The Whispered Name

The sound of trickling water dissipated behind her as she slipped beneath the trees. Darkness had swallowed the world. No stars. No moon. No light. Her footsteps concealed, she was alone deep in the woods. Roots rose above the ground, reaching out their hands to trip her. The ground was slick, turning into ice by way of the crisp winter breeze. Her breath came in short frantic bursts—her lungs fighting against the heavy bitter air.

Every twig cracked under her bare, cold feet, echoed through the trees. Her feet had slipped from the ground, tripped over the gnarled roots and rocks, and had fallen, sinking its way into the loose dirt. But she never stopped. Time was too precious; the clock waits for no one.

She didn't dare look back.

The wind howled through the forest like it was alive, begging her to stop. But she never would. She would walk until the moment came for her final rest. Somewhere behind her, hidden in the shadows, something was following—and it sounded like a whisper.

The rain began to fall once more. Each raindrop made her flinch as the crystal bead ran down her neck, cooling her frozen body further. She took another step, stumbled over a rock hidden in the pathway, and collapsed onto the dirt. An agonizing cry gave way from her lips. But only the trees heard. Whatever was hiding like cowards in the dark, relished the delicious sight of her torture.

She stood up again her resilience making the whispers cry out with gloom. She scurried on, pulling her right leg behind her tired corpse. She pulled aside an icy branch revealing the crumbling pavement. Breathless, she continued pushing her body further than broken. Her knees burned. Her palms bled. The soles of her feet were torn. She looked around anxiously, trying to make sense of her surroundings.

Then she saw it.

A speck of yellow in the distance. A dim, flickering light just barely illuminating the parking lot of the sheriff's office. Her chest tightened with something between hope and panic. Every inch closer, her body shook threatening to buckle. Her lips were now purple to match her blue fingers and toes.

The pain haunted her body.

But the office was near. A few more yards left.

She gathered all her strength and ran the last stretch till she reached the path leading to the door. She limped down the neatly trimmed path. A trail of blood fell behind.

She made it to the door. Her numb fingers clawed for the handle, barely strong enough to turn it. The door slowly opened, the weight pushing back against her beaten body.

Warmth hit her—not enough to warm her, but enough to remember the feeling of life. The sheriff was sitting behind his desk. Startled by the sudden intrusion. His eyes slowly met hers, first observing the horrific sight of her appearance. The sight of life no longer glowed beneath her skin. Instead, a ghost of her present stood in front of him.

She opened her mouth. Her strained, trembling voice spoke," There isn't much time now."

The sheriff rose slowly, removing his jacket from the chair, to offer it to the girl. "Miss, are you okay? What happened? Who did this to you?"

" There is no time for questions. This journal in my pocket should tell you everything you need to know. For now, I need you to bring justice for a murder."

His throat tightened, afraid to ask," Whose murder?"

All she could manage was a whisper, " Mine."

With that, her body collapsed, hitting the rug with a sickening thud. The only noise that remained was a soft tick of the wall clock and the sheriff's ragged breath. A thin line of blood surrounded her, seeping into the rug like it had always belonged there.

__ December 15 __

"It's strange how, even when a storm brews, there's still the eye. A moment when the chaos swirls around you. A stillness that instead is ruined by fear. A brief, eerie calm where peace pretends to exist, just before the next blow lands.

Here I am, Miranda Rose Wellington, sitting in the eye of the storm. Silently waiting for my destruction. Writing this.

Being a high schooler at Tracewell High, the waves of stress crush down at every moment. But even when you thought you could not go further down, you get hit again. What am I talking about? Mid-term papers.

The assignment was simple: pick a piece of the town's history and write about it. But I don't do simple... I do me. I've always felt drawn to the places people avoid—the ones that sit too quietly on the edge of the shadows. So while everyone else writes about the history of the potato festival or the day the train track was finally built in our town, I'll be waiting. The perfect story will find me. 'Good things come to those who wait.'

OH BOY! Did it come.

It started as a rumor, only pieced out between whispers. The kind of gossip you would hear in gym locker rooms or whispered across cafeteria tables. At first, it was just another ghost story, meant to scare the freshmen. An old cult, supposedly satanic, that lived deep in the woods. It was just a myth until people started making connections of disappearances way back in the '50s.

Around 70 years ago, a building in the woods burned down. It was an old diner. Five workers were trapped inside and burned to death. They say that anybody who visits the foundation of the old diner never makes it back.

"Perfect."

The fire never had a cause, it was ruled as an accident. But the area was abandoned. Hikers stayed away from the trails which eventually shut them down. The land was never built on or bought for property. Some thought it had turned into a secret club where the kids would run away to, but there are never any visitors. Others thought rituals took place, held by townspeople whose identity was never discovered.

People called the secret colt ironically The Whispered Name. That they were the ones who burned down the building, and gave those workers as sacrifices. They say the colt is made up of six people and the last, their leader. Nobody ever dares say its name above a whisper - not even for jokes. Saying it out loud is supposed to " draw their eye."

Whatever that means.

You would hear weird rules they would make up about it, like:

• Don't go near the ruins at night
• Don't say the sixth name out loud
• If you hear someone whisper your name... run.

Of course, many joked about it in whispers. Many called it," Tracewell's Budget Blair Witch." But deep down, there was this feeling—like everyone was laughing just a little too hard. Like maybe they all believed it a little more than they wanted to admit.

The gossip made the mayor's son an outcast at the school. Too many believed that the founder of the Colt was the mayor's grandfather when he went to Tracewell High. Then the question came, Is the colt still together? Is he the sixth name? Who is the next offering?

Days passed by as I pondered the questions that had come to my mind. But as the hours continued to pass I understood that there is only one way to know whether the popular myth was true. I had to go to the woods that night. To the remains of the old diner. To draw their eye, say the sixth name, and answer the whispers.

Now here I am, at the remains at midnight on the day that is now December 15. I have yet to leave my car, I had to fill the first few pages of my paper out first. So here you go Mrs. Vixora— the truth.

I slowly stepped out of the car door. The diner was half a mile into the woods. What used to be its grand entrance was now overtaken by stickerbushes and moss. I watched my every step, careful not to trip over the tangled roots that curled like snakes covering the ground. The night air had turned cool in the shadows of the surrounding trees. The smell of damp earth overwhelmed my nostrils. A sudden crack came from the bottom of my shoe, reminding me this wasn't a dream. I lifted my shoe away from the fragments left lying on the ground—broken glass?

I raised my head, looking at the abandoned structure now in sight. The roof sagged like a heavy sigh, the windows smashed, and those that weren't blacked out with paint. It was a graveyard of what it used to be.

A graveyard—not a ruin.

I looked closer, no signs of fire were visible on the building. They said it was burned down, but it never was.

"It was sealed?"

Inside, dust floated like ash in the open beams of my flashlight. Every sound echoed. My breath, my footsteps, and their whispers. It hung in the wind, tickling into my ears. Along the stone wall, there were carved symbols everywhere. Their names were carved into wood with uneven letters: Braxton, Macy, Amelia, John, Carter, but the sixth. It was crossed out—unreadable. Not desperate, but carved by people who knew they would make it back.

Beneath the last carving, a decayed journal rested in the dirt. Pages stuck together, blood staining the rims, edges curled with age. The last entry:

They only need one more.

That's when I heard it—not spoken, but whispered.

A name. My name. Spoken from inside the walls.

I ran. Out the door, back into the woods. But everything was changed. The distance was longer, the trees taller, the sky completely hidden. Paths molded into each other, one path leads to hope, the other to destruction. Everything was silent. Only the sound of my breath and the footsteps lurking behind me.

They snatched me somewhere between scream and silence. My vision went blurry, and my body fell into their command. Then, the world went black.

I woke to the feeling of pain, a knife piercing somewhere along my body. That's when I realized, they didn't wear cloaks or chant in Latin, they wear coats. Scarves. Familiar faces flooded the room. Voices, I feel as if I have heard before. I heard their name again and again.

The Whispered Name.

They tied me to a chair somewhere in the dark. A symbol carved beneath my feet—an eye with a swirl in the middle. One pressed a sharp needle into my arm. The others whispered. Not to me, but around me, like I was already gone. My blood instantly turned cold. My mind felt distant, like it didn't belong to me anymore. They called me the final seal.

But something went wrong. Or maybe right.

I got out. I don't know how. I remember broken glass and screaming. Mine? Theirs? I ran... deep into the woods. I bled uncontrollably. I can feel like poison seeping through my skin, burning the tissue beneath. I had to write this final entry for whoever may find it.

So now I will run. I will run for a slight chance that I may survive. Satan's kiss has stung my heart, but for now, all I can do is wait.

Because in the eye of the storm, there's a breath. Then comes the wind.