Whispering In The DarkShaina TranquilinoOctober 7, 2024

Whispering in the Dark Shaina Tranquilino October 7, 2024

The fire crackled, sending sparks into the cold night air. Four friends—Liam, Ava, Noah, and Zoe—huddled around the campfire, their faces glowing in the flickering light. They had decided on a weekend camping trip to escape the pressures of work and city life, to reconnect with each other, and to enjoy the wilderness. The dense forest around them stretched into an abyss of darkness, a stark contrast to the warmth of the fire.

“Anyone else hear that?” Ava asked, her voice tinged with unease.

Liam glanced at her and shook his head. “You’re just spooking yourself out. It’s nothing.”

But Ava was certain she’d heard something—faint whispers, just beyond the reach of the firelight. They had started after the sun had dipped below the horizon, so soft and elusive she couldn’t make out the words. But they were there, threading through the stillness of the night.

“Could be the wind,” Noah suggested, though he, too, seemed a little on edge. The firelight danced in his eyes, making the shadows behind him appear to shift and twist.

Zoe shifted nervously. “It doesn’t sound like the wind.”

The whispers came again, faint and chilling, as if carried on the breeze. This time, they all heard it. The sound was disembodied, yet felt too close, like someone was standing just behind them, speaking softly, deliberately.

Liam stood up abruptly, scanning the tree line. “Who’s out there?” he called, his voice cutting through the whispers. The forest offered no reply, only an oppressive silence that swallowed his words.

“This isn’t funny,” Ava muttered, pulling her jacket tighter around her. Her breath fogged in the chilly night air, but the whispers were clearer now—almost too clear. They seemed to come from all directions at once, as if the forest itself was alive, watching them.

“We should get inside the tent,” Zoe suggested, her voice trembling. “Maybe it’s just animals or something.”

Liam scoffed, trying to keep the mood light. “Yeah, talking animals. Probably just locals messing with us.”

But as they packed up to head into the tent, the whispers grew louder, more distinct. Now, they sounded like murmured conversations, but the words were impossible to comprehend. One voice stood out from the others, sharp and urgent, as if calling someone’s name. Liam turned to the others, his face pale.

"Did you guys hear that?" he whispered. "It... it sounded like my name."

No one answered. Zoe’s eyes were wide, and Noah’s hands shook as he packed up the last of the supplies. The fire flickered low, casting long, eerie shadows across the campsite.

And then the voice came again, closer this time. Liam.

Everyone froze.

“Liam, it’s just a trick,” Ava said quickly. “Someone’s out there messing with us.”

But Liam wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on the dark edge of the woods, his face a mask of confusion. “It’s calling me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It knows my name.”

Without warning, he took a step toward the darkness.

“Liam, wait!” Zoe grabbed his arm, but he shook her off, stumbling toward the trees, his gaze locked on something none of them could see.

“Liam!” Ava screamed, but he was already gone, disappearing into the blackness of the forest, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the whispers.

Noah grabbed a flashlight and bolted after him, shouting Liam’s name into the void. Ava and Zoe followed, panic driving them forward. But as they entered the forest, the voices surrounded them, more intense now, whispering directly in their ears, almost intimate.

"Turn back."

"Leave."

"He’s ours now."

The whispers slithered into their minds, seeping through every thought, every rational explanation. Fear gnawed at them, but they couldn’t stop. Liam’s figure darted between the trees ahead, moving deeper into the thick underbrush.

“Liam, stop!” Noah yelled. His voice seemed to vanish, swallowed by the whispers. The flashlight beam wavered, cutting through the mist that had begun to creep up from the ground. Shadows loomed ahead, their shapes shifting unnaturally, blending with the trees.

Liam disappeared from sight.

“Where did he go?” Ava gasped, her breath coming in short bursts. The forest felt like it was closing in around them, the trees twisting, forming a labyrinth of branches and darkness. The voices grew louder, more urgent.

“He’s not far,” Noah panted. “We’ll find him. We have to.”

But as they pushed deeper into the woods, something changed. The ground seemed to ripple beneath their feet, the air thick with the whispers, now like a chorus of malevolent beings. They weren’t alone in the woods.

Ava screamed as something brushed past her leg, cold and wet, like a hand. She stumbled, grabbing Zoe’s arm. “We need to go back,” she cried. “We can’t stay here.”

Suddenly, the flashlight flickered and went out, plunging them into complete darkness. The whispers surged, drowning out their frantic breathing, filling the silence with words they couldn’t understand, but the intent was clear.

They weren’t welcome.

In the pitch black, a new sound emerged—a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the earth. Zoe whimpered, clutching Ava’s arm tightly, her nails digging into her skin. Noah frantically tried to turn the flashlight back on, but it was useless. The growling grew louder, circling them, and they could feel something in the darkness, something hungry.

Then, from behind them, Liam’s voice rang out, but it was wrong—warped and distorted.

“Help me…”

It was a plea, but it wasn’t Liam.

“We have to run,” Ava whispered, terror making her voice tremble. “Now.”

They didn’t need convincing. Together, they bolted through the forest, the voices and growls chasing after them. The trees seemed to close in, the air thick with something suffocating. Ava could feel it—something was right behind her, its breath hot on the back of her neck.

They broke through the tree line and back into the campsite. The fire was nearly out, a few glowing embers all that remained. Gasping for breath, they huddled together, waiting, listening.

The whispers stopped.

But Liam never came back.

And in the dead of night, as the fire died completely, they knew they weren’t alone.

The Haunted Shipwreck Shaina Tranquilino September 25, 2024

The ocean was still that morning, a glassy expanse stretching into the horizon, as divers Jon and Tasheena prepared their descent. They had heard the rumours, of course—stories whispered in the shadowy corners of taverns near the docks about The Carina, an early 19th-century cargo ship that vanished without a trace nearly two hundred years ago. According to legend, it was perfectly preserved at the ocean’s floor, waiting for someone—or something—to bring its tragic past to light.

Jon tightened his oxygen tank and gave Tasheena a nod. "You ready for this?"

She adjusted her mask and grinned through the glass. "Born ready. Let’s find that ship."

The two divers plunged into the depths, the sunlight refracting through the clear water above them, growing dimmer the deeper they swam. After a half-hour descent, the shadow of something massive loomed ahead.

“There,” Jon signaled, pointing to the dark shape emerging in the murky water.

As they got closer, their headlamps cut through the gloom, illuminating the ghostly outline of The Carina. To their astonishment, the ship looked as if it had only recently been submerged. The wood was intact, ropes still hung loosely from the masts, and the sails—though worn—remained tethered. There was no sign of coral or barnacles overtaking the hull, as though time itself had forgotten the wreck.

Tasheena's voice crackled through the communication system. “This can’t be right. Ships like this shouldn’t be this well preserved. It’s… untouched.”

Jon was about to respond when something caught his eye—figures. For a fleeting moment, shapes moved just within the edge of his vision, like shadows passing through the dark corridors of the ship.

“Tasheena, did you see that?”

She turned her light toward the spot where he was staring. “See what?”

“I thought I saw… never mind.” He shook off the feeling. “Let’s head inside.”

They entered through a gaping hole in the ship’s hull, likely torn open when the vessel went down. Inside, the eerie preservation continued. Wooden crates were stacked along the walls, barrels remained lashed in place, and the captain’s quarters were still furnished as if awaiting the return of its master. Jon and Tasheena exchanged glances, both feeling the heavy silence that clung to the wreck.

Tasheena approached an old ledger on the captain’s desk. She flipped through the brittle pages, marvelling at the fact that they hadn’t disintegrated over time. But as she read, her face paled.

“Jon… you need to hear this.”

She began to read aloud from the final entry, dated August 12, 1821:

We are lost. Cursed, perhaps. The crew grows restless, their eyes haunted by something unseen. We hear voices in the night, calling from the deep. They speak in tongues we do not understand, yet we cannot help but listen. Men have begun to disappear, claimed by the sea or by something far worse. We make for land, but I fear we shall never reach it. Should anyone find this log, know that we were not meant to survive.

Jon felt a chill crawl up his spine. “So the ship’s crew went mad?”

Tasheena shook her head slowly. “I think they were haunted.”

As the words left her mouth, a sudden movement in the water behind her made Jon's heart stop. Slowly, he turned, raising his light.

At first, there was nothing—just the dark, still waters of the sunken ship. Then, from the shadowed corridor, a figure emerged. It wore the tattered remains of a sailor’s uniform, its face gaunt, hollow eyes staring blankly ahead. But it wasn’t alone. More figures drifted from the darkness, their forms translucent, their movements unnaturally slow, as if trapped in a dream. They floated toward the divers with an unsettling calm.

“Jon…” Tasheena whispered, her voice barely audible over the comms. “We need to get out of here.”

Jon backed toward the opening they had come through, his heart pounding in his chest. “Don’t look at them. Just move.”

The ghosts of The Carina drifted closer, their eyes following the divers. One reached out a hand, its fingers brushing past Jon's arm. A sharp coldness pierced his skin, and he flinched, kicking back with a surge of panic. He could feel the weight of the ship’s tragic past pressing in around him, the despair of the lost crew clawing at his mind.

Tasheena had already reached the opening, turning to signal Jon when her light caught something else—movement from within the captain’s quarters. A tall figure, wearing a long, sea-soaked coat, stood just inside the room. The captain. His face was drawn tight, skin pulled back over bone, eyes glowing faintly with an eerie blue light. He stepped forward, and though no words passed his lips, Tasheena felt his message reverberate through the water.

Stay. Join us.

“No!” she shouted, swimming toward Jon.

He reached for her, their hands just brushing as something cold and invisible tugged at her legs. Tasheena gasped, thrashing, trying to pull free, but the spectral grip tightened. Jon grabbed her arm with both hands and kicked furiously, propelling them both toward the surface.

The ghostly crew followed, their hollow eyes staring after the divers with an ancient sorrow. But they did not leave the ship. They could not.

As the surface broke above them, Jon and Tasheena gasped for air, tearing off their masks as they climbed back onto their boat. For several minutes, neither spoke, their eyes locked on the still water below.

Finally, Tasheena broke the silence. “They wanted us to stay. To join them.”

Jon nodded, his face pale. “We were lucky to get out.”

They both knew that the crew of The Carina hadn’t been so fortunate. Bound to their ship, they would drift forever in that watery grave, waiting for the next unwary souls to stumble upon their cursed wreck.

As the boat sped back toward the safety of the shore, Jon glanced over his shoulder at the calm sea behind them. Though the sun shone brightly, casting shimmering light across the water, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching from below—waiting, patient as the tide.

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.

The Phantom Operator Shaina Tranquilino October 10, 2024

Macy sat alone in her dimly lit apartment, the glow from her TV flickering across the walls as an autumn storm rattled the windows. The wind howled through the trees outside, and rain pattered against the glass like skeletal fingers tapping to get in. She had always loved October’s eeriness, but tonight, an unfamiliar dread settled over her. It started with a ring—sharp and shrill, cutting through the white noise of the storm. Macy glanced at her phone, confused. The screen displayed “Unknown Caller,” a designation she hadn't seen in years. She hesitated but eventually swiped to answer.

“Hello?” she said, her voice tentative.

There was silence on the other end, only the faint hiss of static. Macy was about to hang up when she heard it: a whisper, faint and distant, but unmistakable.

"Macy…"

She froze. The voice was achingly familiar, one she had buried in the deepest recesses of her memory. Her throat tightened as chills crept up her spine.

"Maverick?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

The static crackled again, louder this time. The whisper came through once more, clearer now, unmistakably his voice. "Macy... I miss you."

Her heart pounded in her chest. It had been five years since Maverick died in a car accident. The grief had been suffocating, but she had moved on—or so she thought. The sudden resurgence of his voice felt like a knife turning in a half-healed wound.

“This isn’t funny,” she said, her voice rising. “Who is this?”

But the voice on the other end didn’t respond. The static grew louder, filling her ears, drowning out the storm outside.

“I miss you,” the voice repeated, echoing like it was coming from far away, from somewhere it shouldn’t be able to reach.

With a gasp, Macy dropped the phone onto the couch, staring at it in horror. Her hands were shaking. This had to be a prank—some cruel, heartless prank. But how? Maverick was dead. She had attended his funeral, seen his body lowered into the ground.

The phone went silent. For a long minute, she just stared at it, hoping the nightmare was over. But then, it rang again.

Macy nearly jumped out of her skin. “Unknown Caller” flashed on the screen once more. She didn’t want to answer, but her hand moved involuntarily, as though compelled by some unseen force.

She pressed the green icon and brought the phone to her ear, her pulse hammering in her throat.

This time, the voice came through immediately, but it was different. It wasn’t just a whisper. It was distorted, warped, as though Maverick’s voice had been dragged through layers of static and something darker—something inhuman.

"Why did you leave me?"

Tears welled up in her eyes. "You... you died, Maverick. You’re gone. This isn’t real."

"I’m still here," the voice rasped. The words were drenched in agony, in longing. "I’ve been waiting for you."

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She tried to reason with herself—this was impossible, a trick of the mind. Maybe it was the storm, maybe it was grief resurfacing after all these years. But the voice… it was too real. Too familiar.

The call cut out, plunging the room into silence once more. Macy stared at the phone in her hand, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Her fingers hovered over the call log. She needed to know where the calls were coming from.

With trembling hands, she tapped the number.

Nothing.

No record. The call didn’t exist.

A chill swept over her as the storm outside raged on, the wind howling like a mourning soul. She stood, pacing the living room, her mind racing. It couldn’t have been Maverick. He was gone. He had to be.

Suddenly, the phone rang again.

This time, Macy didn’t answer immediately. She let it ring, her stomach twisting into knots as the shrill sound echoed in her small apartment. Finally, with a deep breath, she answered.

“Maverick, please stop this,” she pleaded, tears streaming down her face. “Please… just let me go.”

There was a long pause, the kind of silence that felt like the dead themselves were listening.

"Come back to me," the voice said. It was louder now, more insistent. "You promised."

Her mind raced back to the night of his accident. They had fought—bitterly. She had told him she was leaving him, that she couldn’t take the jealousy, the paranoia anymore. He had driven off in a storm not unlike tonight, his last words to her echoing in her mind: “If you leave, I’ll never let you go.”

The static rose again, and beneath it, Macy could hear something else—a distant noise, growing louder. It was the unmistakable screech of tires on wet pavement, the crunch of metal twisting and shattering.

Then, the voice. His voice. Crying out her name in terror.

The memory slammed into her like a freight train, and she dropped the phone, stumbling backward, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She covered her ears, but she couldn’t block it out—the sound of his death was all around her, suffocating her.

The lights flickered and then went out, plunging the room into darkness. Only the faint glow from her phone illuminated the room. The call was still active, the static crackling like fire.

And then she heard it. Footsteps. Soft, deliberate, moving toward her.

Macy backed into a corner, her heart pounding, tears streaming down her face. “Maverick... I’m sorry…”

The footsteps stopped just behind her. She could feel the air grow cold, could sense something—someone—standing there, unseen but present.

A whisper brushed her ear, so close it felt like icy breath on her skin.

“You can’t leave me. Not again.”

And then, the lights flickered back on. The room was empty, but Macy knew—she wasn’t alone.

The phone went dead in her hand, the call finally over. But the fear remained, gnawing at her, whispering in the back of her mind.

She knew it wasn’t the last time he would call.

Maverick was waiting.

And he always would be.

The Voice in the Vent Shaina Tranquilino October 3, 2024

Mardi had always loved the quiet of her apartment. Nestled on the top floor of an old, crumbling building, it offered the kind of solitude that she, an introvert by nature, craved. The thin walls and occasional creaks from her elderly neighbours were comforting reminders of life around her. Until, one night, something changed.

It started as a whisper—so faint, she thought it was her imagination. Lying in bed, with the soft glow of her phone casting eerie shadows on the walls, she heard it: a low, almost imperceptible murmur floating through the air vent above her bed.

At first, Mardi assumed it was Mr. Simmons from the apartment next door. The man often mumbled to himself when he couldn’t sleep, his gravelly voice barely a disturbance. But this murmur was different—sharper, cold. She strained her ears, hoping to catch a clearer phrase, but the sound vanished as quickly as it came.

By the next morning, the voice was forgotten, chalked up to the usual oddities of living in an old building. But the following night, it returned.

Mardi lay awake, staring at the darkened ceiling. The whisper crawled through the vent again, this time clearer, more deliberate. It was no longer a mumble; it was a string of words, garbled and strange, as though spoken through clenched teeth.

"Help me..."

Her heart skipped a beat. She sat up, the room suddenly much colder than it should have been. Maybe one of her neighbours really was in trouble. She pressed her ear to the vent.

"He’s coming... don’t listen..."

The voice was female—shaky and distant, as though it came from some far-off place, but the air vent was the only possible source. She held her breath, waiting for more, but the voice cut off abruptly, leaving only silence.

The next morning, she knocked on Mr. Simmons' door, feeling foolish but desperate for answers. After a few moments, the door creaked open, revealing the frail, white-haired man.

"Good morning, Mr. Simmons," Mardi began, keeping her voice steady. "Have you heard... anything strange? From your vent, I mean."

He blinked at her, his rheumy eyes narrowing in confusion. "Strange? Like what?"

"Voices. At night. It sounds like someone’s... trapped."

Mr. Simmons shook his head, looking more puzzled than concerned. "I haven’t heard a thing, dear. Not in years. My hearing’s not what it used to be."

Mardi forced a smile and thanked him, but unease crept into her bones. If he wasn’t hearing it, who else could it be? Was it just in her head?

That night, she lay in bed again, eyes wide open, heart pounding. Hours passed in silence. She was beginning to think she really was losing it when the voice returned, louder this time.

"Get out..."

Mardi jolted upright. The voice was urgent, panicked, and much closer than before.

"He’s here... He’s watching..."

Mardi’s breath caught in her throat. The air in the room felt thick, suffocating. Her eyes darted to the vent, now nothing more than a square of black metal on the ceiling, but it suddenly felt like something was staring back through it.

Before she could react, a second voice emerged—a deeper, guttural one that sent icy chills down her spine.

"Too late."

The words slithered through the vent like a hiss, dripping with malice. Mardi froze, every muscle in her body tense, as if her very survival depended on staying still. She waited, trembling, praying that whatever this was would stop.

But the whispers continued. The voices overlapped, one pleading, the other mocking, their tones battling for dominance in her mind.

"Get out!" the woman cried again.

"She’s ours now," the deeper voice growled.

The room plunged into darkness as the light flickered and went out. A rush of cold air blasted from the vent, carrying with it a foul, decayed smell. Mardi scrambled out of bed, her fingers fumbling for her phone, but it slipped from her grasp and clattered to the floor.

The sound of something heavy shifting in the walls echoed through the room. And then... a scraping noise. Slow, deliberate, as though nails were dragging along the metal ducts, moving closer, inch by inch.

Mardi’s eyes locked onto the vent. Something was crawling through it.

The grating noise grew louder, reverberating through the apartment. She backed away, her legs trembling beneath her, as a shadow began to take shape behind the slats of the vent. Something with long, bony fingers was pulling itself closer.

Without thinking, she bolted for the door, yanking it open and stumbling into the hallway. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she ran down the stairwell, not stopping until she was out on the street, panting, eyes wide with terror.

The next day, Mardi didn’t return to the apartment. She couldn’t. She broke her lease and moved out within a week, refusing to tell anyone the real reason why.

A month later, another tenant moved in. A young woman, eager to take advantage of the rent-controlled unit. She found it odd how quickly the previous tenant had left, but figured it was just city life.

That night, as she lay in bed, her eyes fluttering shut, a faint whisper drifted through the vent above her head.

"He’s coming..."

But this time, no one was there to warn her.

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..."