WhispersInTheDark - Tumblr Posts

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.

A Month of Mystery and Shadows Shaina Tranquilino October 1, 2024

As the leaves turn crisp and the days grow shorter, October 2024 marks a special moment in my year-long storytelling journey. For those who have been following along, you know that every month for the next year, I’m diving into a new theme, using it as the creative fuel for a collection of short stories. So far, I’ve explored a wide range of moods and settings. Now, we’re stepping into the eerie, enigmatic heart of autumn, and I couldn’t be more excited to share what’s in store.

This month’s theme is Haunting Whispers.

October always has a certain magic to it, doesn’t it? The crisp air, the glow of pumpkins on doorsteps, the feeling that something unseen might be lurking just out of sight. It’s the perfect time to explore the strange and the spectral, the kinds of stories that send shivers down your spine and make you question every creak in your house late at night.

With Haunting Whispers, I’m going deeper into those unsettling spaces. This theme is all about the voices we can’t quite hear, the secrets hidden just beneath the surface, and the eerie sensation of being watched. Each short story will capture a different aspect of haunting—whether it’s literal ghosts, echoes of the past, or the unsettling whispers of our own minds.

Whispers, especially when haunting, evoke mystery and tension. They can be both intimate and terrifying, something we lean into to hear better, but recoil from once we understand. There’s a quiet power in them—they are hints of something greater, something unknown. This October, I’ll explore those subtle moments of dread, when the truth lingers just out of reach, tempting and terrifying us all at once.

Expect stories with a variety of tones—from ghostly to psychological, from paranormal encounters to more subtle hauntings, where the ghosts aren’t spirits but rather the echoes of choices, memories, and regrets. Some stories might be more traditional in their spookiness, while others will lean into emotional or existential hauntings.

Why Haunting Whispers?

I chose this theme because I believe whispers hold a unique place in storytelling. They can be soft yet insistent, subtle yet unforgettable. A whisper is never meant to be the main event—it's a secret, a suggestion, a call for attention without demanding it. That's why whispers are so haunting—they leave so much to the imagination. What is being said, and more importantly, why is it being said quietly?

For this month, I want to play with that tension—between what's being told and what’s being withheld, what we hear and what we imagine. October is the perfect time to tap into these shadows of storytelling, when the nights are longer and the mind is more prone to wander into strange, unsettling places.

I hope you’ll join me on this month-long journey into the eerie and unknown. Whether you’re a long-time fan of ghost stories or someone who enjoys psychological twists and emotional depth, Haunting Whispers will have a little something for everyone.

Each day, I’ll post a new story, and at the end of the month, I’ll reflect on what I’ve learned from exploring these darker corners of imagination. I’d love to hear from you as well—what whispers are you haunted by? What stories have lingered with you long after you’ve turned the last page?

This October, let’s embrace the mystery of the whispers, the things left unsaid, and the chilling feeling that someone—or something—may be watching from the shadows.

Until then, stay curious, stay haunted, and above all, listen closely. You never know what you might hear.

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 Insistent Whisper Shaina Tranquilino October 11, 2024

Detective Aaron Greaves sat in his car, staring out at the cold rain that slicked the streets of Hollowbrook. The town was small, sleepy, but not without its horrors. Eight people had vanished in as many weeks, leaving no trace, no evidence, and no hope. Greaves had investigated homicides for over fifteen years, but this case was different. No blood, no bodies, just an ever-present sense of something watching. He took a drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling lazily toward the cracked window. His eyes flickered toward the abandoned mill, where the most recent victim, a schoolteacher, had last been seen. The place was a ruin, decaying and forgotten, but Greaves couldn't shake the feeling that something there held answers — something hidden, waiting to be found.

He was about to step out of the car when he heard it for the first time.

"I know who did it."

Greaves froze, the cigarette burning low between his fingers. The voice had come from the back seat — faint, a whisper just above a breath. He spun around, the shadows thick in the back of the car, but no one was there.

He turned back, shook his head. Stress, he told himself. Too many late nights, too many dead ends. He crushed the cigarette into the ashtray and climbed out of the car, ignoring the faint chill crawling down his spine.

The second time, it was louder.

"I know who did it."

Greaves was standing by the mill's entrance, flashlight sweeping through the yawning blackness beyond. The voice was clear, like someone standing just behind him. He turned again, sharply this time, his heart thudding. The only sound was the rain tapping against the rotting wood of the building.

"Who's there?" he called, his voice firm but betraying a note of unease. Silence answered him.

He entered the mill, his footsteps echoing on the damp floorboards. The air was thick with rot, the smell of mold curling into his nostrils. He pushed deeper inside, heart beating fast, senses on high alert. The voice hadn’t come again, but it lingered in his thoughts, gnawing at his nerves.

By the time he reached the center of the mill, he felt it again: a presence, unseen but palpable. His flashlight flickered, casting long, shifting shadows along the walls.

"I know who did it," the whisper came again, this time insistent.

Greaves whipped around, his flashlight beam shaking. "Who are you?" he demanded, voice rough.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Then, the whisper came once more, closer this time, intimate.

"I can tell you... but there’s a price."

Greaves’ blood ran cold. The whisper wasn’t coming from outside him. It was inside his head, curling through his mind like smoke. His grip tightened on the flashlight.

"I don’t make deals with voices in my head," he muttered, trying to shake off the growing unease. But something about the whisper felt ancient, powerful. It slithered through his thoughts like it belonged there.

"You want to know, don’t you? The killer’s right under your nose. I can show you. But first… you must give me something in return."

Greaves pressed a hand to his temple, willing the voice away. "What are you?"

"What I am doesn’t matter, Detective. What matters is that I know the truth. And you… you want to catch him, don’t you?"

He felt it — the overwhelming urge to agree. His head ached, the pressure of the voice building.

"A simple price. A memory. One precious moment — that's all I need."

Greaves swallowed hard, his mind racing. His fingers twitched toward his gun, but he knew it would do no good. This wasn’t a person. It was something else. Something older. Something dark.

"What kind of memory?" he asked, against his better judgment.

"Something precious. Perhaps the day your daughter was born? Or the last words your wife said to you before she died?"

His heart lurched painfully at the mention of his wife. He hadn’t spoken to anyone about her in years. The wound still felt fresh, the loss a raw nerve in his soul. He gritted his teeth. "No."

The whisper chuckled, low and mocking.

"It’s a small price, Detective. You want to catch him, don’t you? You want to end this?"

Greaves’ mind wavered. He could feel the memories shifting in his head, the warmth of his wife’s smile, the softness of her voice on the last morning before the accident.

"One memory. Just one... and I will give you the name."

Greaves’ heart pounded in his chest. The image of the missing faces swam before him. Eight people, lost, their families torn apart. He was so close. But the memory of his wife was all he had left. If he lost that…

"Time’s running out, Detective." The whisper turned cold, sharp, pressing in. "Another will disappear tonight. Do you really want that on your conscience?"

His hands shook, indecision clawing at him. He squeezed his eyes shut, her voice echoing in his mind, the last real thread to his old life.

"Choose."

The word echoed in the hollow of his skull.

With a trembling breath, Greaves whispered, "Take it."

The world shifted. He felt a searing pain in his chest, a ripping sensation deep within his mind, and suddenly, the memory was gone. He reached for it, but it was like trying to grab smoke. His wife’s face, her voice, her last day—it was all a blur, something distant, like a half-forgotten dream.

The whisper coiled in his mind, triumphant.

"Good. The name you seek is Marcus Vane."

Greaves’ eyes snapped open. Marcus Vane. His own partner.

Cold realization settled in. He stumbled back, breathless, the weight of the truth crashing down on him. He knew Marcus, had worked with him for years. He never suspected…

The voice slithered back into his thoughts, laughing softly.

"Enjoy the truth, Detective. It will cost you more than you know."

And then, silence.

Greaves stood alone in the empty mill, the name echoing in his hollowed mind. The whisper was gone, but so was the memory of the one person he had loved the most. All for the truth.

And now, the truth felt like a curse.

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.

The Midnight Broadcast Shaina Tranquilino October 13, 2024

It began without warning. One night, in towns across the country, late-night listeners searching for something different on the radio stumbled upon a strange, unlisted frequency. The numbers on the dial didn’t quite match anything they had ever heard before. The signal came from nowhere, and yet it was too clear, too precise, to be accidental.

People found it somewhere between 93.7 and 94.1 on their analog dials. No music, no static, just a low, droning hum and, underneath it, the faintest whisper of voices. Curious insomniacs, night shift workers, and loners tuned in. The whispers grew louder, more distinct, until they were impossible to ignore.

There was no station identification, no DJ announcing the time or weather. Only that strange hum and a constant stream of voices, whispering just low enough that listeners had to strain to hear. But as they did, they realized something disturbing.

The voices were familiar. Too familiar.

At first, it seemed like a coincidence. But soon, across online forums and late-night chat rooms, the reports started piling up. Every person who tuned into the station heard their own voice—whispering their darkest, most personal fears and memories. Nightmares they thought they had forgotten. Things they had locked away. As if the radio signal was pulling the worst of them out of the depths of their minds and broadcasting it back to them.

A woman named Rachel, in a small coastal town, was one of the first to speak out. She was a habitual night owl, always flipping through channels while painting in her tiny studio. She stumbled upon the signal one night and froze when she heard herself whispering about drowning. About the icy water filling her lungs, the darkness closing in as she struggled to scream.

Rachel had almost drowned when she was twelve, something she hadn’t thought about in years.

The whispers grew more vivid, more terrifying, with each passing night. They no longer just recalled nightmares—they created them. Listeners reported strange shadows moving in their rooms after they tuned in, or hearing voices even when they turned the radio off. Sleep became impossible. Eyes appeared in mirrors where there should have been only reflections. Phantom touches brushed against their skin as the voices murmured darker things, impossibilities and horrors that couldn’t be unseen.

More people began to tune in despite the growing dread surrounding the broadcast. Curiosity, fascination, and fear mixed into a hypnotic pull that made the station impossible to ignore. Listeners couldn’t help but come back for more, even as it cost them their peace, their sanity.

One by one, they began to disappear.

A man named Greg was the first to go missing in his town. He’d been posting obsessively about the broadcast in an online community, describing in detail the whispers that plagued him. He had started hearing them outside of his radio, in the dead silence of his apartment, in the whine of his fridge, and even in his own breathing. His last post was fragmented, barely coherent: "It’s not in my head anymore. They’re here. They’re inside me."

After that, nothing. No one could reach him.

The disappearances spread across states. The Midnight Broadcast, as it became known, was no longer a rumor. Local news stations reported cases of people going missing, some vanishing from their locked homes without a trace. There were no signs of struggle, no clues—only a faint, lingering static coming from their radios, still tuned to the phantom frequency.

By then, those who hadn’t yet heard the broadcast began to actively avoid it. They warned others, telling stories of people who tuned in just once and never turned off the radio again. Some claimed the broadcast wasn’t just tapping into their minds but stealing their very souls, piece by piece, through the whispers.

The broadcast seemed to know its time was running short. It became more erratic, the hum shifting into something deeper, more guttural. The voices, once fragmented whispers, turned into a low, maddening chant that infected anyone who listened for more than a few minutes.

One night, a late-shift trucker named Bill, alone on an empty highway, tried to switch his radio over from the broadcast after realizing what he was hearing. He hadn’t believed the stories but found himself frozen in his seat as his own voice, distorted and thick with static, whispered his greatest shame. The one secret he had never told a soul. His fingers hovered above the dial, shaking, but he couldn’t turn it off. His eyes blurred as tears streamed down his face, and suddenly the chanting voices broke into a cacophony of shrieks.

Bill's truck was found later that night, abandoned on the highway. The engine was still running, his driver’s side door wide open. But there was no sign of him. Only the soft crackle of static from the radio.

In the weeks that followed, more trucks were found along the same stretch of road. Empty.

No one dares listen anymore. But late at night, when the wind dies down and the world goes still, if you turn the dial just right, you might hear it. That same haunting hum. Those same whispered voices, waiting for someone new to listen. Someone new to take.

The Midnight Broadcast still airs.

Waiting for you to tune in.

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."