Whispers - Tumblr Posts
Uh. I thought itâd be funny
@bugzheadquarter
Itâs a bit spooky when the literal demon isnât the one making the creepy noises.
YES!!!! I LOVE THESE THREE, ART!! Smitty....I see you.... Please do it
epic band au
bonus \/
me looking for kang yohan x kim gaon fics on ao3:
Did I ever post this one? It was an art trade from forever ago.
just some of my favourite lyrics written by halsey off the album âif i canât have love, i want powerâ
the lighthouse// easier than lying// whispers// the tradition// darling
@tiredandlonelymuse
isnât it lonely?
i love whispers by halsey & you should too.
pretty little liars & gilmore girls đđŒ
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 grandmotherâs quaint, creaky old house to sort through her belongings. Among the porcelain figurines, embroidered pillows, and stacks of faded photographs, Sophie found something unexpected â 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 â 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 grandmotherâs 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: âThe shadow came again last night. It watches me. I hear it whispering from the corners of the room.â
Sophieâs 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: âI 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.â
The whispers in Sophieâs 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 didnât 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 â vivid, terrifying dreams of her grandmother, her face twisted in fear, standing at the edge of Sophieâs bed, mouthing words she couldnât 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: âIâm not alone. Itâs in the house with me. I feel its cold breath on my neck when I sleep. It wants something. I donât know what, but it wonât leave me in peace.â
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 grandmotherâs usual elegant handwriting.
May 2, 1956: âI tried to lock it away. Tried to bind it to these pages. But itâs 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.â
Sophieâs 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 couldnât 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 â waiting for the next entry.
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 wasnât 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.
âDonât ignore the whispers,â the old man had said. His voice had trembled in a way that made Ben almost uncomfortable. Almost.
âIâll be fine,â 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 closeâtoo closeâbut 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 someoneâa prank, perhaps, kids trying to scare himâbut there was nothing, only the fading light of dusk and the looming presence of Silent Hill.
But he wasnât 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 itâmovement, 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. Benâs mouth went dry. He couldnât move, couldnât 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 faceâor what should have been its faceâwas 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 werenât warnings. They were something else.
âHe didn't listen,â they said in a soft, mournful chant. âHe didnât listen... He didnât listenâŠâ
Benâs legs moved, but not by his will. He found himself walking, no, runningâaway from the hill, back toward town, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. The thing didnât follow, but its presence lingered, a suffocating weight pressing down on his every breath.
By the time he reached the townâs 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.
âI⊠I didnât believe you.â
The old man gave a slow nod, his gaze distant. âFew ever do.â
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 wonât escape."
And he knewâthere would be a next time.
Three shades of wings, for the Beloved, the Lover and the Whisperer...
Blue pearl, warm night and pale gold for a peerless moonlight.
*
Angelic Kisses and Whispers (October 21, 2019)
by ©ïžsophia D. S. wright
Digital mixed media
Composed on iPadPro
With Procreate
Original 5050x7000px
https://sophiadswright.carbonmade.com/blog/6750347176536178701
In her dreams
birds stole ink,
Tattooed whispers
on her soul.
*
Spell of Wings (February 11, 2023)
by © sophiE D. S. wright - alias MùOphélie
Composed on iPadPro
With Procreate
*
⊠and closeup
Girlblogging forever and ever.
xoxo