The Library Of SecretsShaina TranquilinoOctober 16, 2024

The Library of Secrets Shaina Tranquilino October 16, 2024

The university library was always quiet—unnaturally quiet. Even during the day, with students cramming for exams, the silence hung thick in the air, like something alive. But it was after dark that the library transformed, taking on an eerie, almost sinister presence.

Hannah had heard the stories, of course. Everyone had. Whispers about strange occurrences late at night—unexplained noises, disappearing books, even rumors of students who’d gone missing. But she didn’t believe in ghost stories, and finals were looming. She needed the peace and quiet, so when she lost track of time and the clock struck midnight, she convinced herself to stay a little longer.

The library’s ancient architecture didn’t help ease her nerves. Gothic arches loomed overhead, casting jagged shadows under the dim lights. Rows of shelves seemed to stretch endlessly, the books on them older than any of the students, some even older than the university itself. Most people avoided the lower levels, but Hannah had found a nook on the second basement floor—a place no one ever ventured.

Tonight, it was deathly still.

The air felt stagnant, as if no one had breathed in this part of the library for centuries. The only sound was the soft rustle of pages as Hannah turned them, immersed in her study. But as the minutes ticked by, something began to change.

At first, it was almost imperceptible—a soft sound, like the faintest of whispers. Hannah dismissed it, chalking it up to the creaking of the old building. But then it grew louder. The sound seemed to come from the shelves themselves, as though the books were murmuring among themselves. She looked up, scanning the empty aisles, but saw no one.

Her heart quickened. The whispers continued, a low, hissing chorus that seemed to rise from the very walls around her. She couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable—urgent, insistent.

Hannah stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. The sound echoed through the empty library, only to be swallowed by the oppressive silence. The whispers grew louder, surrounding her from every direction. She clutched her bag and turned toward the exit, but before she could take a step, a voice—clear and distinct—rose above the rest.

"Don’t go."

She froze. The voice was right behind her.

Slowly, she turned. There was no one there, only rows of old bookshelves and the faint flicker of a dying light bulb. But the voice persisted, now coming from all around her, each shelf carrying a different whisper.

"Stay. You need to know."

Her mind raced. She was alone. Wasn’t she? Her breath quickened as she looked around, panic creeping into her thoughts. The whispers closed in, no longer just noise, but words, forming coherent sentences that chilled her to the bone.

"The library keeps its secrets."

"They never leave."

"You’ll never leave."

She backed away, her heart pounding, trying to drown out the voices. She glanced at the shelves, her eyes darting over the ancient books, and that’s when she noticed it—a book she hadn’t seen before. Its spine was cracked and faded, its pages yellowed with age. But it wasn’t its appearance that caught her attention. It was that it seemed to be…moving.

Trembling, she reached for the book, almost against her will. Her fingers brushed the cover, and as soon as she made contact, the whispers stopped. The silence that followed was suffocating.

She opened the book, her hands shaking. The pages were filled with cramped, handwritten text, the ink smeared and blotchy as though written in haste—or fear. But it wasn’t the words that terrified her. It was the names.

Dozens of names. Hundreds. Some scratched out, others fresh. And then, at the very bottom of the page, she saw it—her own name.

Hannah Thompson.

Her stomach turned, and she slammed the book shut. The whispers returned, louder now, their tone urgent and malicious.

"You’ve seen. Now you must stay."

A cold draft swept through the library, and the lights flickered. The air felt heavier, pressing in on her chest. Desperately, she ran toward the stairwell, her footsteps echoing in the empty corridors. She reached the door to the ground floor and shoved it open, but when she stepped through, her heart sank.

She was back in the basement.

Her breathing grew ragged as she tried again, running faster this time. She threw open the door—but once again, she stood in the same eerie nook where she had started.

The whispers were deafening now, crashing over her in waves of sound. They hissed and spat, mocking her, taunting her with half-formed truths.

"You belong to us now."

She fell to her knees, clutching her head, trying to block out the noise. It was no use. The library had her now, just like it had all the others. She thought of the missing students, the unexplained disappearances, the names in the book. The library didn’t just keep knowledge. It kept them—the students who stayed too late, the ones who uncovered too much.

With a final, desperate scream, Hannah bolted toward the shelves, searching for something—anything—that could free her. But all she found were more books, more names, more secrets that no one was ever meant to know.

The last light flickered out, plunging the library into darkness. The whispers faded, replaced by a deep, oppressive silence.

And then, as if nothing had happened, the library returned to its eerie quiet, waiting for its next victim.

The Silent Hill Shaina Tranquilino October 15, 2024

The sun was sinking low, casting long shadows over the dense forest that surrounded the base of Silent Hill. Few locals dared to walk the trail that circled its base at dusk, for as long as anyone could remember, whispers echoed from the hilltop during the dying light. They weren't loud, but clear enough to unnerve even the boldest soul. "Turn back," they would say, in voices that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

Ben had heard the stories but dismissed them as nothing more than local superstition. He wasn’t from the small town that bordered the forest; he was an outsider, a hiker passing through, seeking solitude and challenge. He enjoyed proving myths wrong, finding in them only the fragile remnants of human fear. So, when the old man at the tavern had warned him about Silent Hill, he only laughed.

“Don’t ignore the whispers,” the old man had said. His voice had trembled in a way that made Ben almost uncomfortable. Almost.

“I’ll be fine,” Ben had responded with a grin, waving off the advice like he had heard it a thousand times.

Now, on the trail that wound around Silent Hill, dusk crept in like a slow-moving fog, draping the forest in muted colours. Ben's boots crunched on the gravel path, each step a lonely sound in the growing silence. The air grew cooler, heavier, and the wind rustled the leaves in a way that seemed offbeat, unnatural.

As he rounded a bend in the trail, the first whisper reached him.

"Turn back."

Ben froze mid-step. It had been soft, barely a breath, yet unmistakable. He looked around, eyes scanning the dense trees. There was no one. The forest was still.

He scoffed, shaking off the unease that tickled the back of his neck. Probably the wind, he thought, moving forward with renewed determination. But a few steps later, it came again, a little louder this time.

"Turn back."

He stopped again, his heartbeat quickening. The voice sounded close—too close—but still, there was no sign of anyone around. The trail was empty, the woods quiet. Ben frowned and continued walking, though his pace had slowed, his senses now heightened.

Then, more voices joined.

"Turn back," they whispered in unison, like a chorus carried on the wind.

He stopped cold. The whispers were no longer distant or vague; they seemed to come from the ground beneath his feet, from the trees themselves. His pulse pounded in his ears, and despite himself, a cold sweat began to form on his brow.

"Turn back," they repeated, insistent, urgent.

Ben spun around, expecting to see someone—a prank, perhaps, kids trying to scare him—but there was nothing, only the fading light of dusk and the looming presence of Silent Hill.

But he wasn’t the type to turn back. He pressed on, forcing his legs to move, though the unease crawled up his spine like icy fingers. His breath came in shorter bursts now, as if the very air had thickened with the weight of those disembodied voices.

The whispers grew louder, overlapping one another, coming from every direction.

"Turn back… Turn back… TURN BACK!"

He stumbled, his foot catching on a root, and for the first time, fear licked at his thoughts. His bravado cracked. He looked up at the hill, its silhouette darker than the encroaching night, an unnatural shadow blotting out the fading sky. It was then he saw it—movement, just at the top. A figure, standing still, watching him.

No. Not watching. Waiting.

The whispers stopped all at once, replaced by a thick, heavy silence that pressed on his eardrums, muting the world around him. Ben’s mouth went dry. He couldn’t move, couldn’t tear his eyes away from the figure that seemed to glide down the hill without moving its legs. It was tall, impossibly tall, its limbs thin and elongated, too long to be human. As it drew closer, Ben saw that its face—or what should have been its face—was a void, a featureless blackness that sucked in the last of the light.

The thing extended one of its arms, the limb bending unnaturally, almost serpentine. It pointed directly at him.

Suddenly, the whispers returned, but now they weren’t warnings. They were something else.

“He didn't listen,” they said in a soft, mournful chant. “He didn’t listen... He didn’t listen…”

Ben’s legs moved, but not by his will. He found himself walking, no, running—away from the hill, back toward town, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. The thing didn’t follow, but its presence lingered, a suffocating weight pressing down on his every breath.

By the time he reached the town’s edge, the sun had vanished completely, and the whispers had faded into the night. He stumbled back into the tavern, breathless, drenched in sweat, but alive.

The old man was still there, sitting at the bar, his eyes knowing, sad. Ben collapsed into a chair, shaking, his mouth struggling to form the words.

“I… I didn’t believe you.”

The old man gave a slow nod, his gaze distant. “Few ever do.”

Ben looked out the window, toward the dark silhouette of Silent Hill, a shiver running through him. He could still hear the final whisper, echoing in the depths of his mind.

"Next time, you won’t escape."

And he knew—there would be a next time.