Following Through On My New Year's Resolution: September UpdateShaina TranquilinoSeptember 30, 2024

Following Through on My New Year's Resolution: September Update Shaina Tranquilino September 30, 2024

At the beginning of the year, I set a resolution that felt deeply meaningful and personal: every month, I would donate to a different organization that I felt called to support. My goal wasn't just to give financially, but to invest in causes that resonate with my values, communities, and ongoing efforts for change. As we are at the end of September, I want to share a little about this month's donation and reflect on what this journey has meant so far.

For the month of September, I chose to donate to the Legacy of Hope Foundation (LHF), an Indigenous-led charitable organization that is dedicated to educating the public and raising awareness about the history and lasting impacts of the Residential School System in Canada. Established in 2000, the LHF has been doing the vital work of helping Canadians understand the trauma and ongoing challenges faced by Indigenous communities—particularly those who survived these schools, as well as their families and descendants.

I was moved to donate to the Legacy of Hope Foundation because of the important role they play in truth-telling, healing, and reconciliation. The Residential School System is a painful chapter in Canadian history, one that forcibly separated Indigenous children from their families, stripped them of their languages, cultures, and identities, and subjected them to harsh, abusive conditions. The effects of this system continue to ripple through generations, impacting the well-being of Indigenous communities.

Through education, exhibitions, and workshops, the Legacy of Hope Foundation not only illuminates this dark history but also provides a pathway for healing and fostering just and equal relationships between Indigenous Peoples and Canadians. Their work in expanding awareness, honouring survivors, and encouraging reconciliation is inspiring, and supporting them this month felt like a small but meaningful way to contribute to this vital movement.

What has been particularly powerful for me is the Foundation's focus on creating a space for healing and understanding. The work they do to showcase the resilience and strength of Indigenous Peoples, while also making known the injustices they have faced, is something we need more of in our world. It’s a reminder of the importance of not only learning from history but also taking active steps towards repairing harm.

Over the course of this year, each donation I've made has been an opportunity to reflect on what I value and how I can help create positive change in the world. From environmental causes to social justice initiatives, each organization I've supported has been a piece of a larger puzzle, one that is about compassion, equity, and the belief that even small actions can lead to big differences.

As I continue with this New Year's resolution, I'm filled with gratitude for the work being done by organizations like the Legacy of Hope Foundation. Their commitment to truth, reconciliation, and healing reminds me that while the road may be long, we are all part of the process of building a better, more inclusive future.

In the months ahead, I look forward to learning about new organizations, supporting diverse causes, and keeping the spirit of this resolution alive. It's been a rewarding and eye-opening journey, and I'm excited to see where the next few months take me.

If you're interested in learning more about the Legacy of Hope Foundation or supporting their work, I encourage you to visit their website and explore the many ways they're contributing to education and reconciliation across Canada.

Here’s to continuing the path toward positive change, one month, and one organization at a time. https://www.canadahelps.org/en/charities/legacy-of-hope-foundation/

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 Phantom Detective Shaina Tranquilino September 24, 2024

Detective Tammy Westbrook stared at the yellowing scrap of paper she had just pulled from the old filing cabinet in the precinct’s archives. Its corners curled with age, the ink faint but unmistakable: a name, an address, and a time. The handwriting was jagged and oddly familiar, as if she’d seen it before—but that was impossible. She had spent the past three nights buried in cold cases, trying to find some sort of breakthrough in a string of disappearances that had been haunting her city. Five people, gone without a trace over the last six months. No suspects. No witnesses. No clues.

Until now.

Her gaze lingered on the name at the bottom of the note: Detective Levi Cross.

Tammy frowned. Levi Cross had been a legend—once. He’d solved cases no one else could, seen patterns where others saw chaos. But he was no longer a detective. He wasn’t even alive. Cross had been dead for over fifty years.

How could his name be on a note about a case he could never have known?

The address was a run-down warehouse on the outskirts of town, a place Tammy had already been to twice during her investigation. Both times, she’d found nothing. Tonight, though, something told her it would be different.

As she prepared to leave, she slipped the note into her coat pocket, her thoughts swirling in uncertainty. The clock in her office read 10:45 PM. The time written on the note was 11:30 PM. She had less than an hour.

The warehouse loomed in the darkness, its rusted metal walls barely illuminated by the flickering streetlights. Tammy parked her car in the shadow of a crumbling building and made her way toward the entrance. The heavy doors creaked as she pushed them open, the sound echoing in the vast, empty space.

For a moment, the only thing she could hear was the soft drip of water from somewhere deep inside the warehouse. She glanced at her watch. 11:28 PM.

The moment she stepped forward, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, expecting to see a message from the precinct, but what she found made her breath catch in her throat.

The screen displayed a single text, no sender.

“Follow the light.”

As she read the words, a faint glow appeared in the distance, a soft, unnatural light filtering through the cracks in the far wall. Tammy's pulse quickened. She hadn’t noticed any light before.

She crossed the vast warehouse floor, her footsteps muffled by dust. As she approached the glowing wall, she realized the light was coming from behind a stack of decaying wooden crates. Pushing them aside, she found a small, hidden doorway. It had been sealed, the edges rusted shut, but now it stood slightly ajar.

She hesitated for a moment, her instincts warning her to turn back, but her curiosity overpowered her caution. She pulled the door open and stepped through.

The room beyond was smaller, musty, and barely furnished. But there, in the center, sat a table—and on it, another note, identical in texture to the one she’d found earlier. She approached cautiously, her fingers trembling as she picked it up.

“The answers are in the past, Detective Westbrook. Dig deeper.”

She blinked in disbelief. Whoever was sending these messages knew her. They knew about the case. They knew about her personally. But how?

“Who are you?” Tammy whispered, her voice swallowed by the silence.

There was no response. Only the faint drip of water, the oppressive darkness, and the eerie glow that now seemed to dim.

She pocketed the note, her mind spinning. If she wanted answers, she needed to look into Levi Cross. It seemed insane—how could a dead man be involved? But whoever was sending these messages knew things only Cross could have known. That was impossible, unless—

Unless Cross wasn’t as dead as everyone thought.

Back at the precinct, Tammy combed through the archives, pulling every file connected to Levi Cross. His last case had been in 1971, a series of brutal murders that had gone unsolved. Cross had been obsessed with it—according to old reports, he’d spent months following leads that led nowhere, until one night, he vanished. His body had never been found.

Tammy stared at a grainy photograph of Cross. His sharp eyes seemed to bore into her even through the faded image. There was something almost familiar about him, as if she’d seen that intensity before.

She flipped through the reports again. Among them was a photocopy of his personal journal, filled with cryptic notes and musings about his cases. One entry caught her eye, dated just days before his disappearance:

“The pattern repeats. The city calls for its protector. I will not be there to answer, but someone will.”

Chills ran down her spine.

That night, she barely slept, her dreams filled with the image of Levi Cross, standing in the shadows, always just out of reach.

The next morning, Tammy visited the last known address of Cross’s old partner, Frank Harris. Harris had retired years ago, but if anyone knew more about Cross, it would be him.

She found the aging detective in a modest house on the edge of town, sitting by the window, watching the world go by.

“Harris,” Tammy began, after introducing herself. “I’m looking into Levi Cross’s old cases. I need to know—did he ever mention anything about coming back? About finishing what he started?”

The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Cross? You’re barking up a haunted tree, kid. Cross was… different, but he didn’t believe in ghosts.”

Tammy handed him the notes she’d found, her breath catching as she saw his expression change.

“This is his handwriting,” Harris muttered, his voice barely a whisper. “But that’s not possible. He’s been dead for decades.”

Tammy leaned forward. “Do you think he could still be out there? Trying to finish what he started?”

Harris shook his head slowly. “Cross was a great detective, but he wasn’t immortal. If someone’s leaving you these notes, it’s not him.”

Tammy left, more confused than ever. Yet as she drove back to the precinct, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Levi Cross wasn’t entirely gone.

That night, another note awaited her on her desk. It simply read:

“The final piece is where it all began.”

Tammy stood in front of the old, crumbling house that had once belonged to Levi Cross. The air was thick with the weight of history, the building abandoned, forgotten. She stepped inside, the floor creaking beneath her boots.

In the corner of the darkened living room, she saw it—a stack of old newspapers, files, and notes, untouched for decades. Among them, another letter, waiting for her:

“I never left, Detective Westbrook. The truth is buried here. Finish what I could not.”

She looked around, realizing the truth. Cross hadn’t been sending her these messages from beyond the grave—he had died all those years ago. But in his obsession, in his determination to solve the unsolvable, he had left behind a trail. A phantom detective, still working through her, guiding her to the final clue.

Tammy knelt down and sifted through the files. There, beneath the dust and time, she found it—the key to solving both Cross’s final case and the disappearances haunting her city.

Levi Cross had never stopped investigating.

And now, neither would she.

Whispering in the Dark Shaina Tranquilino October 7, 2024

The fire crackled, sending sparks into the cold night air. Four friends—Liam, Ava, Noah, and Zoe—huddled around the campfire, their faces glowing in the flickering light. They had decided on a weekend camping trip to escape the pressures of work and city life, to reconnect with each other, and to enjoy the wilderness. The dense forest around them stretched into an abyss of darkness, a stark contrast to the warmth of the fire.

“Anyone else hear that?” Ava asked, her voice tinged with unease.

Liam glanced at her and shook his head. “You’re just spooking yourself out. It’s nothing.”

But Ava was certain she’d heard something—faint whispers, just beyond the reach of the firelight. They had started after the sun had dipped below the horizon, so soft and elusive she couldn’t make out the words. But they were there, threading through the stillness of the night.

“Could be the wind,” Noah suggested, though he, too, seemed a little on edge. The firelight danced in his eyes, making the shadows behind him appear to shift and twist.

Zoe shifted nervously. “It doesn’t sound like the wind.”

The whispers came again, faint and chilling, as if carried on the breeze. This time, they all heard it. The sound was disembodied, yet felt too close, like someone was standing just behind them, speaking softly, deliberately.

Liam stood up abruptly, scanning the tree line. “Who’s out there?” he called, his voice cutting through the whispers. The forest offered no reply, only an oppressive silence that swallowed his words.

“This isn’t funny,” Ava muttered, pulling her jacket tighter around her. Her breath fogged in the chilly night air, but the whispers were clearer now—almost too clear. They seemed to come from all directions at once, as if the forest itself was alive, watching them.

“We should get inside the tent,” Zoe suggested, her voice trembling. “Maybe it’s just animals or something.”

Liam scoffed, trying to keep the mood light. “Yeah, talking animals. Probably just locals messing with us.”

But as they packed up to head into the tent, the whispers grew louder, more distinct. Now, they sounded like murmured conversations, but the words were impossible to comprehend. One voice stood out from the others, sharp and urgent, as if calling someone’s name. Liam turned to the others, his face pale.

"Did you guys hear that?" he whispered. "It... it sounded like my name."

No one answered. Zoe’s eyes were wide, and Noah’s hands shook as he packed up the last of the supplies. The fire flickered low, casting long, eerie shadows across the campsite.

And then the voice came again, closer this time. Liam.

Everyone froze.

“Liam, it’s just a trick,” Ava said quickly. “Someone’s out there messing with us.”

But Liam wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on the dark edge of the woods, his face a mask of confusion. “It’s calling me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It knows my name.”

Without warning, he took a step toward the darkness.

“Liam, wait!” Zoe grabbed his arm, but he shook her off, stumbling toward the trees, his gaze locked on something none of them could see.

“Liam!” Ava screamed, but he was already gone, disappearing into the blackness of the forest, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the whispers.

Noah grabbed a flashlight and bolted after him, shouting Liam’s name into the void. Ava and Zoe followed, panic driving them forward. But as they entered the forest, the voices surrounded them, more intense now, whispering directly in their ears, almost intimate.

"Turn back."

"Leave."

"He’s ours now."

The whispers slithered into their minds, seeping through every thought, every rational explanation. Fear gnawed at them, but they couldn’t stop. Liam’s figure darted between the trees ahead, moving deeper into the thick underbrush.

“Liam, stop!” Noah yelled. His voice seemed to vanish, swallowed by the whispers. The flashlight beam wavered, cutting through the mist that had begun to creep up from the ground. Shadows loomed ahead, their shapes shifting unnaturally, blending with the trees.

Liam disappeared from sight.

“Where did he go?” Ava gasped, her breath coming in short bursts. The forest felt like it was closing in around them, the trees twisting, forming a labyrinth of branches and darkness. The voices grew louder, more urgent.

“He’s not far,” Noah panted. “We’ll find him. We have to.”

But as they pushed deeper into the woods, something changed. The ground seemed to ripple beneath their feet, the air thick with the whispers, now like a chorus of malevolent beings. They weren’t alone in the woods.

Ava screamed as something brushed past her leg, cold and wet, like a hand. She stumbled, grabbing Zoe’s arm. “We need to go back,” she cried. “We can’t stay here.”

Suddenly, the flashlight flickered and went out, plunging them into complete darkness. The whispers surged, drowning out their frantic breathing, filling the silence with words they couldn’t understand, but the intent was clear.

They weren’t welcome.

In the pitch black, a new sound emerged—a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the earth. Zoe whimpered, clutching Ava’s arm tightly, her nails digging into her skin. Noah frantically tried to turn the flashlight back on, but it was useless. The growling grew louder, circling them, and they could feel something in the darkness, something hungry.

Then, from behind them, Liam’s voice rang out, but it was wrong—warped and distorted.

“Help me…”

It was a plea, but it wasn’t Liam.

“We have to run,” Ava whispered, terror making her voice tremble. “Now.”

They didn’t need convincing. Together, they bolted through the forest, the voices and growls chasing after them. The trees seemed to close in, the air thick with something suffocating. Ava could feel it—something was right behind her, its breath hot on the back of her neck.

They broke through the tree line and back into the campsite. The fire was nearly out, a few glowing embers all that remained. Gasping for breath, they huddled together, waiting, listening.

The whispers stopped.

But Liam never came back.

And in the dead of night, as the fire died completely, they knew they weren’t alone.

The Secrets of the Abandoned Theatre Shaina Tranquilino September 30, 2024

The wind howled as Mia, Lucas, Sarah, and Ben stood before the crumbling façade of the abandoned Crestwood Theatre. The moon cast long, eerie shadows across the street, and the decaying building loomed over them, as if daring them to step inside. Crestwood had been closed for nearly fifty years, ever since the tragic fire that had burned it down during a performance. Rumour had it that the final show, The Phantom’s Masquerade, had never reached its conclusion. The fire had erupted without warning, claiming the lives of several cast members and the director. Ever since, people in town whispered that strange things happened inside the old theatre. Shadows moved on their own, strange melodies drifted out into the night, and lights flickered through the boarded-up windows—despite there being no electricity.

"Are we really doing this?" Sarah asked, her voice trembling.

Lucas grinned, shaking a flashlight in his hand. "Come on, it'll be fun. What’s a little ghost hunt between friends?"

Ben, always the practical one, folded his arms. "I don’t know. People say this place is cursed for a reason."

Mia, the quietest of the group, felt an odd pull toward the building. She didn’t know why, but something about the Crestwood had always fascinated her, even frightened her. It wasn’t just the tragic fire; it was something more, something… unfinished. Without a word, she walked toward the heavy, broken doors.

Inside, the air was thick with dust, and the remnants of a once-grand theatre lay in ruins. Red velvet seats, now torn and decaying, lined the sloping floor leading to a stage draped in thick cobwebs. A broken chandelier hung precariously from the ceiling, swaying ever so slightly in the cold draft.

Mia shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. "We shouldn’t be here," she whispered.

Ben scoffed. "No kidding."

"Let’s just take a quick look around and get out of here," Lucas said, clicking on his flashlight and shining it across the rows of forgotten seats.

As the beam swept across the darkened theatre, something glinted from the stage. It was faint, barely noticeable, but enough to make Mia’s heart skip a beat. Without thinking, she moved toward the stage.

"Hey, Mia!" Lucas called after her. "Where are you going?"

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on the spot where she had seen the glint. There was something there—something waiting.

The others followed, reluctantly climbing onto the stage behind her. Up close, the smell of old smoke still lingered in the air, as though the fire had never truly gone out. The curtains, now tattered and singed, fluttered slightly as if moved by an unseen hand.

"This is giving me the creeps," Sarah murmured.

As they reached the center of the stage, Mia suddenly froze. There, lying at her feet, was a charred mask—half burned, half pristine. It was a prop from the final performance of The Phantom’s Masquerade. She bent down to pick it up, but the moment her fingers touched the mask, the theatre changed.

The air grew thick, and a deep chill swept through the building. A low hum of music began to play, distant but growing louder. The friends exchanged uneasy glances as the ghostly melody filled the room.

Suddenly, the dim emergency lights that lined the aisles flickered on, casting a sickly glow over the seats. Lucas swung his flashlight wildly, but it wasn’t his light that illuminated the room—it was something else. The theatre was coming alive.

Then, they heard it.

Soft whispers. Laughter. The distant applause of an invisible audience.

"Oh my God," Sarah whispered. "Do you hear that?"

Mia clutched the mask tightly, her heart pounding in her chest. "We need to leave. Now."

But before they could move, a shadowy figure emerged from behind the torn curtains. It was dressed in a tattered costume from the show, its face hidden beneath a mask identical to the one Mia held. The figure moved with a slow, deliberate grace, as if it were still performing the role it had been cast in all those years ago.

"It’s a ghost," Ben gasped, backing away.

The figure turned toward them, raising a hand as if beckoning them closer. Its mask glinted in the dim light, and behind it, Mia could swear she saw hollow, empty eyes staring back at her.

Suddenly, the stage beneath their feet began to shake. The wood groaned as if under immense pressure, and the faint smell of smoke grew stronger. Flames—tiny at first—licked at the edges of the stage, curling around the old, decaying wood.

"We have to go!" Lucas shouted, grabbing Mia’s arm.

But she couldn’t move. She was rooted to the spot, her eyes locked on the ghostly figure. The whispers grew louder, the laughter more intense. The ghost raised its other hand, and with a sudden, violent gust of wind, the flames surged higher, engulfing the stage.

"No!" Mia screamed, finally breaking free from her trance.

She threw the mask down onto the stage, and as it hit the floor, the flames vanished. The theatre fell silent. The whispers stopped, the music faded, and the figure disappeared into the shadows.

The friends stood frozen, staring at the charred mask, still lying on the floor where Mia had dropped it. The air was thick with tension, but the theatre was quiet again. Too quiet.

Without a word, they bolted for the exit, not daring to look back. Outside, the cold night air felt like a relief, though their hearts were still pounding with terror.

"What just happened?" Sarah gasped, clutching her chest.

"It was them," Mia said quietly, staring back at the dark theatre. "The cast. They never finished their final performance. They’re still trapped in there, reliving that night over and over again."

Lucas shook his head, disbelief in his eyes. "We have to tell someone—"

"No one would believe us," Ben interrupted, his face pale. "Besides, I think it’s better if we just… let them be."

Mia nodded, her thoughts still lingering on the mask and the shadowy figure that had haunted the stage. As they walked away from the theatre, the wind picked up again, carrying with it a faint, haunting melody.

The final performance of The Phantom’s Masquerade was far from over.

And it never would be.

The Forgotten Cellar Shaina Tranquilino October 5, 2024

The Harrisons moved into the old Victorian house on the outskirts of town with the kind of enthusiasm that accompanies a fresh start. The house was a bargain—too good to pass up. Rebecca, her husband Gerald, and their son, Caleb marvelled at the high ceilings, the vintage wallpaper, and the spacious rooms. It felt like a dream, albeit one wrapped in a bit of dust and cobwebs.

The cellar door was the only thing out of place. It sat at the end of a narrow hallway in the kitchen, locked with a heavy, rusted chain. Rebecca had asked the realtor about it, but all she’d said was that the previous owners had forgotten about it. The key, like the history of the house, was lost to time.

"It’s just a storage space," Gerald had said, brushing off Rebecca's concerns. "We can deal with it later."

But on the first night, Rebecca heard it—the whispers.

She had been lying in bed, half-asleep, when a soft, disembodied murmur floated up through the floorboards. She strained her ears, thinking it was the wind or maybe the house settling. The house was old, after all. But the longer she listened, the clearer it became.

“Please... let me out...”

Rebecca sat up in bed, her heart pounding in her chest. The voice was faint, almost pleading, rising from somewhere deep below the house.

"Did you hear that?" she whispered, shaking Gerald awake.

"Hear what?" he mumbled, rolling over.

"The whispering... from downstairs."

He frowned, still half-asleep. "Probably just the pipes. This place is ancient."

Rebecca wasn’t convinced, but she let it go, hoping it was just her imagination playing tricks on her in the unfamiliar home.

The next night, the whispering came again, louder this time. And this time, she wasn’t the only one who heard it.

"Mom?" Caleb’s small voice quivered from the doorway of their bedroom. "There’s someone downstairs. I heard them."

Rebecca's skin prickled with dread. She glanced at Gerald, who had now fully woken, his brow furrowed. They sat in silence for a moment, listening. There it was again—a faint, desperate whisper.

“Please... help me…”

Rebecca's stomach turned. It was coming from beneath the floorboards, from the cellar.

"We need to see what’s down there," Rebecca said, her voice barely above a whisper. Gerald hesitated, but the unease in his eyes mirrored her own.

Armed with a flashlight and a crowbar, Gerald made his way to the cellar door the next morning. Rebecca stood behind him, her heart in her throat as he forced the rusted chain from the door. The heavy wooden door groaned open, releasing a rush of cold, damp air that smelled of earth and something else—something rotten.

The stairs creaked as Gerald descended, the beam of his flashlight cutting through the darkness. Rebecca followed, holding Caleb’s hand tightly. The cellar was larger than they had imagined, the walls lined with crumbling stone and ancient wooden beams. But something else caught their attention—a large, decrepit trunk in the corner, covered in dust.

Rebecca's pulse quickened as they approached it. The whispers had stopped, but the air felt thick with an unspoken presence. Gerald knelt down, hesitating before unlatching the trunk.

It creaked open slowly.

Inside, there were no treasures or old clothes as they had expected. Instead, the remains of a person—a skeleton, curled up, bound in chains—lay within. Rebecca gasped, stepping back in horror, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Who... who is this?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

Before Gerald could respond, the whispering began again, louder now, filling the cellar with an oppressive weight.

“Please... set me free...”

The voice was coming from the skeleton. Rebecca's blood ran cold as the realization dawned on her. The whispers weren’t just voices in her head. They were real.

As if responding to the plea, the chains around the skeleton began to rattle, slowly unwinding themselves from the brittle bones. Rebecca stumbled back, dragging Caleb with her as Gerald froze in place, his eyes wide with terror.

“We have to go!" Rebecca screamed, her voice shaking. She pulled Gerald toward the stairs, but the air grew thick, almost solid, as if something unseen was holding them in place. The whispers intensified, turning into anguished cries.

"Let me out... let me out!"

Suddenly, the cellar door slammed shut above them, plunging the room into darkness. Rebecca's flashlight flickered wildly, casting frantic shadows on the walls as the temperature dropped further. She felt an icy hand brush her arm, the faint whisper now right in her ear.

“Stay with me…”

With a burst of panic-fueled strength, Gerald lunged toward the door, yanking it open. They scrambled up the stairs, slamming the door behind them. The whispers were muffled now but still persistent, like a voice trapped beneath layers of earth, desperate to be heard.

They left the house that night, too afraid to stay another minute in the presence of whatever haunted the cellar.

Weeks later, the house stood empty, its windows dark and its doors locked. No one spoke of the Harrisons or the skeleton in the cellar, as if the house itself had swallowed their secret. But on quiet nights, if you stood close enough, you could still hear the whispers rising from below.

“Please... help me... let me out…”

The house waited, patient and silent, for the next family to come.