GhostlyVoices - Tumblr Posts

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.

The Playground Whisperer Shaina Tranquilino October 14, 2024

The playground on Maple Street was always buzzing with laughter, from the squeal of children on the swings to the crunch of sneakers on the sand. Parents sat on benches, talking among themselves or scrolling through their phones while their kids chased each other in circles. No one paid much attention to the old swings near the back. They were worn and rusted, their chains creaking in the breeze. The kids didn’t like them—they said they felt weird sitting on them, like someone was watching. Then one autumn afternoon, the whispers began.

It was Lucas who heard it first. He had wandered away from the group, bored with the usual games of tag, and found himself standing in front of the two swings swaying gently in the wind. No one else was around. He kicked at the dirt, thinking about nothing in particular, when he heard it—a voice, soft and raspy, like a breathy whisper.

“Come closer.”

Lucas froze. His heart skipped a beat as he scanned the playground. No one was near the swings. The parents were still chatting, their backs to him. He took a cautious step forward, his gaze locked on the empty seats.

“We need your help.”

The voice was clearer now, as if it were coming from inside his own head. Lucas glanced over his shoulder again, but nobody was paying attention. He took a few more steps, drawn by the eerie pull of the voice. It wasn’t scary—just… strange.

The swing nearest to him gave a metallic groan, its rusty chains rattling as it moved. The whisper came again, but this time it was louder.

“Push us. We can’t swing without you.”

Against his better judgment, Lucas reached out and grabbed the cold chain. His hand tingled as he gave it a gentle push, and the swing moved more smoothly than it should have, as if some unseen force guided it.

“Faster,” the voice urged. “Harder.”

He pushed harder, and the swing began to fly back and forth, the wind whistling through its chains. Lucas stared, wide-eyed, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

“Good,” the whisper cooed. “Now, let go.”

Lucas dropped the chain, stepping back, but the swing kept moving, higher and higher. He backed away, his heart thudding in his chest, but the voice followed him, growing darker.

“Now, go to the top of the jungle gym. Jump from there. Fly.”

Lucas stumbled, fear prickling at the back of his neck. He glanced at the jungle gym, a towering metal structure with a steep slide and ladders. He wasn’t afraid of heights, but something about the whisper—its insistence, its strange pull—terrified him.

Before he could move, he heard a scream. Across the playground, a girl named Abby was standing on top of the jungle gym, her arms stretched out wide like she was ready to jump. Her face was pale, her eyes vacant, as if she wasn’t really there.

The parents rushed toward her, pulling her down just in time. Abby looked dazed, confused, as if she had no idea how she’d gotten there.

Over the next few days, more kids heard the whispers. The voices came from the swings, soft at first, coaxing them to do small things—climb too high, swing too fast. But the requests grew darker, more dangerous. They began asking the children to leap from the highest bars, run into the street, or step into the deep end of the nearby pond.

The kids couldn’t explain why they listened. They just did.

No one believed them, of course. Parents chalked it up to imagination or a sudden burst of rebellious behaviour. But the whispers persisted, spreading like a virus through the playground.

One afternoon, after hearing about the incidents, a local teen named Isaac decided to investigate. He didn’t believe in ghost stories, but the talk about the playground had intrigued him. Isaac had always been the skeptical type, brushing off anything supernatural as nonsense. Yet, something about the way the younger kids spoke about the whispers unsettled him. The fear in their eyes felt too real.

On a cloudy Saturday, he made his way to Maple Street, phone in hand, ready to debunk the whole thing. The playground was mostly empty, save for a couple of toddlers and their moms. The old swings, though, sat eerily still in the windless air.

Isaac approached the swings cautiously, feeling a strange chill settle over him despite the warm afternoon. He reached out and touched one of the rusty chains, his fingers grazing the cold metal. He half expected something dramatic to happen—a voice, a sudden gust of wind—but there was nothing.

"Yeah, figured," Isaac muttered, rolling his eyes.

But as he turned to leave, a whisper crawled up the back of his neck, chilling his spine.

“Come back…”

He froze, his heart hammering. It was low, almost like a hiss, but clear enough to send a jolt of unease through him. Slowly, he turned back to the swings.

“We need you.”

His breath caught. It wasn’t just one voice—it was many, layered over each other, like a chorus of hushed voices speaking at once. His fingers trembled as he grabbed his phone, flicking on the camera to record. He panned across the swings, but the chains remained still, nothing out of the ordinary.

"Who's there?" he called, trying to keep his voice steady. His heart pounded louder in his ears.

Silence.

But as he took a step closer, the whispers returned, stronger this time.

“Closer… Isaac.”

The sound of his own name made his stomach lurch. How did they know? He hadn’t told anyone he was coming here.

The swings began to sway, just a slight motion, but there was no wind. The rusty chains creaked louder, almost rhythmically, like a taunt. The whispers grew more frantic.

“Help us. Set us free.”

Isaac's pulse quickened. He felt a pull, like invisible hands guiding him forward. He fought the urge to listen, to obey, but the compulsion was overwhelming. His feet moved of their own accord, carrying him toward the swing that was now swaying more vigorously.

“Just push. One little push.”

Isaac's hand reached out despite his growing fear. He gave the swing a tentative shove, and it moved higher, the chains rattling. The air around him seemed to grow thicker, colder. The whispers turned into harsh breaths, overlapping in a way that made his skin crawl.

Suddenly, he heard something behind him—a soft thud, like footsteps on the sand. He spun around, but there was no one there. His eyes darted across the playground. The moms and toddlers had left. He was completely alone.

That’s when he saw it—faint, but unmistakable. A figure, just a shadow really, standing near the jungle gym. It was tall and thin, with elongated limbs, its form blurry as if it was made of smoke. Its head tilted toward him, as if watching.

Isaac's breath hitched. He stumbled backward, dropping his phone. The shadow figure didn’t move, but its presence bore down on him, oppressive and wrong, like it didn’t belong in this world.

The whispers escalated into a frenzy, their words slurring together into a cacophony of demands.

"Set us free! Set us free!"

Isaac scrambled to his feet, grabbing his phone, and ran. He didn’t stop until he was halfway down the street, panting, his heart racing like he’d just escaped something far worse than he could comprehend. When he finally glanced back, the playground looked just as it always had—quiet, innocent, ordinary.

But Isaac knew better. There was something there, something old and angry, using the playground as its hunting ground. He couldn’t shake the image of the shadowy figure, nor the sound of the whispers that seemed to cling to his thoughts.

That night, as Isaac lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, he swore he could still hear them.

"We need you, Isaac…"

He didn’t sleep at all.

The next morning, his phone buzzed with a notification—a video message. Confused, he opened it. It was the footage he had recorded at the playground, but something was wrong. The video showed the swings moving on their own, violently, without him touching them. And in the background, behind the jungle gym, the shadow figure stood—closer now.

Its eyes, or where its eyes should’ve been, were fixed on the camera.

The message attached to the video read:

"You can’t run forever."