had been difficult. Adjusting to a new place, especially one so isolated, could play tricks on the mind. She didn’t tell Jonathan. How could she explain that the house seemed to know her darkest fears?

But the whispers grew louder. At night, as they sat by the fireplace, she could hear them—soft murmurs hidden beneath the crackling of the flames. The voices whispered of betrayal, of loneliness, of secrets Jonathan was keeping.

"He’s hiding something from you."

One evening, Amelia finally asked, “Have you heard anything strange in the house?”

Jonathan looked at her, frowning. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” she hesitated. “Like… voices?”

He laughed, though the sound was strained. “You’re just imagining things. This place is big. Old houses settle, creak.”

But that night, Amelia woke to the sound of Jonathan speaking in his sleep. She turned toward him, her pulse quickening.

"You can’t protect her."

She sat up, eyes wide. His lips moved, the words barely audible, but there was no mistaking the fear in his voice. He was dreaming, caught in some nightmare. But whose words were they?

The next morning, Jonathan was quiet, distant. When Amelia asked if he was okay, he brushed her off.

But she knew the truth. The house was getting to him too.

Days turned into weeks, and the mansion’s whispers became an ever-present hum. Amelia began to lose sleep. The whispers echoed in her ears, feeding her anxiety, telling her things she didn’t want to believe.

"He’s tired of you."

"You’re not enough."

The walls felt alive, like they were watching her, waiting for her to break. She avoided the mirrors, terrified of what she might see in them. Her reflection felt foreign, her mind unraveling under the weight of the house’s secrets.

One evening, as the sun set behind the thick trees, Amelia confronted Jonathan.

“Something’s wrong with this place,” she said, her voice trembling. “The walls… they know things. They’re telling me things.”

Jonathan’s face darkened. “Amelia, stop. You’re letting it get to you. It’s just a house.”

“No, it’s not!” she cried. “I can hear them, Jonathan. And I know you can too.”

For a moment, his expression softened. He opened his mouth to speak, but then the whispers came, louder than ever before, echoing between them.

"He’s already planning to leave you."

Jonathan’s eyes flickered, and in that brief second, Amelia knew the truth. The whispers weren’t lying.

With trembling hands, she backed away from him. “What have you been hiding from me?”

Before he could answer, a violent gust of wind tore through the room, rattling the windows. The house groaned, as if waking from a deep sleep. The whispers grew louder, drowning out their voices.

"It’s too late now."

Suddenly, the walls began to tremble. Cracks appeared, snaking across the ceiling like veins. Amelia’s heart pounded in her chest as the mansion seemed to close in around them. The whispers rose to a deafening roar.

And then, silence.

Jonathan stood frozen, his eyes wide, his face pale. "Amelia…" he whispered, but the fear in his voice was unmistakable.

The walls had spoken the truth.

The mansion had been waiting for them all along.

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating, as if the mansion were holding its breath. Amelia felt the chill of dread wrap around her like a shroud. She wanted to run, to escape the walls that seemed to pulse with an unseen energy, but Jonathan stood rooted in place, his face pale and expressionless.

“Amelia, we need to get out of here,” he finally said, breaking the heavy stillness. His voice was laced with fear, and for the first time, she saw the uncertainty in his eyes.

She nodded, feeling a surge of adrenaline. They turned toward the door, but as they stepped into the hallway, the whispers returned, cascading around them like a wave.

"You can’t escape your fate."

They hurried down the corridor, each step echoing ominously, but the whispers grew louder, swirling around them, drowning out their thoughts. The shadows seemed to stretch and twist, creeping closer with every passing second.

“Amelia!” Jonathan grabbed her arm, his grip tightening. “We have to stick together!”

She met his gaze, her heart racing. “We can’t let the house take us! We need to find a way to break whatever hold it has on us!”

They raced toward the main staircase, but as they reached the bottom, the house trembled again, and the whispers turned to a cacophony, a terrifying symphony of their deepest fears.

"He will leave you. You are nothing without him."

Amelia clutched her head, overwhelmed. “Stop! Just stop!” she screamed into the dark void.

Then, in that moment of desperation, she recalled the legend she had read about the mansion—a story of a family that had succumbed to the house’s whispers, unable to resist the pull of their own insecurities. But it also spoke of a way to silence the echoes: one had to confront the source of their fears.

“Jonathan!” she shouted over the noise, her voice fierce. “We have to face it! We need to confront what we’re afraid of!”

He hesitated, confusion and fear mingling in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“The house feeds on our doubts! If we face what we fear the most, it might lose its power!”

Before Jonathan could respond, the walls shuddered violently, and a shadow darted past them. It was as if the very essence of the house was alive, writhing and grasping for them.

“Together,” Amelia urged, gripping his hand tightly. “We can do this together.”

They took a deep breath and faced each other. “I’m scared you’ll leave me,” Amelia admitted, her voice shaking. “That I’m not enough for you.”

Tears shimmered in Jonathan’s eyes. “I’m scared that I’ll fail you, that I won’t be able to protect you. But I love you, Amelia. I don’t want to lose you either.”

With those confessions, the whispers quieted, but they weren’t gone. Instead, they morphed into a softer, almost melancholic tone, as if the house itself were listening.

Amelia pressed on, her voice steady. “I’m afraid of being alone, of not being able to find my way. But I know I’m stronger than this place. We both are.”

The walls trembled again, but this time, they felt more alive than threatening. Jonathan nodded, his resolve strengthening. “I refuse to let this place take us. I love you, and together, we can face anything.”

With their hands clasped tightly, they moved deeper into the house, each step echoing their newfound strength. They faced the whispers together, acknowledging the fears that had haunted them since their arrival.

As they climbed the grand staircase, the air grew lighter, the oppressive darkness fading. The whispers became mere murmurs, like distant memories rather than threats.

Finally, they reached the room at the end of the hall—the library, where the walls were lined with books, tales of love and loss, joy and sorrow. In the center of the room stood a massive fireplace, cold and empty.

Amelia knelt beside the hearth, touching the stones. “This is where it ends,” she whispered, taking a deep breath. “We need to cleanse this place of its hold over us.”

Jonathan joined her, and together they gathered kindling from the surrounding shelves—pages torn from books that had whispered secrets of fear and despair. They stacked the wood in the fireplace, their hands steady despite the trembling walls.

“Are you ready?” he asked, looking into her eyes.

“Yes,” she said firmly. “Let’s burn away the fear.”

Jonathan struck a match and lit the kindling. Flames danced and flickered, casting a warm glow around the room. As the fire grew, the whispers grew frantic, rising in pitch and intensity, but they held their ground.

“Leave us!” Amelia shouted. “You have no power here!”

The flames roared, and with a final wail, the whispers faded into silence. The house trembled violently for a moment, and then—calm.

As the fire crackled, the room felt different. The air was lighter, the oppressive energy that had weighed on them lifted. They looked at each other, tears of relief in their eyes.

“Did we do it?” Jonathan whispered, his voice a mix of hope and disbelief.

Amelia smiled through her tears. “I think we did.”

They embraced, feeling the warmth of each other, of love conquering fear. The mansion, once a prison of whispers, now stood transformed, its shadows retreating into the corners.

Hand in hand, they stepped outside into the golden light of dawn. The forest around them was serene, birds chirping, sunlight filtering through the trees.

“We’re free,” Jonathan said, looking back at the mansion.

“Yes,” Amelia replied, a sense of peace settling in her heart. “And now we can start anew.”

Together, they walked away, leaving the echoes of the past behind, ready to embrace whatever lay ahead.

The Mirror of Truth Shaina Tranquilino September 29, 2024

In the quiet town of Regina Ridge, nothing ever changed. It was a place of routines, polite greetings, and secrets buried under layers of civility. Life was predictable, a clockwork of day-to-day activities. That was, until the mirror arrived.

It appeared one foggy morning in the window of Old Morton's Antiques, an unremarkable shop tucked between the grocer and the post office. The mirror was elegant, standing six feet tall with an intricately carved frame of dark mahogany. Its surface shimmered in an oddly captivating way, as though the glass held more than reflections.

Mrs. Jessica Fields, the postmaster’s wife, was the first to notice it. As she passed the shop on her way to the market, her eyes were drawn to the mirror. Something about it unsettled her, but she couldn't quite place what. She stepped inside the store, the bell above the door chiming softly.

Old Morton shuffled out from behind the counter. His bushy eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Morning, Mrs. Fields. Something catch your eye?" he asked, his voice raspy with age.

Jessica pointed to the mirror. "Where did you get that?"

Morton shrugged. "Came with a batch of old furniture from an estate sale. Strange thing though... couldn't find a price on it. Figure it's one of those one-of-a-kind pieces. Beautiful, isn't it?"

Beautiful wasn't the word Jessica would use. The mirror had an eerie quality to it, as though it were watching her. But curiosity got the better of her. She approached it, drawn to its strange allure, and stood before the gleaming surface.

For a moment, her reflection was ordinary—gray hair pinned up in a neat bun, lines of age creasing her face. But then the image flickered. The reflection shifted. Her face remained the same, but her eyes—her eyes were sharp and cruel, burning with malice. The smile that curled on the lips of the woman in the mirror wasn’t hers at all.

Jessica gasped, stumbling back. The image reverted to normal, her own startled expression staring back at her. Morton didn’t seem to notice anything unusual.

"You alright, Mrs. Fields?"

"I... I’m fine," she stammered, backing away from the mirror. "I’ll be going now."

She hurried out of the shop, her heart racing. As she walked down the street, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had looked out at her from the other side of the glass. Something that wasn’t her at all.

Over the next few days, word spread about the mirror. Curious townsfolk stopped by the antique shop to gaze at it. Some saw nothing unusual, just their own reflections staring back at them. But others—those with deeper secrets—witnessed something far more unsettling.

Harold Thompson, the local banker, was next. As he stood before the mirror, he saw not his own stout, dignified figure, but a man hunched with greed, counting money with trembling, possessive hands. His reflection grinned maniacally as gold coins spilled from its pockets. Harold blinked, and the vision was gone, but he left the shop in a cold sweat.

Then came young Claire Turner, sweet and kind, adored by everyone in town. But when she stood before the mirror, she saw a twisted version of herself—eyes wild with envy, her hands clutching at jewels and gowns, her reflection sneering with bitterness. Claire fled from the shop, her heart heavy with a truth she never wanted to admit.

One by one, the townsfolk came, and the mirror showed them not who they were, but who they truly were. Desires long hidden, fears buried deep, and the dark corners of their hearts that they’d kept secret even from themselves.

It wasn’t long before the mirror became infamous, whispered about in hushed tones. People avoided Old Morton’s shop, crossing the street to avoid even a glimpse of the cursed thing. Regina Ridge, once peaceful and predictable, had become a town of suspicion and unease. People started looking at each other differently—after all, who could trust someone when they didn’t even trust themselves?

It was Pastor James who finally decided to confront the mirror. A man of faith and conviction, he refused to believe that a simple object could hold such power over the town. One evening, after sunset, he entered Old Morton's shop. The bell rang softly as he stepped inside, the dim light casting long shadows across the floor.

Morton looked up from his chair, his face drawn and tired. The mirror had taken its toll on him too. He nodded at the pastor but said nothing.

James approached the mirror, standing tall before it. For a moment, all he saw was his own reflection—calm, composed, and righteous. But then, just like with the others, the image shifted.

His reflection sneered back at him, eyes burning with hypocrisy. Behind the mask of piety, Pastor James saw his darkest desires—the pride he took in his power over the townsfolk, the secret disdain he held for their weakness. The reflection laughed, mocking him.

"No," James whispered, shaking his head. "This isn’t me."

But the mirror showed no mercy. His reflection’s hands reached out, as if to pull him into the glass, to merge the man he pretended to be with the man he truly was.

In a panic, James grabbed the nearest object—a heavy candlestick—and smashed the mirror with all his strength. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces, the reflection disappearing with a final, mocking grin.

Breathing heavily, he stepped back, staring at the broken shards scattered across the floor. It was over. The mirror was destroyed.

But as the townspeople gathered outside, drawn by the sound of breaking glass, they saw something strange. Each shard of the broken mirror still reflected their faces—distorted, twisted, revealing those same hidden truths.

The mirror was gone, but its curse lingered.

Regina Ridge would never be the same again.

The Silent Choir Shaina Tranquilino October 4, 2024

The school hallways hummed with their usual humdrum as Ms. Daniella Goldsmith, the music teacher, made her way to her classroom. The distant chatter of students, lockers slamming shut, and footsteps clicking across the polished floors filled the air, a comforting, familiar noise.

But something had changed. It was subtle at first—a faint, almost imperceptible sound that fluttered at the edge of Daniella's hearing. As she stepped into her classroom, her fingers brushing the keys of the grand piano, the sound grew louder. A whispering chorus, so soft it could have been mistaken for the wind rustling through the leaves outside.

No one else seemed to notice.

Daniella paused, glancing around the empty room. Her students wouldn’t arrive for another ten minutes, and the silence should have been absolute. Yet the choir lingered, hovering just beyond her reach. A chorus of voices—soft, eerie, and dissonant—humming a melody she couldn’t place.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Was it her imagination? She strained her ears, her pulse quickening. The voices wove together, rising and falling in a chilling harmony. Children’s voices. Ethereal, disembodied, but unmistakably real.

The choir sounded like it was coming from the walls.

Daniella shook her head, dismissing it as fatigue. She’d been staying late at the school to prepare for the winter recital, and perhaps it was wearing on her nerves. Still, the uneasy feeling lingered, clinging to her like a shadow.

The following days, the whispers grew louder.

Each time Daniella sat at her piano, the ghostly choir swelled, as if it responded to her presence. She tried asking her students, her colleagues, even the janitor if they had heard anything unusual, but no one had. They all looked at her with puzzled expressions, their replies coated in awkward politeness.

"Maybe it's stress," one of her fellow teachers had said, offering a sympathetic smile.

But Daniella knew it wasn’t stress. The choir was real.

One evening, long after the students had gone home and the school was dark and still, Daniella sat in her classroom, determined to trace the source of the voices. She followed the whispers, her feet moving as if guided by an unseen hand. The air grew colder as she moved down the hall, the song growing louder with each step.

The choir’s melody pulled her to the basement—a part of the school rarely used, its dimly lit corridors filled with dust and forgotten relics. She hesitated at the top of the stairs, the chill in the air biting at her skin.

But the choir urged her on.

Daniella descended the steps, the soft murmur of the choir rising until it became almost deafening. The basement was damp, the walls lined with old music stands, broken instruments, and forgotten school supplies. At the far end of the room, she noticed something peculiar—a section of the floor where the tiles didn’t quite match.

Her breath hitched.

A sinking feeling washed over her as she knelt to examine the tiles. The mismatched section was loose, the edges crumbling as if it had been disturbed before. Her hands shook as she pried the tiles free, revealing the earth beneath.

And then, she saw it.

Beneath the tiles, buried shallowly in the dirt, were small bones—too small to be anything but human. A wave of nausea hit her as she realized what she was seeing. Tiny skeletal remains, barely larger than a child’s arm, laid in a haphazard grave beneath the school. A grave that had been hidden for decades.

The voices surged around her, the choir now a cacophony of pain and sorrow. Their song was no longer a whisper but a wail, each note filled with agony. The children’s voices—their ethereal lament—finally made sense.

Daniella stumbled backward, her heart pounding in her chest. Her mind raced as pieces of a forgotten story began to fall into place. Decades ago, before the school had been rebuilt, a fire had ravaged the old building. It was a tragedy that had been quietly erased from the school’s history. Children had died in that fire, their bodies never found.

Until now.

The Silent Choir wasn’t just a strange phenomenon. It was a plea for justice, a desperate cry from the forgotten children whose bones had been buried and forgotten beneath the school.

Daniella could barely breathe as the voices crescendoed, the weight of their suffering crashing down on her. She had uncovered the school’s dark secret, and now the ghosts of the past demanded to be heard.

The next morning, Daniella stood outside the principal’s office, clutching the school’s old records in her trembling hands. The weight of the truth pressed down on her, but she knew what she had to do.

The Silent Choir had been silenced for too long.

As she opened the door, the whispers followed her, lingering in the air like an unfinished song.

The Hidden Manuscript Shaina Tranquilino September 26, 2024

Ed Huxley had spent a lifetime collecting rare books. His townhouse was a sanctuary of old tomes, dusty volumes, and forgotten manuscripts. It was his way of feeling close to the past, to lost histories and obscure knowledge. He lived alone, a bachelor by choice, with nothing but his books for company. On this particular evening, as rain tapped against the windows of his study, he received a package that would change his life forever.

It arrived wrapped in brown paper, tied with a simple piece of twine. There was no return address. Curious, Ed placed the package on his desk and cut the twine with a flick of his pocket knife. Inside, he found an old manuscript bound in cracked, black leather. The pages were yellowed and brittle, but the ink remained sharp, each word meticulously crafted. The cover bore no title, but when he opened it, the words at the top of the first page sent a chill down his spine:

"The Ritual of Blood and Bone."

His hands trembled slightly as he read further. The manuscript described an ancient ritual, one that promised to unlock hidden knowledge and power. The instructions were written in cryptic language, but Ed, who had studied esoteric texts his entire life, deciphered it with ease. The ritual required a few specific ingredients—bones of an ancestor, a drop of blood, and a particular incantation spoken at midnight under the light of a full moon.

His eyes scanned the room, heart pounding. This manuscript—there was something about it, something darker and more dangerous than anything he had encountered in his many years of collecting. And yet, he felt compelled to continue. It was as if the words on the page had embedded themselves into his very mind, urging him to follow the ritual.

That night, Ed stood in his study, the manuscript open on the desk before him. The ingredients were laid out: a small bone fragment from his mother’s burial urn, a needle to draw a drop of his blood, and a black candle to illuminate the room. The house was silent, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. As the hour approached midnight, he could feel something shift in the air—a heaviness, a presence.

Taking a deep breath, he pricked his finger with the needle, letting a single drop of blood fall onto the bone fragment. The candle flickered as if in response, casting strange shadows on the walls. He began to recite the incantation, the ancient words foreign on his tongue but oddly familiar, as if he had known them all along.

The moment he spoke the final syllable, the room seemed to breathe. A gust of wind, though the windows were closed, swept through the study, extinguishing the candle and plunging the room into darkness. Ed's heart raced. His hands fumbled for the matches, but before he could light the candle again, a cold, raspy voice echoed in the room.

"Blood of the Huxley line… it is time."

Ed froze, his breath catching in his throat. He turned slowly toward the source of the voice, but the room was empty. Yet, the voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, reverberating in his bones. His pulse quickened as he stumbled back, knocking into the desk. The manuscript, still open, began to glow faintly, the ink on the pages shifting and reforming before his eyes.

The text he had just read vanished, replaced by a single, damning sentence: "The price has been paid."

Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through his chest, as if something deep inside him was tearing apart. He gasped, clutching his chest, but it wasn’t his heart. It was something deeper, something ancient, awakening inside him.

In his mind’s eye, Ed saw flashes of memories that were not his own. Faces of ancestors long dead, voices whispering secrets, and a cold, endless darkness stretching back centuries. He saw his great-grandfather, his eyes wild with terror, standing over the same manuscript, performing the same ritual. He saw others—his ancestors, all members of the Huxley family—each one performing the ritual at different points in time, always drawn to the manuscript, always paying the price.

A terrifying realization dawned on him. This was not just a ritual for power or knowledge—it was a binding contract. The Huxley family had been cursed, bound to this ritual for generations. Each time a member of the family found the manuscript, they would be compelled to perform the ritual, sealing their fate. It was a cycle, one that could not be broken. And now, it was Ed's turn.

His vision blurred as the memories overwhelmed him. He stumbled toward the manuscript, desperate to close it, to end this nightmare. But as his fingers brushed the pages, he felt a searing pain in his palm. The manuscript had come alive, its pages wrapping around his hand like tendrils, pulling him closer.

"No…" Ed whispered, trying to pull away, but the manuscript held fast. The ink on the pages began to flow, like blood, spreading up his arm and across his skin. His reflection in the window showed the truth—his face was changing, becoming hollow, skeletal. He was becoming one of them.

With a final, desperate scream, Ed collapsed to the floor. The manuscript lay open beside him, its pages blank, the ritual complete.

By morning, the townhouse was quiet once more, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock. The manuscript, now dormant, sat on the desk, waiting for the next Huxley to find it.

And the cycle would begin again.

The Cemetery's Call Shaina Tranquilino October 9, 2024

Old Percy Smithers had spent forty years tending to the dead. He was the gravekeeper of Willowbrook Cemetery, a place as ancient as the town itself, where the tombstones leaned crooked from centuries of neglect. Though the winters had turned his hair white and arthritis gnawed at his bones, Percy knew every inch of the graveyard. He'd dug the graves, polished the stones, and swept away the creeping vines that tried to reclaim the dead. He felt at home among them, more so than with the living. The town was small, quiet, and time-worn, much like Percy. Life moved at a slow, unremarkable pace—until the night the whispers began.

It was late October, the nights growing colder, and the mist rolled in thick like smoke. Percy had locked the cemetery gates as usual and was headed back to the small shack he called home, just outside the graveyard. As he passed by the row of old graves near the oak tree, he heard it—a faint sound, like the rustling of leaves. But there was no wind. He paused, squinting in the direction of the noise.

Then he heard it again. Louder this time.

“Percy…”

The voice was soft, barely a breath, but unmistakable. It came from the graves.

Percy stopped, his heart skipping a beat. He listened, thinking maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him. But there it was again, now joined by another voice, and then another.

“Percy… come closer…”

Shivers crawled down his spine, but curiosity, or perhaps foolishness, guided his feet. He moved closer to the stones, his lantern held high, casting long shadows across the crumbling markers. His eyes darted from grave to grave, but the voices came from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

“We remember…” whispered a woman's voice, cold and dripping with malice. “We remember what was done.”

Percy's throat tightened. “Who’s there?” His voice cracked, weak in the still night.

“Vengeance…” a chorus of voices hissed. “They must pay. They must all pay.”

His grip on the lantern tightened. His heart raced as the air grew colder, suffocating. The whispers grew louder, swelling around him in a dreadful symphony. Each name carved into the stones seemed to hum with hatred, vibrating with old grudges. These weren’t the gentle spirits of the dead he had grown to know; these were something darker. Something hungry.

The ground beneath him trembled slightly, and Percy staggered back, his lantern flickering. The mist thickened, swirling around his legs like ghostly fingers. The whispering voices became a cacophony, pressing in on him from all sides.

“They took our lives. They took everything.” The voices were filled with fury now, like a storm ready to break. “Avenge us!”

Percy backed away, stumbling over a gravestone. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the whispers for a moment. He turned to run, but the earth shifted beneath his feet, soft as mud. He fell, his hands sinking into the cold soil. When he looked up, the tombstones loomed over him like jagged teeth, their inscriptions glowing faintly in the mist.

“You cannot escape us, Percy…” the voices hissed, closer now, almost inside his head. “You’ve tended our graves for years, but now you must tend to our rage.”

He scrambled to his feet, panic clawing at his chest. The whispers twisted into shrieks, accusing, demanding. Percy ran, the cemetery gate seeming miles away. The ground quivered as if something underneath was waking, something ancient and full of wrath. He reached the gate and slammed it shut behind him, the metal rattling like bones.

For a brief moment, there was silence.

Percy leaned against the gate, his chest heaving, trying to convince himself that it was over. Just the wind, the cold, his tired old mind playing tricks.

Then, from behind the iron bars, the voices returned.

“They will come for you, Percy…” one voice whispered, distinct from the rest. It was a child’s voice, soft and bitter. “You’re one of them. You carry their blood.”

Percy froze. The words dug into him like knives. “One of them?” he whispered, his breath a plume of mist.

The child’s voice spoke again, filled with venom. “Your family. The ones who built this town on our bones. You can’t run from it, Percy. You owe a debt to the dead.”

He staggered back, horrified. His family had been among the founding members of the town, the ones who had laid the first stones of Willowbrook. But those were just stories, old histories. Or so he’d thought.

“You’ll hear us again, Percy,” the voices promised, fading into the night. “Soon.”

Terrified, Percy fled back to his shack, locking the door behind him, but sleep never came. Outside, the cemetery was silent, but the whispers lingered in his mind.

The next night, the voices returned, stronger, clearer. They called out to him from beneath the ground, demanding justice. Each name, each voice from the stones, told him the same story—how they had been wronged, forgotten, buried in unmarked graves by the people of Willowbrook. His family, the town's founders, had stolen their land, their lives, and their peace.

By the third night, Percy could no longer ignore the voices. They consumed him, gnawing at his sanity. The dead wanted vengeance, and they wanted him to carry it out.

As the whispers grew louder, more insistent, Percy knew he could not escape their demand. With trembling hands, he gathered his shovel and lantern, stepping once more into the mist-shrouded graveyard. The tombstones seemed to shift and sway in the fog, guiding him toward the oldest graves—the graves of the founders, his ancestors.

The whispers quieted as Percy approached the graves. He raised the shovel, his hands shaking, and began to dig.

For the first time in forty years, the dead would have their revenge. And Percy, the gravekeeper, would be the first to fall under the cemetery’s call.

Percy dug deeper, his breath coming in ragged gasps as the cold night air clung to his skin. Each plunge of the shovel into the earth was echoed by the murmurs from the graves, a chorus of the long-dead urging him on. The mist coiled around him like a serpent, tightening with each layer of soil he removed, and the ground seemed to tremble beneath his feet as if eager to reveal the darkness buried beneath.

At last, his shovel struck something solid. Percy froze, heart pounding, his pulse loud in his ears. He knelt, wiping the dirt away with trembling hands. Beneath the shallow layer of earth, a rotted wooden coffin came into view. The grave was marked with the Smithers family crest, worn and faded but unmistakable.

The whispers quieted, and a terrible stillness filled the air.

Percy's breath hitched. He knew what they wanted him to do, what they had been pushing him toward. He stared down at the coffin, his ancestors’ final resting place, the founders of Willowbrook, the ones who had stolen land and life from the restless dead.

A sickening dread churned in his gut. What had they done? He had heard rumours of how Willowbrook had been built—tales of stolen land, hidden graves, and erased lives. But they were just stories. Weren’t they?

He reached for the coffin lid, his fingers shaking. With a grunt, he pried it open, the wood splintering beneath his grip. The stench of death, long buried, rose into the air, thick and nauseating. Inside lay the bones of his great-great-grandfather, crumbling and fragile, clothed in the remnants of what had once been fine attire.

And then, beneath the bones, something caught his eye—something darker, it was a book. It bore no title, only a symbol he recognized from the town’s archives, a symbol of power, of forbidden rituals.

Percy's fingers brushed the cover, and the moment they did, the whispers surged back, louder than before.

“The book. The book holds the truth. The power. It’s how they cursed us. How they damned us to rot in silence.”

The book was heavy in his hands, and as he opened it, his eyes fell on words written in a language he could barely comprehend. Diagrams of rituals, sigils of dark power, spells to bind and suppress the dead.

His ancestors had not only stolen the land—they had used this book to silence the spirits, to trap them in their graves, buried beneath the weight of unholy magic. And now, the dead wanted revenge, not just against Percy's bloodline, but against all the living who still thrived on land soaked with the suffering of the forgotten.

“You must break the curse, Percy…” the voices urged. “Free us, or we will rise ourselves.”

Percy hesitated. He could feel the weight of the book’s power, dark and consuming, thrumming beneath his fingertips. If he undid the spell, what would be unleashed? Would the dead have their vengeance only on the guilty, or would they turn their wrath on all who lived in Willowbrook?

He looked back at the graves, at the names etched in stone, each one vibrating with ancient rage. They had suffered for centuries. Maybe they deserved their justice.

But would they stop at justice?

The air grew heavier, pressing down on him as the mist thickened. The ground trembled more violently now, as if the earth itself was waking, and Percy knew he was running out of time. The dead would not wait much longer.

With a deep breath, he made his choice. He closed the book, clutching it to his chest, and spoke aloud for the first time to the voices in the night.

“I’ll break the curse,” he whispered, his voice shaking, “but you have to promise me you won’t hurt the innocent.”

For a moment, there was only silence, the air hanging thick with anticipation. Then, the child’s voice returned, soft and cold.

“We will take only those who owe a debt. The rest… we will leave.”

Percy didn’t trust them, not fully. But he had no other option. The dead would rise one way or another—either with his help or through their own violent means.

With trembling hands, he opened the book again, flipping through the pages until he found the counterspell. The symbols seemed to swim on the page, but he muttered the words aloud, each syllable tasting like dust on his tongue. The wind picked up, swirling around him, carrying with it the mournful cries of the spirits. The ground rumbled beneath his feet, and the air grew colder still.

As he finished the incantation, a sudden, deafening silence fell over the cemetery.

For a heartbeat, everything was still.

Then, one by one, the graves began to shift. The soil moved, and from the earth rose faint, ethereal figures—translucent and pale, their eyes hollow with years of longing. They stood in silence, watching him, their faces twisted with sorrow and anger.

The whispers had stopped, but their gaze spoke louder than any voice.

The dead were free.

Percy's heart hammered in his chest as the spirits turned away from him, drifting silently toward the town, their forms dissolving into the mist. His breath caught in his throat as the last of them disappeared, leaving him alone among the open graves.

He collapsed to his knees, exhausted, the book slipping from his hands.

It was done.

But even as he knelt there in the cold, empty graveyard, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. The silence was too complete, the air too still.

And then he heard it—just a single whisper, lingering in the night, one voice among the many.

“We lied.”

Percy's blood ran cold as the wind howled through the trees, and far in the distance, the first scream rang out from the town.

The dead had come for their revenge. And nothing would stop them now.