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The Painted Door Shaina Tranquilino September 13, 2024

Nestled deep within the fog-shrouded moors of the English countryside stood Bellingham Manor, a grand yet melancholic estate that had seen better days. The once-majestic home now wore its age like a heavy cloak, its stone walls weathered and cracked, its windows grimy with years of neglect. Yet, it was not the crumbling facade that whispered of the manor’s dark past, but a single door hidden deep within its bowels—a door that had been painted over countless times but always returned.

No one in the family spoke of the door openly, though everyone knew of its existence. The tradition was passed down through generations: paint it over, and do not question why. Each year, without fail, one of the household staff was instructed to repaint the door, burying it beneath layers of thick, white paint. And each year, without fail, the door would reappear, its once-buried mahogany surface emerging like a ghost from the wall.

This eerie ritual had persisted for over a century, ever since the manor's original owner, Lord William Bellingham, first ordered the door sealed. His instructions were clear and unyielding: the door must never be opened, no matter what. He had scrawled the command in his will, sealing the fate of all who would come after him.

But tragedy followed the Bellingham family like a shadow. Each generation was marked by untimely deaths, all mysterious, all unexplained. The manor’s inhabitants died young, often found cold and lifeless in their beds, with no signs of foul play. Whispers of a curse filled the corridors, but no one dared suggest the obvious—the door was the key.

In the autumn of 1923, the last of the Bellingham's, Jonathan, returned to the manor after years abroad. A somber man in his mid-thirties, he had inherited the estate after the sudden death of his uncle, the latest victim of the family's tragic legacy. Jonathan was a man of reason, a scholar, and he had little patience for the superstitions that plagued the manor. Determined to uncover the truth, he resolved to break the cycle of fear that had bound his family for generations.

The door was his first target.

Jonathan descended into the manor’s basement, where the door was hidden behind rows of dusty crates and cobweb-covered furniture. It looked ordinary enough—solid, dark wood, the kind of door that belonged in a stately home. But as he ran his fingers over the smooth surface, a shiver ran down his spine. There was something unsettling about its presence, something that defied logic.

He retrieved a can of white paint from the storage room, just as his ancestors had done before him, and began the task of painting over the door. With each brushstroke, he felt the weight of his family’s history pressing down on him. When he finished, the door was once again concealed, nothing more than a blank space on the wall.

But the unease lingered.

That night, Jonathan dreamt of the door. In his dream, it stood before him, its surface unmarred by paint, gleaming as if freshly polished. A whisper called to him from the other side, a voice that was both familiar and foreign. It spoke of secrets, of truths hidden for too long. The door, the voice insisted, held the key to ending the family’s curse.

Jonathan awoke in a cold sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. He had to know what lay behind the door. Perhaps it was madness, but he could not ignore the voice.

The next day, Jonathan returned to the basement, armed with a crowbar and a lantern. The door was no longer hidden—somehow, overnight, the paint had peeled away, revealing the door in its original state. Taking a deep breath, he pried the door open, the wood groaning as if it had not been moved in centuries.

Beyond the door was a narrow staircase, leading down into the darkness. The air was cold and damp, and a faint, musty odor wafted up from below. Lantern in hand, Jonathan descended, his footsteps echoing in the silence. The stairs seemed to go on forever, spiraling downward into the earth.

Finally, he reached the bottom, where a small, stone chamber awaited him. In the centre of the room was a wooden coffin, its surface covered in strange, intricate carvings. The sight of it sent a chill through Jonathan, but he forced himself to approach.

As he drew nearer, the carvings became clearer—symbols of protection, of binding, and of something darker. Hesitating only for a moment, Jonathan reached out and touched the coffin’s lid. It was ice-cold to the touch.

He pushed the lid open.

Inside lay the skeletal remains of a man, dressed in the tattered remains of a once-fine suit. But it was not the sight of the bones that made Jonathan recoil in horror—it was the face. The skull, still mostly intact, bore a striking resemblance to his own.

A journal lay atop the bones, its leather cover cracked with age. Jonathan picked it up with trembling hands and began to read.

The journal belonged to Lord William Bellingham, the manor’s original owner. In its pages, William confessed to a terrible crime—murder. He had killed his own brother in a fit of jealous rage, sealing his body in the coffin and binding it with dark magic to prevent the spirit from seeking revenge. The door was painted over each year to keep the spell intact, to keep the restless spirit contained.

But the spell was weakening.

Jonathan’s breath caught in his throat as the truth dawned on him. The curse that plagued his family, the mysterious deaths—they were the work of the vengeful spirit, slowly breaking free from its prison.

And now, Jonathan had set it free.

A cold wind swept through the chamber, extinguishing the lantern. In the darkness, Jonathan felt a presence, something ancient and full of rage. The door slammed shut above him, sealing him in the tomb with his ancestor’s ghost.

The last of the Bellingham's was never seen again.

But the door remains, painted over each year, only to reappear, waiting for the next curious soul to set the spirit free once more.

The Diary's Secrets Shaina Tranquilino October 6, 2024

Sophie had always adored her grandmother, a woman of grace and charm who filled every room with warmth. But when her grandmother passed away, Sophie was left with an overwhelming sense of loss. After the funeral, she returned to her grandmother’s quaint, creaky old house to sort through her belongings. Among the porcelain figurines, embroidered pillows, and stacks of faded photographs, Sophie found something unexpected — an old, weathered diary, its leather cover cracked with age.

Her grandmother had never mentioned a diary. The clasp was rusted, but it popped open easily under her fingertips. As she flipped through the yellowing pages, she noticed something strange. The ink appeared faded, yet readable, and as her eyes skimmed the words, she could have sworn she heard something — faint, almost imperceptible whispers.

Sophie frowned and closed the book quickly. The whispers ceased immediately, leaving an unnerving silence in their wake.

"Must be my imagination," she murmured, trying to shake off the chill that crept up her spine.

That night, Sophie took the diary home with her. Curiosity gnawed at her, and she couldn't resist opening it again. The moment she turned the first page, the whispers returned, low and unintelligible, as though the very paper itself was breathing secrets into the air. This time, the whispers were louder, more distinct, like fragmented pieces of conversations just beyond her grasp.

The words on the page were written in her grandmother’s delicate hand. January 5, 1956. The entry was brief, recounting a typical day. But as Sophie read further, the entries became darker, more cryptic.

February 12, 1956: “The shadow came again last night. It watches me. I hear it whispering from the corners of the room.”

Sophie’s heart skipped a beat. She looked around her small apartment, suddenly aware of the shadows pooling in the corners, the way the lamplight flickered just slightly. She swallowed, pushing the growing unease aside, and continued reading.

March 3, 1956: “I tried to speak with it. It knows my name. It knows things about me I never shared with anyone. The whispers grow louder every night.”

The whispers in Sophie’s own ears seemed to swell in response to the words on the page, almost as if the diary itself was reacting to the memories being uncovered. She slammed the book shut, panting, her breath shallow and fast. But the whispers didn’t stop. They lingered in the room, filling the space around her with unseen presences. She could feel something watching her.

Desperate, Sophie shoved the diary into a drawer and stumbled to bed, hoping that sleep would bring her peace. But the dreams came — vivid, terrifying dreams of her grandmother, her face twisted in fear, standing at the edge of Sophie’s bed, mouthing words she couldn’t hear over the cacophony of whispers filling the room.

The next morning, exhausted and shaken, Sophie yanked the diary from the drawer. She had to know what was happening. As soon as she opened it, the whispers returned, louder and more insistent.

April 15, 1956: “I’m not alone. It’s in the house with me. I feel its cold breath on my neck when I sleep. It wants something. I don’t know what, but it won’t leave me in peace.”

Her grandmother had been haunted, tormented by something unseen. The realization sent a cold shiver through Sophie. But there was more, a final entry. It was written in frantic, uneven script, unlike her grandmother’s usual elegant handwriting.

May 2, 1956: “I tried to lock it away. Tried to bind it to these pages. But it’s not enough. I can hear it still, scratching, whispering. It wants out. I fear it will find someone else, someone to continue what I could not finish. God help whoever opens this book after me.”

Sophie’s hands trembled as she dropped the diary. The whispers grew louder, no longer faint but echoing through the apartment, a cacophony of voices overlapping, seething with malevolence.

Suddenly, a gust of wind slammed the windows shut, plunging the room into darkness. The whispers were everywhere now, suffocating, as if invisible hands were reaching out from the shadows to close around her throat. Sophie staggered back, her breath hitching in her chest, eyes darting to the diary lying on the floor.

The pages fluttered on their own, turning violently, as though something trapped inside was desperate to be freed.

"No," Sophie gasped, her voice barely a whisper over the maddening chorus. "Please, no."

But it was too late. From the corners of the room, the shadows began to coalesce, forming a shape, a figure that seemed to crawl out of the very air itself, twisted and hunched, its eyes burning like embers in a sunken face. It moved toward her, slow, deliberate, its presence suffocating the light.

Sophie couldn’t move. The whispers were in her ears, her head, her mind, filling every thought with dread.

"You shouldn't have opened it," the voices hissed in unison.

The last thing Sophie saw was the figure looming over her, its cold breath on her neck, just as her grandmother had described. The diary lay open at her feet, the final page blank — waiting for the next entry.

The Cemetery's Call Shaina Tranquilino October 9, 2024

Old Percy Smithers had spent forty years tending to the dead. He was the gravekeeper of Willowbrook Cemetery, a place as ancient as the town itself, where the tombstones leaned crooked from centuries of neglect. Though the winters had turned his hair white and arthritis gnawed at his bones, Percy knew every inch of the graveyard. He'd dug the graves, polished the stones, and swept away the creeping vines that tried to reclaim the dead. He felt at home among them, more so than with the living. The town was small, quiet, and time-worn, much like Percy. Life moved at a slow, unremarkable pace—until the night the whispers began.

It was late October, the nights growing colder, and the mist rolled in thick like smoke. Percy had locked the cemetery gates as usual and was headed back to the small shack he called home, just outside the graveyard. As he passed by the row of old graves near the oak tree, he heard it—a faint sound, like the rustling of leaves. But there was no wind. He paused, squinting in the direction of the noise.

Then he heard it again. Louder this time.

“Percy…”

The voice was soft, barely a breath, but unmistakable. It came from the graves.

Percy stopped, his heart skipping a beat. He listened, thinking maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him. But there it was again, now joined by another voice, and then another.

“Percy… come closer…”

Shivers crawled down his spine, but curiosity, or perhaps foolishness, guided his feet. He moved closer to the stones, his lantern held high, casting long shadows across the crumbling markers. His eyes darted from grave to grave, but the voices came from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

“We remember…” whispered a woman's voice, cold and dripping with malice. “We remember what was done.”

Percy's throat tightened. “Who’s there?” His voice cracked, weak in the still night.

“Vengeance…” a chorus of voices hissed. “They must pay. They must all pay.”

His grip on the lantern tightened. His heart raced as the air grew colder, suffocating. The whispers grew louder, swelling around him in a dreadful symphony. Each name carved into the stones seemed to hum with hatred, vibrating with old grudges. These weren’t the gentle spirits of the dead he had grown to know; these were something darker. Something hungry.

The ground beneath him trembled slightly, and Percy staggered back, his lantern flickering. The mist thickened, swirling around his legs like ghostly fingers. The whispering voices became a cacophony, pressing in on him from all sides.

“They took our lives. They took everything.” The voices were filled with fury now, like a storm ready to break. “Avenge us!”

Percy backed away, stumbling over a gravestone. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the whispers for a moment. He turned to run, but the earth shifted beneath his feet, soft as mud. He fell, his hands sinking into the cold soil. When he looked up, the tombstones loomed over him like jagged teeth, their inscriptions glowing faintly in the mist.

“You cannot escape us, Percy…” the voices hissed, closer now, almost inside his head. “You’ve tended our graves for years, but now you must tend to our rage.”

He scrambled to his feet, panic clawing at his chest. The whispers twisted into shrieks, accusing, demanding. Percy ran, the cemetery gate seeming miles away. The ground quivered as if something underneath was waking, something ancient and full of wrath. He reached the gate and slammed it shut behind him, the metal rattling like bones.

For a brief moment, there was silence.

Percy leaned against the gate, his chest heaving, trying to convince himself that it was over. Just the wind, the cold, his tired old mind playing tricks.

Then, from behind the iron bars, the voices returned.

“They will come for you, Percy…” one voice whispered, distinct from the rest. It was a child’s voice, soft and bitter. “You’re one of them. You carry their blood.”

Percy froze. The words dug into him like knives. “One of them?” he whispered, his breath a plume of mist.

The child’s voice spoke again, filled with venom. “Your family. The ones who built this town on our bones. You can’t run from it, Percy. You owe a debt to the dead.”

He staggered back, horrified. His family had been among the founding members of the town, the ones who had laid the first stones of Willowbrook. But those were just stories, old histories. Or so he’d thought.

“You’ll hear us again, Percy,” the voices promised, fading into the night. “Soon.”

Terrified, Percy fled back to his shack, locking the door behind him, but sleep never came. Outside, the cemetery was silent, but the whispers lingered in his mind.

The next night, the voices returned, stronger, clearer. They called out to him from beneath the ground, demanding justice. Each name, each voice from the stones, told him the same story—how they had been wronged, forgotten, buried in unmarked graves by the people of Willowbrook. His family, the town's founders, had stolen their land, their lives, and their peace.

By the third night, Percy could no longer ignore the voices. They consumed him, gnawing at his sanity. The dead wanted vengeance, and they wanted him to carry it out.

As the whispers grew louder, more insistent, Percy knew he could not escape their demand. With trembling hands, he gathered his shovel and lantern, stepping once more into the mist-shrouded graveyard. The tombstones seemed to shift and sway in the fog, guiding him toward the oldest graves—the graves of the founders, his ancestors.

The whispers quieted as Percy approached the graves. He raised the shovel, his hands shaking, and began to dig.

For the first time in forty years, the dead would have their revenge. And Percy, the gravekeeper, would be the first to fall under the cemetery’s call.

Percy dug deeper, his breath coming in ragged gasps as the cold night air clung to his skin. Each plunge of the shovel into the earth was echoed by the murmurs from the graves, a chorus of the long-dead urging him on. The mist coiled around him like a serpent, tightening with each layer of soil he removed, and the ground seemed to tremble beneath his feet as if eager to reveal the darkness buried beneath.

At last, his shovel struck something solid. Percy froze, heart pounding, his pulse loud in his ears. He knelt, wiping the dirt away with trembling hands. Beneath the shallow layer of earth, a rotted wooden coffin came into view. The grave was marked with the Smithers family crest, worn and faded but unmistakable.

The whispers quieted, and a terrible stillness filled the air.

Percy's breath hitched. He knew what they wanted him to do, what they had been pushing him toward. He stared down at the coffin, his ancestors’ final resting place, the founders of Willowbrook, the ones who had stolen land and life from the restless dead.

A sickening dread churned in his gut. What had they done? He had heard rumours of how Willowbrook had been built—tales of stolen land, hidden graves, and erased lives. But they were just stories. Weren’t they?

He reached for the coffin lid, his fingers shaking. With a grunt, he pried it open, the wood splintering beneath his grip. The stench of death, long buried, rose into the air, thick and nauseating. Inside lay the bones of his great-great-grandfather, crumbling and fragile, clothed in the remnants of what had once been fine attire.

And then, beneath the bones, something caught his eye—something darker, it was a book. It bore no title, only a symbol he recognized from the town’s archives, a symbol of power, of forbidden rituals.

Percy's fingers brushed the cover, and the moment they did, the whispers surged back, louder than before.

“The book. The book holds the truth. The power. It’s how they cursed us. How they damned us to rot in silence.”

The book was heavy in his hands, and as he opened it, his eyes fell on words written in a language he could barely comprehend. Diagrams of rituals, sigils of dark power, spells to bind and suppress the dead.

His ancestors had not only stolen the land—they had used this book to silence the spirits, to trap them in their graves, buried beneath the weight of unholy magic. And now, the dead wanted revenge, not just against Percy's bloodline, but against all the living who still thrived on land soaked with the suffering of the forgotten.

“You must break the curse, Percy…” the voices urged. “Free us, or we will rise ourselves.”

Percy hesitated. He could feel the weight of the book’s power, dark and consuming, thrumming beneath his fingertips. If he undid the spell, what would be unleashed? Would the dead have their vengeance only on the guilty, or would they turn their wrath on all who lived in Willowbrook?

He looked back at the graves, at the names etched in stone, each one vibrating with ancient rage. They had suffered for centuries. Maybe they deserved their justice.

But would they stop at justice?

The air grew heavier, pressing down on him as the mist thickened. The ground trembled more violently now, as if the earth itself was waking, and Percy knew he was running out of time. The dead would not wait much longer.

With a deep breath, he made his choice. He closed the book, clutching it to his chest, and spoke aloud for the first time to the voices in the night.

“I’ll break the curse,” he whispered, his voice shaking, “but you have to promise me you won’t hurt the innocent.”

For a moment, there was only silence, the air hanging thick with anticipation. Then, the child’s voice returned, soft and cold.

“We will take only those who owe a debt. The rest… we will leave.”

Percy didn’t trust them, not fully. But he had no other option. The dead would rise one way or another—either with his help or through their own violent means.

With trembling hands, he opened the book again, flipping through the pages until he found the counterspell. The symbols seemed to swim on the page, but he muttered the words aloud, each syllable tasting like dust on his tongue. The wind picked up, swirling around him, carrying with it the mournful cries of the spirits. The ground rumbled beneath his feet, and the air grew colder still.

As he finished the incantation, a sudden, deafening silence fell over the cemetery.

For a heartbeat, everything was still.

Then, one by one, the graves began to shift. The soil moved, and from the earth rose faint, ethereal figures—translucent and pale, their eyes hollow with years of longing. They stood in silence, watching him, their faces twisted with sorrow and anger.

The whispers had stopped, but their gaze spoke louder than any voice.

The dead were free.

Percy's heart hammered in his chest as the spirits turned away from him, drifting silently toward the town, their forms dissolving into the mist. His breath caught in his throat as the last of them disappeared, leaving him alone among the open graves.

He collapsed to his knees, exhausted, the book slipping from his hands.

It was done.

But even as he knelt there in the cold, empty graveyard, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. The silence was too complete, the air too still.

And then he heard it—just a single whisper, lingering in the night, one voice among the many.

“We lied.”

Percy's blood ran cold as the wind howled through the trees, and far in the distance, the first scream rang out from the town.

The dead had come for their revenge. And nothing would stop them now.

The Phantom Operator Shaina Tranquilino October 10, 2024

Macy sat alone in her dimly lit apartment, the glow from her TV flickering across the walls as an autumn storm rattled the windows. The wind howled through the trees outside, and rain pattered against the glass like skeletal fingers tapping to get in. She had always loved October’s eeriness, but tonight, an unfamiliar dread settled over her. It started with a ring—sharp and shrill, cutting through the white noise of the storm. Macy glanced at her phone, confused. The screen displayed “Unknown Caller,” a designation she hadn't seen in years. She hesitated but eventually swiped to answer.

“Hello?” she said, her voice tentative.

There was silence on the other end, only the faint hiss of static. Macy was about to hang up when she heard it: a whisper, faint and distant, but unmistakable.

"Macy…"

She froze. The voice was achingly familiar, one she had buried in the deepest recesses of her memory. Her throat tightened as chills crept up her spine.

"Maverick?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

The static crackled again, louder this time. The whisper came through once more, clearer now, unmistakably his voice. "Macy... I miss you."

Her heart pounded in her chest. It had been five years since Maverick died in a car accident. The grief had been suffocating, but she had moved on—or so she thought. The sudden resurgence of his voice felt like a knife turning in a half-healed wound.

“This isn’t funny,” she said, her voice rising. “Who is this?”

But the voice on the other end didn’t respond. The static grew louder, filling her ears, drowning out the storm outside.

“I miss you,” the voice repeated, echoing like it was coming from far away, from somewhere it shouldn’t be able to reach.

With a gasp, Macy dropped the phone onto the couch, staring at it in horror. Her hands were shaking. This had to be a prank—some cruel, heartless prank. But how? Maverick was dead. She had attended his funeral, seen his body lowered into the ground.

The phone went silent. For a long minute, she just stared at it, hoping the nightmare was over. But then, it rang again.

Macy nearly jumped out of her skin. “Unknown Caller” flashed on the screen once more. She didn’t want to answer, but her hand moved involuntarily, as though compelled by some unseen force.

She pressed the green icon and brought the phone to her ear, her pulse hammering in her throat.

This time, the voice came through immediately, but it was different. It wasn’t just a whisper. It was distorted, warped, as though Maverick’s voice had been dragged through layers of static and something darker—something inhuman.

"Why did you leave me?"

Tears welled up in her eyes. "You... you died, Maverick. You’re gone. This isn’t real."

"I’m still here," the voice rasped. The words were drenched in agony, in longing. "I’ve been waiting for you."

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She tried to reason with herself—this was impossible, a trick of the mind. Maybe it was the storm, maybe it was grief resurfacing after all these years. But the voice… it was too real. Too familiar.

The call cut out, plunging the room into silence once more. Macy stared at the phone in her hand, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Her fingers hovered over the call log. She needed to know where the calls were coming from.

With trembling hands, she tapped the number.

Nothing.

No record. The call didn’t exist.

A chill swept over her as the storm outside raged on, the wind howling like a mourning soul. She stood, pacing the living room, her mind racing. It couldn’t have been Maverick. He was gone. He had to be.

Suddenly, the phone rang again.

This time, Macy didn’t answer immediately. She let it ring, her stomach twisting into knots as the shrill sound echoed in her small apartment. Finally, with a deep breath, she answered.

“Maverick, please stop this,” she pleaded, tears streaming down her face. “Please… just let me go.”

There was a long pause, the kind of silence that felt like the dead themselves were listening.

"Come back to me," the voice said. It was louder now, more insistent. "You promised."

Her mind raced back to the night of his accident. They had fought—bitterly. She had told him she was leaving him, that she couldn’t take the jealousy, the paranoia anymore. He had driven off in a storm not unlike tonight, his last words to her echoing in her mind: “If you leave, I’ll never let you go.”

The static rose again, and beneath it, Macy could hear something else—a distant noise, growing louder. It was the unmistakable screech of tires on wet pavement, the crunch of metal twisting and shattering.

Then, the voice. His voice. Crying out her name in terror.

The memory slammed into her like a freight train, and she dropped the phone, stumbling backward, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She covered her ears, but she couldn’t block it out—the sound of his death was all around her, suffocating her.

The lights flickered and then went out, plunging the room into darkness. Only the faint glow from her phone illuminated the room. The call was still active, the static crackling like fire.

And then she heard it. Footsteps. Soft, deliberate, moving toward her.

Macy backed into a corner, her heart pounding, tears streaming down her face. “Maverick... I’m sorry…”

The footsteps stopped just behind her. She could feel the air grow cold, could sense something—someone—standing there, unseen but present.

A whisper brushed her ear, so close it felt like icy breath on her skin.

“You can’t leave me. Not again.”

And then, the lights flickered back on. The room was empty, but Macy knew—she wasn’t alone.

The phone went dead in her hand, the call finally over. But the fear remained, gnawing at her, whispering in the back of her mind.

She knew it wasn’t the last time he would call.

Maverick was waiting.

And he always would be.

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."

The Silent Hill Shaina Tranquilino October 15, 2024

The sun was sinking low, casting long shadows over the dense forest that surrounded the base of Silent Hill. Few locals dared to walk the trail that circled its base at dusk, for as long as anyone could remember, whispers echoed from the hilltop during the dying light. They weren't loud, but clear enough to unnerve even the boldest soul. "Turn back," they would say, in voices that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

Ben had heard the stories but dismissed them as nothing more than local superstition. He wasn’t from the small town that bordered the forest; he was an outsider, a hiker passing through, seeking solitude and challenge. He enjoyed proving myths wrong, finding in them only the fragile remnants of human fear. So, when the old man at the tavern had warned him about Silent Hill, he only laughed.

“Don’t ignore the whispers,” the old man had said. His voice had trembled in a way that made Ben almost uncomfortable. Almost.

“I’ll be fine,” Ben had responded with a grin, waving off the advice like he had heard it a thousand times.

Now, on the trail that wound around Silent Hill, dusk crept in like a slow-moving fog, draping the forest in muted colours. Ben's boots crunched on the gravel path, each step a lonely sound in the growing silence. The air grew cooler, heavier, and the wind rustled the leaves in a way that seemed offbeat, unnatural.

As he rounded a bend in the trail, the first whisper reached him.

"Turn back."

Ben froze mid-step. It had been soft, barely a breath, yet unmistakable. He looked around, eyes scanning the dense trees. There was no one. The forest was still.

He scoffed, shaking off the unease that tickled the back of his neck. Probably the wind, he thought, moving forward with renewed determination. But a few steps later, it came again, a little louder this time.

"Turn back."

He stopped again, his heartbeat quickening. The voice sounded close—too close—but still, there was no sign of anyone around. The trail was empty, the woods quiet. Ben frowned and continued walking, though his pace had slowed, his senses now heightened.

Then, more voices joined.

"Turn back," they whispered in unison, like a chorus carried on the wind.

He stopped cold. The whispers were no longer distant or vague; they seemed to come from the ground beneath his feet, from the trees themselves. His pulse pounded in his ears, and despite himself, a cold sweat began to form on his brow.

"Turn back," they repeated, insistent, urgent.

Ben spun around, expecting to see someone—a prank, perhaps, kids trying to scare him—but there was nothing, only the fading light of dusk and the looming presence of Silent Hill.

But he wasn’t the type to turn back. He pressed on, forcing his legs to move, though the unease crawled up his spine like icy fingers. His breath came in shorter bursts now, as if the very air had thickened with the weight of those disembodied voices.

The whispers grew louder, overlapping one another, coming from every direction.

"Turn back… Turn back… TURN BACK!"

He stumbled, his foot catching on a root, and for the first time, fear licked at his thoughts. His bravado cracked. He looked up at the hill, its silhouette darker than the encroaching night, an unnatural shadow blotting out the fading sky. It was then he saw it—movement, just at the top. A figure, standing still, watching him.

No. Not watching. Waiting.

The whispers stopped all at once, replaced by a thick, heavy silence that pressed on his eardrums, muting the world around him. Ben’s mouth went dry. He couldn’t move, couldn’t tear his eyes away from the figure that seemed to glide down the hill without moving its legs. It was tall, impossibly tall, its limbs thin and elongated, too long to be human. As it drew closer, Ben saw that its face—or what should have been its face—was a void, a featureless blackness that sucked in the last of the light.

The thing extended one of its arms, the limb bending unnaturally, almost serpentine. It pointed directly at him.

Suddenly, the whispers returned, but now they weren’t warnings. They were something else.

“He didn't listen,” they said in a soft, mournful chant. “He didn’t listen... He didn’t listen…”

Ben’s legs moved, but not by his will. He found himself walking, no, running—away from the hill, back toward town, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. The thing didn’t follow, but its presence lingered, a suffocating weight pressing down on his every breath.

By the time he reached the town’s edge, the sun had vanished completely, and the whispers had faded into the night. He stumbled back into the tavern, breathless, drenched in sweat, but alive.

The old man was still there, sitting at the bar, his eyes knowing, sad. Ben collapsed into a chair, shaking, his mouth struggling to form the words.

“I… I didn’t believe you.”

The old man gave a slow nod, his gaze distant. “Few ever do.”

Ben looked out the window, toward the dark silhouette of Silent Hill, a shiver running through him. He could still hear the final whisper, echoing in the depths of his mind.

"Next time, you won’t escape."

And he knew—there would be a next time.