The Diary's SecretsShaina TranquilinoOctober 6, 2024

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.

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 Mysterious Benefactor Shaina Tranquilino September 27, 2024

The rain drummed steadily on the roof of the small, run-down house, its once vibrant red paint now chipped and fading. Inside, the Urban family huddled together in the dim light of a single flickering lamp. Susan Urban sat by the table, her face etched with worry, as she scanned the stack of overdue bills. Her husband, Tom, sat across from her, his hands calloused from years of manual labour, his eyes distant as he pondered their bleak future. Their young daughter, Asha, played quietly on the floor with a worn-out doll, oblivious to the storm brewing inside her parents' hearts.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

Tom stood up, startled by the unexpected visitor. He opened the door to find no one there, just the cold wind and the steady patter of rain. But at his feet, resting on the porch, was a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

“Who could it be at this hour?” Susan asked, her voice tinged with suspicion.

Tom picked up the package and brought it inside. He placed it on the table, and the three of them stared at it in silence for a moment. The handwriting on the note attached was elegant and unfamiliar:

"For the Urbans. May this ease your burden."

Cautiously, Tom untied the string and unfolded the paper. Inside were neatly stacked bills—thousands of dollars. Enough to pay off their debts and more.

Susan gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "This can't be real," she whispered. "Who would do this?"

Tom shook his head, equally baffled. "There’s no name, no explanation. Just the money."

Despite their disbelief, the Urbans used the money to settle their bills, pay off the mortgage, and buy a few essentials they had gone without for so long. The relief was immense, and for the first time in years, they felt a glimmer of hope.

But the gifts didn’t stop.

Every week, another package arrived at their door. Sometimes it contained more money, other times fine clothes for Asha, groceries, or even luxurious items they could never have afforded on their own. Each one came without a trace of the benefactor's identity, just the same cryptic note:

"For the Urbans. May this ease your burden."

At first, the Urbans were overwhelmed with gratitude. They no longer worried about their next meal or the mounting bills, and Asha seemed happier than ever. But as the weeks passed, Susan began to feel uneasy. Who could be sending them these gifts? And why?

She voiced her concerns to Tom one evening after another anonymous package had arrived.

“We can’t just keep taking these things,” Susan said. “It feels wrong not knowing who’s behind it. What if there’s a catch?”

Tom frowned. “We’ve searched for clues, asked around the neighbourhood, even checked the mail routes. No one knows anything. Whoever they are, they clearly don’t want to be found.”

“I don’t care,” Susan said firmly. “We have to find them. There’s something off about all of this.”

The next week, when the familiar knock came at the door, Tom was ready. He rushed outside, hoping to catch the mysterious benefactor in the act. But once again, no one was there—just the rain-soaked street and the faint echo of footsteps vanishing into the night.

Determined, the Urbans began their investigation. They asked neighbours, tracked down delivery drivers, and even visited the local post office, but every lead came up cold. No one had seen anything suspicious, and no one could explain the origin of the packages.

Then, one night, Asha came to her parents, holding something tightly in her hand. "Mama, Papa, look what I found," she said, her innocent eyes wide.

She opened her palm to reveal a small, gold-embossed pin in the shape of an eye. It had been tucked inside the latest package, hidden beneath layers of fine silk.

Susan's heart raced as she studied the symbol. It was unfamiliar, yet somehow it filled her with a deep sense of dread. "Where did you find this?" she asked.

"It was in the box," Asha replied, shrugging. "I thought it was pretty."

Tom took the pin, his face darkening. "I’ve seen this symbol before," he said quietly. "There’s an old lodge on the outskirts of town—I've passed it on my way to work. They have this emblem on the gate."

The next day, Tom and Susan went to the lodge. It was a sprawling, gothic structure surrounded by high walls, hidden deep within the woods. The gate was adorned with the same eye symbol. It seemed abandoned, but a faint light flickered inside.

They knocked on the door, half expecting no one to answer. But to their surprise, the door creaked open, revealing a tall man in a dark suit. His eyes were cold, his smile unsettling.

“Ah, the Urbans,” he said, as if he had been expecting them. “Please, come in.”

Against their better judgment, they stepped inside. The interior was grand but suffocating, with heavy drapes and dark wood paneling. The man led them into a room where several others sat in silence, all wearing pins with the same eye symbol.

"Who are you?" Susan demanded, her voice trembling. "And why have you been sending us these gifts?"

The man’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "We are simply benefactors. We help those in need, those who can be…useful to us."

"Useful?" Tom echoed, his fists clenching. "What do you mean?"

The man’s gaze hardened. "Nothing is ever truly free, Mr. Urban. The gifts were merely the beginning. We have plans for you and your family. But do not worry, your loyalty will be rewarded. All we ask in return is…obedience."

Susan's blood ran cold. "We don’t want anything from you anymore. We never asked for this!"

The man’s smile disappeared. "It’s too late for that, Mrs. Urban. You’ve already accepted our gifts. Now you must honour your part of the bargain."

Before Tom could respond, the door behind them slammed shut, and the lights flickered ominously. The Urbans were surrounded by the silent figures, their faces expressionless, their eyes glinting with malice.

In that moment, Susan realized they had walked into a trap far darker than they could have imagined. The gifts had been bait—luring them into the clutches of something ancient and sinister. The benefactors weren’t saviours. They were puppeteers, pulling the strings of unsuspecting souls.

And now, the Urbans were caught in their web.

"We don’t belong to you," Tom growled, stepping protectively in front of his wife.

The man chuckled softly. "But you do. And soon, you will understand why."

The Urbans knew then that there was no escape—not from the gifts, nor from the dark society that had marked them.

The only question that remained was how much they were willing to sacrifice to be free.

The Secrets of the Abandoned Theatre Shaina Tranquilino September 30, 2024

The wind howled as Mia, Lucas, Sarah, and Ben stood before the crumbling façade of the abandoned Crestwood Theatre. The moon cast long, eerie shadows across the street, and the decaying building loomed over them, as if daring them to step inside. Crestwood had been closed for nearly fifty years, ever since the tragic fire that had burned it down during a performance. Rumour had it that the final show, The Phantom’s Masquerade, had never reached its conclusion. The fire had erupted without warning, claiming the lives of several cast members and the director. Ever since, people in town whispered that strange things happened inside the old theatre. Shadows moved on their own, strange melodies drifted out into the night, and lights flickered through the boarded-up windows—despite there being no electricity.

"Are we really doing this?" Sarah asked, her voice trembling.

Lucas grinned, shaking a flashlight in his hand. "Come on, it'll be fun. What’s a little ghost hunt between friends?"

Ben, always the practical one, folded his arms. "I don’t know. People say this place is cursed for a reason."

Mia, the quietest of the group, felt an odd pull toward the building. She didn’t know why, but something about the Crestwood had always fascinated her, even frightened her. It wasn’t just the tragic fire; it was something more, something… unfinished. Without a word, she walked toward the heavy, broken doors.

Inside, the air was thick with dust, and the remnants of a once-grand theatre lay in ruins. Red velvet seats, now torn and decaying, lined the sloping floor leading to a stage draped in thick cobwebs. A broken chandelier hung precariously from the ceiling, swaying ever so slightly in the cold draft.

Mia shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. "We shouldn’t be here," she whispered.

Ben scoffed. "No kidding."

"Let’s just take a quick look around and get out of here," Lucas said, clicking on his flashlight and shining it across the rows of forgotten seats.

As the beam swept across the darkened theatre, something glinted from the stage. It was faint, barely noticeable, but enough to make Mia’s heart skip a beat. Without thinking, she moved toward the stage.

"Hey, Mia!" Lucas called after her. "Where are you going?"

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on the spot where she had seen the glint. There was something there—something waiting.

The others followed, reluctantly climbing onto the stage behind her. Up close, the smell of old smoke still lingered in the air, as though the fire had never truly gone out. The curtains, now tattered and singed, fluttered slightly as if moved by an unseen hand.

"This is giving me the creeps," Sarah murmured.

As they reached the center of the stage, Mia suddenly froze. There, lying at her feet, was a charred mask—half burned, half pristine. It was a prop from the final performance of The Phantom’s Masquerade. She bent down to pick it up, but the moment her fingers touched the mask, the theatre changed.

The air grew thick, and a deep chill swept through the building. A low hum of music began to play, distant but growing louder. The friends exchanged uneasy glances as the ghostly melody filled the room.

Suddenly, the dim emergency lights that lined the aisles flickered on, casting a sickly glow over the seats. Lucas swung his flashlight wildly, but it wasn’t his light that illuminated the room—it was something else. The theatre was coming alive.

Then, they heard it.

Soft whispers. Laughter. The distant applause of an invisible audience.

"Oh my God," Sarah whispered. "Do you hear that?"

Mia clutched the mask tightly, her heart pounding in her chest. "We need to leave. Now."

But before they could move, a shadowy figure emerged from behind the torn curtains. It was dressed in a tattered costume from the show, its face hidden beneath a mask identical to the one Mia held. The figure moved with a slow, deliberate grace, as if it were still performing the role it had been cast in all those years ago.

"It’s a ghost," Ben gasped, backing away.

The figure turned toward them, raising a hand as if beckoning them closer. Its mask glinted in the dim light, and behind it, Mia could swear she saw hollow, empty eyes staring back at her.

Suddenly, the stage beneath their feet began to shake. The wood groaned as if under immense pressure, and the faint smell of smoke grew stronger. Flames—tiny at first—licked at the edges of the stage, curling around the old, decaying wood.

"We have to go!" Lucas shouted, grabbing Mia’s arm.

But she couldn’t move. She was rooted to the spot, her eyes locked on the ghostly figure. The whispers grew louder, the laughter more intense. The ghost raised its other hand, and with a sudden, violent gust of wind, the flames surged higher, engulfing the stage.

"No!" Mia screamed, finally breaking free from her trance.

She threw the mask down onto the stage, and as it hit the floor, the flames vanished. The theatre fell silent. The whispers stopped, the music faded, and the figure disappeared into the shadows.

The friends stood frozen, staring at the charred mask, still lying on the floor where Mia had dropped it. The air was thick with tension, but the theatre was quiet again. Too quiet.

Without a word, they bolted for the exit, not daring to look back. Outside, the cold night air felt like a relief, though their hearts were still pounding with terror.

"What just happened?" Sarah gasped, clutching her chest.

"It was them," Mia said quietly, staring back at the dark theatre. "The cast. They never finished their final performance. They’re still trapped in there, reliving that night over and over again."

Lucas shook his head, disbelief in his eyes. "We have to tell someone—"

"No one would believe us," Ben interrupted, his face pale. "Besides, I think it’s better if we just… let them be."

Mia nodded, her thoughts still lingering on the mask and the shadowy figure that had haunted the stage. As they walked away from the theatre, the wind picked up again, carrying with it a faint, haunting melody.

The final performance of The Phantom’s Masquerade was far from over.

And it never would be.

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 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.