Whispers From The MirrorShaina TranquilinoOctober 2, 2024

Whispers from the Mirror Shaina Tranquilino October 2, 2024

Sara stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the warm steam from her shower fogging the edges of the glass. Her reflection stared back at her, tired eyes and tangled hair. She sighed, reaching for her toothbrush, when something—faint, almost imperceptible—caught her attention.

“Sara…”

The voice was soft, like the barest breath of wind. She froze, her hand gripping the toothbrush. Her eyes flicked to the foggy mirror, heart pounding in her chest. For a moment, all was silent. She shook her head, brushing it off as the remnants of sleep clinging to her mind.

The next morning, the whisper returned.

“Sara…”

This time, it was louder, clearer. She whipped her head toward the mirror, scanning her reflection for any sign of the voice’s source. But it was just her, standing in the dull morning light, staring into her own eyes. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, and hurried out of the bathroom.

Days passed, and each morning, the voice grew stronger. At first, it called her name in that soft, eerie tone, but as the days wore on, it became insistent, demanding.

“Sara… Look at me…”

Her mornings were now filled with dread. She began avoiding the mirror altogether, brushing her teeth in a hurry, refusing to meet her reflection. But the voice was always there, louder, more desperate. Even in the middle of the night, she swore she could hear it calling her, muffled but present, pulling her from sleep.

One night, after waking drenched in cold sweat, she made a decision. She had to know what it was. She had to face it.

The next morning, she stood before the mirror, hands trembling, her reflection distorted by her fear. The voice was loud now, deafening, an urgent, hoarse whisper.

“Sara… Look at me. Please…”

She slowly raised her eyes, staring into her own reflection. But as she looked, something strange began to happen. Her reflection didn’t move in sync with her. It stood still, staring at her with a cold, dead-eyed gaze, while Sara’s breath hitched in her throat.

“Who are you?” Sara asked, her voice shaking.

The reflection’s lips curled into a sinister smile. It wasn’t her anymore. It was something else, something wrong. The face in the mirror was twisted, eyes dark and hollow, mouth stretching unnaturally wide as it spoke.

“I’ve been waiting,” it hissed. “So long, waiting for you to let me in…”

Sara stepped back, her chest tight with panic. Her reflection followed, not in motion, but as if it glided toward her. The air in the bathroom grew colder, thick with a suffocating presence.

“What do you want?” Sara whispered, her back pressing against the door.

The figure in the mirror tilted its head, its grin widening.

“You,” it said, voice dripping with malice. “I want you.”

Without warning, the bathroom lights flickered, and the mirror began to ripple, the surface warping as if the glass were made of liquid. The reflection's hands, once flat against the mirror, began to push through, stretching into Sara's world. The pale fingers reached for her, grasping the air, clawing for her skin.

Sara screamed, stumbling backward, but the hands were faster. Cold, clammy fingers latched onto her wrists, pulling her toward the mirror with an unnatural strength. She fought, thrashing and kicking, but the mirror seemed to drag her closer, its surface swallowing her inch by inch.

As her reflection’s face loomed closer, its empty eyes locked onto hers, Sara’s breath hitched. The last thing she heard before the darkness consumed her was its final whisper.

"Now, you belong to me."

The mirror fell silent. The bathroom returned to its usual stillness, the air warm once more.

A day later, Sara’s friend, Emily, knocked on her apartment door. When no one answered, she let herself in. Everything looked normal, except for the bathroom. The door was ajar, the mirror perfectly clean, gleaming in the dim light. Emily stepped closer, calling Sara’s name.

When she looked into the mirror, there was no reflection.

But a faint whisper echoed from the glass.

"Emily..."

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 Insistent Whisper Shaina Tranquilino October 11, 2024

Detective Aaron Greaves sat in his car, staring out at the cold rain that slicked the streets of Hollowbrook. The town was small, sleepy, but not without its horrors. Eight people had vanished in as many weeks, leaving no trace, no evidence, and no hope. Greaves had investigated homicides for over fifteen years, but this case was different. No blood, no bodies, just an ever-present sense of something watching. He took a drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling lazily toward the cracked window. His eyes flickered toward the abandoned mill, where the most recent victim, a schoolteacher, had last been seen. The place was a ruin, decaying and forgotten, but Greaves couldn't shake the feeling that something there held answers — something hidden, waiting to be found.

He was about to step out of the car when he heard it for the first time.

"I know who did it."

Greaves froze, the cigarette burning low between his fingers. The voice had come from the back seat — faint, a whisper just above a breath. He spun around, the shadows thick in the back of the car, but no one was there.

He turned back, shook his head. Stress, he told himself. Too many late nights, too many dead ends. He crushed the cigarette into the ashtray and climbed out of the car, ignoring the faint chill crawling down his spine.

The second time, it was louder.

"I know who did it."

Greaves was standing by the mill's entrance, flashlight sweeping through the yawning blackness beyond. The voice was clear, like someone standing just behind him. He turned again, sharply this time, his heart thudding. The only sound was the rain tapping against the rotting wood of the building.

"Who's there?" he called, his voice firm but betraying a note of unease. Silence answered him.

He entered the mill, his footsteps echoing on the damp floorboards. The air was thick with rot, the smell of mold curling into his nostrils. He pushed deeper inside, heart beating fast, senses on high alert. The voice hadn’t come again, but it lingered in his thoughts, gnawing at his nerves.

By the time he reached the center of the mill, he felt it again: a presence, unseen but palpable. His flashlight flickered, casting long, shifting shadows along the walls.

"I know who did it," the whisper came again, this time insistent.

Greaves whipped around, his flashlight beam shaking. "Who are you?" he demanded, voice rough.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Then, the whisper came once more, closer this time, intimate.

"I can tell you... but there’s a price."

Greaves’ blood ran cold. The whisper wasn’t coming from outside him. It was inside his head, curling through his mind like smoke. His grip tightened on the flashlight.

"I don’t make deals with voices in my head," he muttered, trying to shake off the growing unease. But something about the whisper felt ancient, powerful. It slithered through his thoughts like it belonged there.

"You want to know, don’t you? The killer’s right under your nose. I can show you. But first… you must give me something in return."

Greaves pressed a hand to his temple, willing the voice away. "What are you?"

"What I am doesn’t matter, Detective. What matters is that I know the truth. And you… you want to catch him, don’t you?"

He felt it — the overwhelming urge to agree. His head ached, the pressure of the voice building.

"A simple price. A memory. One precious moment — that's all I need."

Greaves swallowed hard, his mind racing. His fingers twitched toward his gun, but he knew it would do no good. This wasn’t a person. It was something else. Something older. Something dark.

"What kind of memory?" he asked, against his better judgment.

"Something precious. Perhaps the day your daughter was born? Or the last words your wife said to you before she died?"

His heart lurched painfully at the mention of his wife. He hadn’t spoken to anyone about her in years. The wound still felt fresh, the loss a raw nerve in his soul. He gritted his teeth. "No."

The whisper chuckled, low and mocking.

"It’s a small price, Detective. You want to catch him, don’t you? You want to end this?"

Greaves’ mind wavered. He could feel the memories shifting in his head, the warmth of his wife’s smile, the softness of her voice on the last morning before the accident.

"One memory. Just one... and I will give you the name."

Greaves’ heart pounded in his chest. The image of the missing faces swam before him. Eight people, lost, their families torn apart. He was so close. But the memory of his wife was all he had left. If he lost that…

"Time’s running out, Detective." The whisper turned cold, sharp, pressing in. "Another will disappear tonight. Do you really want that on your conscience?"

His hands shook, indecision clawing at him. He squeezed his eyes shut, her voice echoing in his mind, the last real thread to his old life.

"Choose."

The word echoed in the hollow of his skull.

With a trembling breath, Greaves whispered, "Take it."

The world shifted. He felt a searing pain in his chest, a ripping sensation deep within his mind, and suddenly, the memory was gone. He reached for it, but it was like trying to grab smoke. His wife’s face, her voice, her last day—it was all a blur, something distant, like a half-forgotten dream.

The whisper coiled in his mind, triumphant.

"Good. The name you seek is Marcus Vane."

Greaves’ eyes snapped open. Marcus Vane. His own partner.

Cold realization settled in. He stumbled back, breathless, the weight of the truth crashing down on him. He knew Marcus, had worked with him for years. He never suspected…

The voice slithered back into his thoughts, laughing softly.

"Enjoy the truth, Detective. It will cost you more than you know."

And then, silence.

Greaves stood alone in the empty mill, the name echoing in his hollowed mind. The whisper was gone, but so was the memory of the one person he had loved the most. All for the truth.

And now, the truth felt like a curse.

The Midnight Broadcast Shaina Tranquilino October 13, 2024

It began without warning. One night, in towns across the country, late-night listeners searching for something different on the radio stumbled upon a strange, unlisted frequency. The numbers on the dial didn’t quite match anything they had ever heard before. The signal came from nowhere, and yet it was too clear, too precise, to be accidental.

People found it somewhere between 93.7 and 94.1 on their analog dials. No music, no static, just a low, droning hum and, underneath it, the faintest whisper of voices. Curious insomniacs, night shift workers, and loners tuned in. The whispers grew louder, more distinct, until they were impossible to ignore.

There was no station identification, no DJ announcing the time or weather. Only that strange hum and a constant stream of voices, whispering just low enough that listeners had to strain to hear. But as they did, they realized something disturbing.

The voices were familiar. Too familiar.

At first, it seemed like a coincidence. But soon, across online forums and late-night chat rooms, the reports started piling up. Every person who tuned into the station heard their own voice—whispering their darkest, most personal fears and memories. Nightmares they thought they had forgotten. Things they had locked away. As if the radio signal was pulling the worst of them out of the depths of their minds and broadcasting it back to them.

A woman named Rachel, in a small coastal town, was one of the first to speak out. She was a habitual night owl, always flipping through channels while painting in her tiny studio. She stumbled upon the signal one night and froze when she heard herself whispering about drowning. About the icy water filling her lungs, the darkness closing in as she struggled to scream.

Rachel had almost drowned when she was twelve, something she hadn’t thought about in years.

The whispers grew more vivid, more terrifying, with each passing night. They no longer just recalled nightmares—they created them. Listeners reported strange shadows moving in their rooms after they tuned in, or hearing voices even when they turned the radio off. Sleep became impossible. Eyes appeared in mirrors where there should have been only reflections. Phantom touches brushed against their skin as the voices murmured darker things, impossibilities and horrors that couldn’t be unseen.

More people began to tune in despite the growing dread surrounding the broadcast. Curiosity, fascination, and fear mixed into a hypnotic pull that made the station impossible to ignore. Listeners couldn’t help but come back for more, even as it cost them their peace, their sanity.

One by one, they began to disappear.

A man named Greg was the first to go missing in his town. He’d been posting obsessively about the broadcast in an online community, describing in detail the whispers that plagued him. He had started hearing them outside of his radio, in the dead silence of his apartment, in the whine of his fridge, and even in his own breathing. His last post was fragmented, barely coherent: "It’s not in my head anymore. They’re here. They’re inside me."

After that, nothing. No one could reach him.

The disappearances spread across states. The Midnight Broadcast, as it became known, was no longer a rumor. Local news stations reported cases of people going missing, some vanishing from their locked homes without a trace. There were no signs of struggle, no clues—only a faint, lingering static coming from their radios, still tuned to the phantom frequency.

By then, those who hadn’t yet heard the broadcast began to actively avoid it. They warned others, telling stories of people who tuned in just once and never turned off the radio again. Some claimed the broadcast wasn’t just tapping into their minds but stealing their very souls, piece by piece, through the whispers.

The broadcast seemed to know its time was running short. It became more erratic, the hum shifting into something deeper, more guttural. The voices, once fragmented whispers, turned into a low, maddening chant that infected anyone who listened for more than a few minutes.

One night, a late-shift trucker named Bill, alone on an empty highway, tried to switch his radio over from the broadcast after realizing what he was hearing. He hadn’t believed the stories but found himself frozen in his seat as his own voice, distorted and thick with static, whispered his greatest shame. The one secret he had never told a soul. His fingers hovered above the dial, shaking, but he couldn’t turn it off. His eyes blurred as tears streamed down his face, and suddenly the chanting voices broke into a cacophony of shrieks.

Bill's truck was found later that night, abandoned on the highway. The engine was still running, his driver’s side door wide open. But there was no sign of him. Only the soft crackle of static from the radio.

In the weeks that followed, more trucks were found along the same stretch of road. Empty.

No one dares listen anymore. But late at night, when the wind dies down and the world goes still, if you turn the dial just right, you might hear it. That same haunting hum. Those same whispered voices, waiting for someone new to listen. Someone new to take.

The Midnight Broadcast still airs.

Waiting for you to tune in.

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 Diary's Secrets Shaina Tranquilino October 6, 2024

Sophie had always adored her grandmother, a woman of grace and charm who filled every room with warmth. But when her grandmother passed away, Sophie was left with an overwhelming sense of loss. After the funeral, she returned to her grandmother’s quaint, creaky old house to sort through her belongings. Among the porcelain figurines, embroidered pillows, and stacks of faded photographs, Sophie found something unexpected — an old, weathered diary, its leather cover cracked with age.

Her grandmother had never mentioned a diary. The clasp was rusted, but it popped open easily under her fingertips. As she flipped through the yellowing pages, she noticed something strange. The ink appeared faded, yet readable, and as her eyes skimmed the words, she could have sworn she heard something — faint, almost imperceptible whispers.

Sophie frowned and closed the book quickly. The whispers ceased immediately, leaving an unnerving silence in their wake.

"Must be my imagination," she murmured, trying to shake off the chill that crept up her spine.

That night, Sophie took the diary home with her. Curiosity gnawed at her, and she couldn't resist opening it again. The moment she turned the first page, the whispers returned, low and unintelligible, as though the very paper itself was breathing secrets into the air. This time, the whispers were louder, more distinct, like fragmented pieces of conversations just beyond her grasp.

The words on the page were written in her grandmother’s delicate hand. January 5, 1956. The entry was brief, recounting a typical day. But as Sophie read further, the entries became darker, more cryptic.

February 12, 1956: “The shadow came again last night. It watches me. I hear it whispering from the corners of the room.”

Sophie’s heart skipped a beat. She looked around her small apartment, suddenly aware of the shadows pooling in the corners, the way the lamplight flickered just slightly. She swallowed, pushing the growing unease aside, and continued reading.

March 3, 1956: “I tried to speak with it. It knows my name. It knows things about me I never shared with anyone. The whispers grow louder every night.”

The whispers in Sophie’s own ears seemed to swell in response to the words on the page, almost as if the diary itself was reacting to the memories being uncovered. She slammed the book shut, panting, her breath shallow and fast. But the whispers didn’t stop. They lingered in the room, filling the space around her with unseen presences. She could feel something watching her.

Desperate, Sophie shoved the diary into a drawer and stumbled to bed, hoping that sleep would bring her peace. But the dreams came — vivid, terrifying dreams of her grandmother, her face twisted in fear, standing at the edge of Sophie’s bed, mouthing words she couldn’t hear over the cacophony of whispers filling the room.

The next morning, exhausted and shaken, Sophie yanked the diary from the drawer. She had to know what was happening. As soon as she opened it, the whispers returned, louder and more insistent.

April 15, 1956: “I’m not alone. It’s in the house with me. I feel its cold breath on my neck when I sleep. It wants something. I don’t know what, but it won’t leave me in peace.”

Her grandmother had been haunted, tormented by something unseen. The realization sent a cold shiver through Sophie. But there was more, a final entry. It was written in frantic, uneven script, unlike her grandmother’s usual elegant handwriting.

May 2, 1956: “I tried to lock it away. Tried to bind it to these pages. But it’s not enough. I can hear it still, scratching, whispering. It wants out. I fear it will find someone else, someone to continue what I could not finish. God help whoever opens this book after me.”

Sophie’s hands trembled as she dropped the diary. The whispers grew louder, no longer faint but echoing through the apartment, a cacophony of voices overlapping, seething with malevolence.

Suddenly, a gust of wind slammed the windows shut, plunging the room into darkness. The whispers were everywhere now, suffocating, as if invisible hands were reaching out from the shadows to close around her throat. Sophie staggered back, her breath hitching in her chest, eyes darting to the diary lying on the floor.

The pages fluttered on their own, turning violently, as though something trapped inside was desperate to be freed.

"No," Sophie gasped, her voice barely a whisper over the maddening chorus. "Please, no."

But it was too late. From the corners of the room, the shadows began to coalesce, forming a shape, a figure that seemed to crawl out of the very air itself, twisted and hunched, its eyes burning like embers in a sunken face. It moved toward her, slow, deliberate, its presence suffocating the light.

Sophie couldn’t move. The whispers were in her ears, her head, her mind, filling every thought with dread.

"You shouldn't have opened it," the voices hissed in unison.

The last thing Sophie saw was the figure looming over her, its cold breath on her neck, just as her grandmother had described. The diary lay open at her feet, the final page blank — waiting for the next entry.