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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 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 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.