CursedTown - Tumblr Posts

The Vanishing Village Shaina Tranquilino September 4, 2024

The villagers of Oakhaven had long learned to live with the curse that haunted their quiet existence. Every 50 years, on the same night, the entire village would disappear from the map, swallowed by an eerie mist that rolled in without warning. The village would reappear the next morning, untouched, its people unharmed but with memories hazy and fragmented, as if they had slipped into a collective dream. It was a mystery that had defied explanation for centuries. Sandra Drake, an investigative journalist with a reputation for uncovering the darkest secrets, had heard rumors of Oakhaven's strange phenomenon. The stories were dismissed by most as folklore, but Sandra sensed there was truth buried beneath the layers of myth. She decided to visit the village as the fateful night approached, determined to unravel the mystery that had confounded the world for so long.

Oakhaven was nestled deep within the Whispering Woods, a forest so dense and ancient that it seemed to breathe with the weight of forgotten history. The villagers welcomed Sandra cautiously, their eyes betraying a deep-seated fear. They spoke little of the curse, as if discussing it might summon its wrath sooner. But Sandra was relentless. She pressed on, speaking to the elders, combing through the village archives, and piecing together fragments of the past.

As the night of the 50th year drew closer, the atmosphere in Oakhaven grew tense. The villagers began to withdraw, their usual routines disrupted by an unspoken dread. Sandra, however, felt she was close to a breakthrough. She had discovered an old journal, hidden in the attic of the village’s oldest house, belonging to a woman named Eliza Grey. The journal told a tale of love, betrayal, and a curse born from unimaginable grief.

In the late 1700s, Eliza Grey had been the daughter of the village's headman, betrothed to a man named Thomas Hale. The two were deeply in love, but their happiness was not to last. A traveling stranger arrived in Oakhaven, a man of wealth and influence, who became infatuated with Eliza. He sought her hand in marriage, but she refused, her heart already belonging to Thomas. The stranger, consumed by jealousy and rage, cursed the village in a fit of vengeful fury.

"On the night when the mist descends, let this village be lost to time," the stranger had proclaimed, his voice echoing with unnatural power. "And may the soul of she who rejected me be forever bound to the mist, neither alive nor dead, until a love pure as hers sets her free."

That night, Eliza vanished, and the village was swallowed by the mist for the first time. When it reappeared the next morning, Thomas was found dead, his body cold and lifeless in the center of the village square. Eliza’s body was never found. The villagers mourned, but they quickly realized that the curse was real. Every 50 years, they would be taken by the mist, and each time, Eliza's ghostly figure could be seen wandering the village, searching for the love she had lost.

Sandra's heart ached as she read the final entry in Eliza’s journal. The woman had been trapped in the mist for over two centuries, her soul bound to the village, waiting for the curse to be broken.

On the night the mist was due to return, Sandra waited in the village square, determined to confront the specter of Eliza Grey. As midnight approached, the air grew thick, and a dense fog began to swirl around Oakhaven. The villagers retreated to their homes, but Sandra stood firm, her pulse quickening.

The mist enveloped the village, and soon, the world around Sandra faded into a ghostly, silent expanse. From the fog emerged a figure, pale and ethereal, with eyes full of sorrow. It was Eliza, her form barely discernible in the shifting mist.

"Who are you?" Sandra whispered, though she knew the answer.

"I am bound by a curse," Eliza replied, her voice like a breeze through autumn leaves. "My soul cannot rest until the curse is broken."

Sandra felt a deep connection to the tragic figure before her. She reached out, her hand trembling. "How can I help you?"

Eliza’s eyes softened. "Find the one who cursed us. Only by confronting him can the curse be undone."

Sandra nodded, determination hardening her resolve. She had learned from the journal that the stranger had not died but had disappeared after casting the curse, his fate unknown. If he were still out there, perhaps his power lingered in the mist, keeping Eliza trapped in her eternal limbo.

As the night wore on, Sandra wandered through the mist-shrouded village, feeling the weight of the curse pressing down on her. She searched for any sign, any clue, that might lead her to the source of the curse. Hours passed, and just as despair began to settle in, she heard a voice, low and venomous, whispering her name.

Turning, Sandra saw a shadowy figure materialize from the mist. It was the stranger, unchanged by the centuries, his eyes cold and cruel.

"You dare challenge me?" he sneered. "This village is mine, and so is the soul of Eliza Grey."

Sandra's heart pounded, but she stood her ground. "You’ve kept her trapped for centuries. It’s time to let her go."

The stranger laughed, a hollow sound that echoed through the mist. "And what makes you think you can break my curse?"

Sandra clenched her fists, recalling the words of the journal. "Love as pure as hers can set her free," she said, her voice steady. "You cursed her out of spite, but your power is not absolute. It’s tied to the village, to her pain. If I can bring her peace, your curse will end."

The stranger's expression faltered for a moment, but then he sneered again. "You are but a mortal. What can you possibly do?"

Sandra stepped forward, her voice filled with resolve. "I may be mortal, but love transcends even death. I will not let you continue this torment."

As she spoke, the mist began to swirl around her, responding to her determination. The ghostly form of Eliza appeared beside her, a look of hope in her eyes. The stranger, sensing his power waning, snarled and lunged at Sandra, but the mist surged between them, repelling him.

Sandra reached out to Eliza, her hand closing around the ghost’s cold, insubstantial fingers. "Eliza," she whispered, "you are loved, even now. Let go of the pain. Be free."

Eliza’s eyes welled with tears, and she nodded. The mist around them began to glow with a soft, golden light. The stranger let out a furious cry as his form disintegrated, consumed by the very curse he had cast. The mist lifted, the village returning to the world of the living.

As dawn broke, Sandra found herself standing alone in the village square. The mist had vanished, and with it, the curse that had plagued Oakhaven for centuries. The villagers emerged from their homes, blinking in the morning light, their memories clear for the first time in generations.

Sandra smiled, knowing that Eliza Grey had finally found peace. The village would no longer disappear into the mist, and the story of Oakhaven’s tragic curse would be remembered as a tale of love that transcended time itself.

The Silent Town Shaina Tranquilino September 14, 2024

The traveler came upon the town at dusk, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of deep orange and purple. He had been on the road for days, weary from his journey and looking for a place to rest. The town, nestled between two hills and surrounded by a forest, seemed like the perfect refuge. A thin mist clung to the cobblestone streets, softening the edges of the world, and the houses were old but well-kept, their windows dark and empty.

He wandered into the heart of the town, expecting the usual hum of activity—a shopkeeper sweeping the sidewalk, children laughing, the murmur of conversation. Instead, the town was silent.

The traveler frowned, feeling an unsettling stillness in the air. He saw people—dozens of them—standing in front of their homes or sitting on porches. They watched him with blank, almost expectant expressions, but no one greeted him. No one spoke. There were no footsteps, no whispers, not even the rustle of fabric as they moved. It was as if the town held its breath.

He approached an old woman sitting on a bench, her eyes fixed on him. "Excuse me," he said. "Can you tell me where I might find an inn?"

The woman only stared, her lips pressed into a tight line. The traveler waited, expecting her to speak, but she remained silent. He glanced around, noticing the other townsfolk had turned their heads toward him, all with the same vacant, unmoving expressions. A chill ran down his spine.

Something was wrong.

"Is there an inn?" he asked again, louder this time, hoping someone—anyone—would respond. But the silence was absolute.

His footsteps echoed unnaturally loud as he made his way deeper into the town. He spotted a faded sign swinging gently in the breeze that read, The Weary Traveler. Relieved, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The inn's common room was dimly lit, the fire in the hearth barely flickering. A tall man stood behind the counter, his face gaunt, his eyes sunken but alert. The traveler approached.

"I need a room for the night," he said, his voice tentative now.

The innkeeper didn’t speak, merely nodded and handed him a key, his hands trembling slightly. The traveler accepted it, watching the man closely. There was a strange sadness in his eyes, a weariness that seemed deeper than exhaustion.

"What is wrong with this town?" the traveler asked. "Why won't anyone speak?"

The innkeeper flinched, his face paling. His mouth opened as if he wanted to say something, but he quickly shut it, glancing nervously around the room. Without another word, he turned away, retreating into a back room.

The traveler felt a creeping unease. He climbed the stairs to his room, the silence thick around him. When he reached his door, he heard something—a faint whisper, barely audible, coming from behind him. He turned, but the hallway was empty. The sound wasn’t quite human. It was as though the air itself was whispering.

Inside the room, he locked the door and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to shake the growing sense of dread. There had to be an explanation. Perhaps a religious vow or a tradition he didn’t understand.

As he lay in the dark, sleep came slowly, interrupted by uneasy dreams of shadowy figures watching him with hollow eyes, their mouths open in silent screams.

The next morning, the traveler set out to find answers. He wandered through the quiet streets, the townspeople still watching him in silence. He tried to speak to several of them—children, shopkeepers, even a priest standing outside a small chapel—but none of them made a sound.

Finally, he found himself in front of the town’s only church, an old stone building with a tall, weathered bell tower. Something about it drew him in. He pushed open the heavy wooden doors and stepped inside.

The interior was dim, the only light coming from a few flickering candles. At the far end of the room, a single figure knelt before the altar—an elderly man dressed in a long, tattered robe. He didn’t turn as the traveler approached.

"Are you the priest?" the traveler asked, his voice echoing in the vast space. "Do you know why no one here will speak?"

The man didn’t answer, but he rose slowly to his feet. His movements were stiff, as though he hadn’t moved in years. He turned, revealing a face lined with age and sorrow. His eyes, like the innkeeper’s, held a deep sadness.

"They cannot speak," the priest said at last, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. "Not anymore."

The traveler’s heart quickened. "Why?"

The priest’s gaze drifted to the altar, where an ancient, worn book lay open. "A long time ago, this town made a pact. A bargain with something... not of this world. The harvests had failed. The children were sick. People were desperate. A creature came to them in the night, offering salvation."

The traveler felt a cold knot form in his stomach. "What did it ask in return?"

The priest’s voice trembled. "Their voices. Their words. The people would never speak again, but in exchange, the town would prosper. The crops grew rich, the sickness vanished, and the town thrived."

"But at what cost?" the traveler asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"The creature feeds on their silence. It lingers in the shadows, watching, waiting. If anyone breaks the silence—if they utter even a single word—the creature returns. It takes more than just their voice."

The traveler stepped back, horror dawning in his mind. "How do you speak, then?"

"I am the last who remembers," the priest said, his voice fading. "But my time is ending. Soon, I will be silent too."

The traveler turned to leave, but something stopped him. From the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow shift in the far corner of the room. It was darker than the rest of the room, a shape that didn’t belong, and as he looked at it, the air around him seemed to thicken.

The priest's voice was barely a whisper now. "You must leave. Before it knows you’ve heard."

But it was too late.

The shadow moved, stretching toward him with unnatural speed. The traveler ran, his heart pounding, the silent screams of the town echoing in his mind. He fled the church, down the cobblestone streets, and into the woods, not daring to look back.

Behind him, the town remained still and silent. Forever cursed, forever watched, bound to their pact with the darkness that thrived in their silence.

The Weeping Wind Shaina Tranquilino October 8, 2024

In the small coastal town of Harrow’s Bay, the wind had always been strange. It whispered through the crooked streets, sighed between the creaking wooden houses, and moaned as it swept across the sea. To the townsfolk, this was just part of life. They called it "the weeping wind" and spoke of it in low voices, never lingering on the topic for long. Children learned early not to pay attention to the sounds it carried, and even visitors quickly learned to close their shutters tightly at night.

But for Thomas Harker, the wind was a fascination he couldn’t ignore.

Thomas had moved to Harrow’s Bay six months ago, a broken man looking for solitude. He had lost his wife, Cadence, in a car accident the year before, and the grief still sat heavy on him, an invisible weight pressing down on his soul. The quiet town by the sea seemed like the perfect place to escape the noise of the world and his memories.

Yet, from the first night he arrived, the wind seemed different.

It wasn’t just the usual gusts rattling the windows or the occasional high-pitched howl; the wind here carried voices. Soft, murmuring at first, as though speaking in a language he didn’t understand, but the longer he listened, the more they seemed to make sense. At first, he brushed it off as fatigue or the remnants of his grief playing tricks on him, but the whispers persisted. They beckoned him, always at the edge of hearing, tugging at his curiosity like a distant echo calling him closer.

One cold autumn night, Thomas sat by his window, listening to the wind as it battered the house. He could hear the faintest trace of voices again, almost melodic in their rhythm. This time, though, he strained to listen harder. Beneath the layers of howling gusts, he swore he could make out words—fragments of sentences.

“The sea… the sea is hungry…”

“Blood in the water…”

“A mother weeps…”

His pulse quickened. He wasn’t imagining it. He grabbed a notebook and began to scribble down the phrases, each more cryptic than the last. He stayed up all night, chasing the voices through the wind, trying to decipher their meaning.

The next morning, Harrow’s Bay woke to tragedy. A fishing boat had capsized, all hands lost to the cold depths of the ocean. The locals said it was a freak accident, a sudden storm no one had predicted. But Thomas felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. The whispers—those voices—they had warned him.

Over the next few days, the wind’s whispers grew louder, more urgent. Thomas began spending more time listening by the window, waiting for the voices to return. They always did, bringing with them warnings of death and disaster.

“She’ll fall… break… gone forever…”

That same evening, a child playing by the cliffs slipped and fell to her death. The townsfolk were devastated, but Thomas had known. He had heard the voices speak of it, yet he had done nothing.

The guilt gnawed at him, but so did the curiosity. What was this strange force in the wind? Was it truly a warning or just a curse? He started listening more intently, writing down everything he heard, hoping to stop the next tragedy. But with each new warning, he became more obsessed. He no longer ventured into town; he barely ate, barely slept, consumed by the voices that filled his nights.

“Fire… flames… ashes…”

Two days later, a house on the edge of town burned to the ground, killing an elderly couple trapped inside. Thomas had heard the warning but couldn’t bring himself to speak of it. He was losing his grip on reality. If he told anyone, would they even believe him?

One stormy night, when the wind seemed to wail louder than ever, Thomas sat by the window again, the notebook trembling in his hands. The voices were clearer now, sharper, as if the wind itself had grown impatient.

“The one who listens… must pay…”

He froze. The words felt directed at him.

“A debt is owed… your name… your blood…”

The wind battered the house, howling with a fury that rattled the walls. Thomas stood up, heart racing. He tried to shut the window, but it wouldn’t budge. The voices grew louder, more insistent.

“Your time… has come…”

Suddenly, a cold gust burst through the room, knocking him to the floor. The wind swirled around him, and in the chaos, he could hear them—hundreds of voices now, overlapping, shrieking, whispering, weeping. He clamped his hands over his ears, but it was no use. They filled his mind, clawing at his sanity.

And then, as quickly as it started, the wind died. The room was deathly still.

Thomas shakily got to his feet, heart pounding in his chest. The notebook lay open on the floor, pages fluttering. He reached down to pick it up, but something caught his eye. Written across the page, in a jagged, hurried script that wasn’t his own, were the words:

“You listened too long.”

A sudden knock at the door made him jump. He stumbled toward it, pulling it open to reveal a figure standing in the rain, cloaked in shadow. Before he could react, the figure stepped forward, its face pale and hollow, eyes sunken and dark.

It was Cadence.

Her lips moved, but the words didn’t come from her. They came from the wind.

“You listened too long,” she repeated, her voice empty, a hollow echo of the woman he had once loved.

Thomas stumbled back, his mind reeling. He tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. The figure stepped closer, the wind picking up again, howling through the open door. The voices returned, louder, deafening.

“Now you belong to us…”

The wind surged into the house, pulling at him, dragging him toward the open door and the dark, stormy night beyond. He screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the storm. The last thing he saw was Cadence's face, cold and unrecognizable, before the wind took him.

By morning, Thomas Harker was gone, his house empty, the windows open, and the wind once again weeping through the streets of Harrow’s Bay.

The townsfolk would speak of him only in whispers, their voices low, just like the wind.