ChillingTales - Tumblr Posts

The Cursed Locket Shaina Tranquilino September 7, 2024

James Cartwright was an antique dealer of some repute, known throughout London for his discerning eye and the uncanny ability to procure rare and valuable artifacts. His shop, tucked away in a narrow alley of Covent Garden, was a treasure trove of history. Shelves groaned under the weight of dusty books, ornate candelabras, and delicate porcelain figurines. But it was the jewelry section that held James' true passion—rows of rings, brooches, and necklaces, each with a story waiting to be uncovered.

One rainy afternoon, a man in a worn trench coat entered the shop, carrying a small, velvet-lined box. His eyes darted around nervously as he approached the counter, his hands trembling slightly as he placed the box in front of James.

"Interested in buying?" the man asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

James' curiosity was piqued. He opened the box to reveal a gold locket, intricate and old, with an ornate filigree design. The locket was heavy in his hand, and as he examined it closely, he noticed a small inscription on the back: "To E., Forever Yours. 1889."

"Beautiful craftsmanship," James remarked, though his mind was racing. The inscription rang a bell, something he had read long ago. "Where did you find this?"

The man shifted uncomfortably. "It belonged to my grandmother," he lied. "She passed away recently, and I need the money."

James nodded, sensing there was more to the story, but not pressing further. He offered a fair price, and the man accepted with a relieved sigh before hurrying out into the rain. As James watched him disappear into the mist, a nagging feeling tugged at the back of his mind. There was something familiar about that locket.

Later that evening, after closing the shop, James retired to his study. He poured himself a glass of brandy and settled into his leather armchair, the locket resting on the table beside him. He reached for an old book of unsolved mysteries, a collection he had inherited from his father. Thumbing through the pages, he stopped at a passage that made his heart skip a beat.

The Disappearance of Elodie Blackwood, 1889.

Elodie Blackwood had been a celebrated socialite, known for her beauty and charm. She vanished without a trace one autumn evening, leaving behind a scandal and a mystery that had never been solved. The last known item she was seen wearing was a gold locket, a gift from her secret lover. The inscription in the book matched the one on the locket now sitting on James' table.

The coincidence was too strong to ignore. He picked up the locket, and as he did, a sudden chill ran through the room, causing the candle flames to flicker. The locket felt cold in his hand, unnaturally so. He tried to open it, but the clasp was stuck fast.

Undeterred, James decided to investigate further. The next morning, he visited the local archives, where he spent hours poring over old newspapers and records. Every detail about Elodie Blackwood's life and disappearance pointed to the locket as the key to the mystery, but nothing explained what had happened to her. The locket had never been found—until now.

That night, James was awakened by a strange noise, like the whisper of fabric brushing against the floor. He sat up in bed, straining to listen. The noise grew louder, and then he saw it—a shadowy figure standing at the foot of his bed, the outline of a woman in a flowing dress.

"Elodie?" he whispered, though he wasn't sure why.

The figure did not move or speak, but the air around him grew colder. James' eyes darted to the nightstand, where the locket now lay open, though he hadn't been able to pry it apart earlier. Inside was a small, faded photograph of a woman, her face hauntingly beautiful, her eyes filled with sadness.

The figure raised an arm and pointed toward the locket. James felt an overwhelming compulsion to touch it again, to delve deeper into its past. As his fingers brushed the photo, a searing pain shot through his hand, and the room spun wildly. When the dizziness subsided, he found himself no longer in his bedroom, but in a grand ballroom, filled with people dressed in Victorian attire.

He recognized the scene from descriptions he had read—this was the night Elodie Blackwood had disappeared. The locket was warm now, pulsing with a life of its own as it guided him through the crowd. He saw Elodie, her eyes wide with fear as she clutched the locket around her neck. A man approached her, his face obscured by shadows, and whispered something in her ear. Elodie's face went pale, and she fled the room, the man following close behind.

James felt himself being pulled along as if tethered to Elodie by an invisible thread. He followed her through the darkened halls of the mansion, down a spiral staircase, and into the cellar. The man caught up with her there, his voice low and menacing.

"You know too much, Elodie," he hissed. "The locket—it's cursed. It binds you to the truth, but it will also be your undoing."

Elodie backed away, but there was nowhere to run. The man lunged, and there was a brief struggle before he pushed her. She stumbled, her scream echoing off the stone walls as she fell into an open well in the centre of the cellar. The locket slipped from her neck, landing with a clatter on the floor.

James awoke with a start, drenched in sweat. The vision had been so vivid, so real. He knew now what had happened to Elodie, but the locket still held its curse. It had bound her to that moment of betrayal and death, trapping her spirit in a loop of endless torment.

Realizing what he had to do, James took the locket to the site of the old Blackwood estate, now a crumbling ruin outside the city. The well was still there, hidden beneath overgrown vines and debris. With a heavy heart, he tossed the locket into the well, hearing the faint splash as it disappeared into the darkness.

For a moment, the air was still, and then a breeze rustled through the trees, carrying with it a sense of peace. The curse had been lifted; Elodie's spirit was finally free.

James returned to his shop, feeling lighter than he had in days. But as he unlocked the door and stepped inside, a small velvet-lined box on the counter caught his eye. His blood ran cold. The locket was back, sitting there as if it had never left.

It seemed that some mysteries were never meant to be solved.

The Crimson River Shaina Tranquilino September 19, 2024

Dr. Kenton Laverdiere stood at the edge of the Crimson River, his breath misting in the cool evening air. A full moon hung heavy and bright in the sky, casting a silver glow over the water. It looked ordinary now, dark and still, as if waiting. But by midnight, it would run red like blood—just as it had every full moon for over two centuries.

Kenton had spent months studying the river, documenting its unusual behaviour. He was a man of science, a geologist by trade, and he had dismissed the local legends when he first arrived in the small, isolated village of Harrington. The villagers spoke of curses, of ancient tragedies that stained the water. But Kenton believed there was a natural explanation. There had to be.

He glanced at his watch—11:48 PM. Twelve more minutes. He adjusted the lenses of his binoculars, scanning the area. The trees lining the riverbank stood tall and silent, their shadows long and eerie. Everything seemed normal, but he could feel something—an oppressive weight in the air that tugged at his nerves.

Kenton had set up a series of instruments along the riverbank: water samplers, cameras, spectrometers. He was determined to capture every detail, hoping this would be the night he unraveled the mystery.

At precisely midnight, a soft breeze stirred the leaves. The river began to move. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the water darkened. Kenton leaned in, eyes wide, heart racing.

The river turned crimson.

He snapped a series of photos and bent down to collect a water sample. It was thick, viscous, like fresh blood. His mind raced. Could there be an underground vein of iron deposits, seeping into the water during the full moon? It was a possibility, though an improbable one.

Just as he straightened, a cold wind swept through the trees, howling like a distant scream. His breath caught in his throat. The air had changed, felt heavy and electric.

Then, he heard it—a faint whisper, a distant murmur that seemed to rise from the water itself. Kenton turned, scanning the riverbank, but saw nothing. Just the dark, rippling water.

The whispers grew louder, swirling around him. He took a step back, his pulse quickening. Logic told him it was the wind, the way it echoed through the forest. But deep down, he knew it was something else.

Then, the river began to move in ways it shouldn't. It churned violently, the crimson water bubbling and foaming. In the midst of the chaos, shadows began to rise from the depths—dark, indistinct forms that slowly took shape.

Figures.

Kenton froze, his blood turning to ice. One by one, the figures emerged from the water—men, women, and children, their eyes hollow and their faces twisted in pain. They floated just above the surface, their translucent bodies shimmering in the moonlight.

They were the dead.

The massacre.

Kenton had heard whispers of it from the locals, but no one spoke of it in detail. The village of Harrington had been founded over two hundred years ago, built by settlers looking for a new life. But one night, during the height of a bitter land dispute, a group of men had slaughtered an entire family by the river—men, women, children—all to claim their land. The river ran red with their blood that night, and it had never stopped.

Kenton stumbled back, his heart pounding. The ghostly figures hovered there, staring at him, their eyes filled with a sorrow so deep it chilled him to his core.

A woman stepped forward, her hair dripping wet, her dress torn and bloodstained. She raised a pale, trembling hand, pointing directly at Kenton.

"Why have you come here?" her voice echoed, cold and hollow.

"I-I’m here to understand," Kenton stammered. "To learn the truth."

The woman's face twisted in agony. "The truth was buried long ago. Forgotten. But the blood never fades. It remains, as we remain, bound to this river."

Kenton felt a sudden pressure in his chest, a suffocating weight. He realized now why the villagers feared this place, why no one dared come near the river at night. The spirits were trapped, tethered to the site of their slaughter, and the river ran red as a reminder of the atrocity that had condemned them.

"I can help," Kenton said, his voice shaky. "I can tell the world what happened here. I can—"

"You cannot help," the woman interrupted. "You cannot undo what was done. No one can."

The other spirits began to whisper again, their voices rising in a cacophony of despair. The river churned violently, as if the earth itself were weeping for the lost souls trapped within it.

"Go," the woman said, her voice softening. "Before it’s too late. Leave this place, and never return."

Kenton hesitated. He wanted to stay, to ask more, to learn. But the weight of their suffering, the overwhelming sense of hopelessness, pressed down on him like a vise.

Then, the river surged violently, the water rising to his ankles. The spirits’ whispers grew into a deafening roar. Panic surged through him.

He turned and ran, his heart pounding in his chest as he fled the riverbank. He didn’t stop running until he reached his car, gasping for breath, his clothes drenched with sweat and the river’s eerie mist.

As he drove away, he glanced in the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see the figures still standing there by the water’s edge, watching him. But there was nothing—just the dark, winding road leading back to Harrington.

Kenton never returned to the Crimson River. He wrote his report, cataloging the strange phenomenon in scientific terms, but he left out the ghosts, the whispers, the forgotten massacre.

Some truths, he realized, were better left buried with the dead.

And still, on every full moon, the Crimson River runs red.

The Echo in the Walls Shaina Tranquilino October 1, 2024

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He’s going to leave you."

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

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

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

"He’s hiding something from you."

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

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

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

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

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

"You can’t protect her."

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

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

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

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

"He’s tired of you."

"You’re not enough."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He’s already planning to leave you."

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

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

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

"It’s too late now."

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

And then, silence.

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

The walls had spoken the truth.

The mansion had been waiting for them all along.

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

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

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

"You can’t escape your fate."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The 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.

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.

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 Old Phone Booth Shaina Tranquilino October 12, 2024

The phone booth stood in the middle of nowhere, an ancient relic from a forgotten time. Its glass panes were cracked, the once-bright red paint now faded to a dull rust. A lonely road stretched in both directions, endless and desolate. No one came here. There was no reason to. Yet the phone booth remained, untouched by time or vandalism, waiting for something—or someone.

It was late one autumn evening when Xander found himself lost along that very road. His phone had died hours ago, and there hadn’t been another car in sight since he left the small town behind. The cold, bitter wind gnawed at him as he walked, and just when hope seemed to dwindle, he saw the phone booth up ahead.

Relief washed over him. It was bizarre—who kept a phone booth running these days? But he didn’t care. He just needed to call for help. As he approached, something about the booth unsettled him. It didn’t belong here, in the vast emptiness of the fields around it. But desperation overpowered any lingering doubt.

Xander pushed open the creaky door and stepped inside. The air within felt colder than it should, a damp chill clinging to him. The phone hung crookedly from its cradle, an old rotary model that hadn’t been in use for decades. The grime and cobwebs hinted it hadn’t been touched in years. But before he could reach for it, the phone rang.

The sharp, metallic ring echoed in the booth, startling him. Xander froze. His mind raced—who would call a phone like this? There was no one around for miles. Perhaps it was a coincidence, some automated system. But as the phone continued to ring, a strange compulsion overcame him. He reached out, hesitated, then lifted the receiver.

"Hello?" His voice was shaky.

At first, there was silence. Then, faintly, from the other end of the line, he heard it—whispering. It was low, indistinct, like a distant conversation just out of earshot. Xander strained to listen, but the words remained elusive. He should’ve hung up then, but something in those whispers tugged at him, drawing him closer.

“Hello? Who is this?” he repeated, but the whispers only grew louder, surrounding him, filling his ears with their unintelligible murmur. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the tone felt wrong—off, like voices that weren’t meant to be heard. A cold dread began to creep up his spine, but his hand wouldn’t let go of the receiver.

The whispering continued, insistent, crawling into his mind like insects burrowing deep. Xander tried to pull away, but he found himself rooted to the spot, paralyzed by some unseen force. His heart pounded as he realized the whispers weren’t just words—they were inside him now, writhing in his thoughts, unravelling them. The voices were no longer on the line; they were in his head, echoing from the corners of his mind, relentless and invasive.

The wind outside had picked up, rattling the booth, but Xander didn’t notice. The whispers were all he could hear, growing louder, drowning out everything else. They spoke in a language he couldn’t understand, yet somehow he knew what they wanted. They were telling him things—dark, terrible things—about himself, about the world, about everything that waited beyond.

He tried to scream, but his throat tightened, suffocated by their presence. His vision blurred as the world around him seemed to warp, bending and twisting in unnatural ways. The booth felt smaller, closing in on him, the glass distorting like a funhouse mirror. The whispers consumed him, tearing through his thoughts, leaving nothing but a hollow echo where his sanity had once been.

With a final gasp, Xander dropped the receiver. The phone swung limply, the dial tone buzzing faintly beneath the rising wind. He staggered out of the booth, his mind shattered, eyes wide with terror but unseeing. His legs buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, mumbling incoherently to himself, the whispers still echoing in the dark recesses of his mind.

Hours later, a passing truck driver found Xander wandering along the road, his clothes soaked from the evening rain. His eyes were glazed, and his lips moved, forming words that made no sense. He was taken to a nearby hospital, but no one could reach him. He spoke of voices, of the whispers that wouldn’t stop, of things that had no name. Days later, he vanished from his hospital room without a trace.

The phone booth remains there, silent and waiting.

Sometimes, on lonely nights, it rings. And if you answer, you’ll hear the whispers too.

But be warned: once they find you, they never let go.