Whisper of the Dark

The town of Elmridge always seemed to sleep with one eye open. Its narrow streets twisted like veins through clusters of weather-beaten houses, and the woods pressed too close, as though they were listening. The townsfolk never lingered outside after dusk, and no one dared to speak of the abandoned chapel at the edge of Blackthorn Forest.

Lena Whitlock knew the stories—everyone did. Children whispered of phantom footsteps, of voices carried on the night air, too soft to belong to the living. Adults waved it away with nervous smiles, yet they locked their doors tighter once the sun slipped below the horizon.

But Lena wasn’t afraid. At least, that’s what she told herself the night she followed the whispers.

It began in her dreams. A voice, low and broken, calling her name as though it had traveled through centuries to find her. She would wake with her heart hammering, her skin clammy, and the echo of that voice lingering like smoke in her chest. The third night in a row, she couldn’t ignore it anymore.

The moon was high when she pulled on her boots, slung a lantern across her arm, and stepped into the cold. The streets were empty, as always, but the whispers… oh, the whispers were waiting. They curled around her like breath on glass, urging her forward.

“Lena…”

Her name slithered from the trees. She followed it past the crooked fence line, through the twisting branches, until the silhouette of the old chapel emerged from the dark. Its bell tower leaned, cracked with age, and vines clawed over the splintered door. She hesitated—finally, fear nipping at her resolve.

Still, she pushed the door open.

Inside, the air was stale, heavy with mold and dust. Broken pews lined the floor, and shards of colored glass littered the ground like forgotten jewels. Her lantern’s glow danced across the altar, where a book—thick, leather-bound—rested as if waiting for her.

The whispers grew stronger, overlapping, a chorus of sorrow and rage. She clutched the lantern tighter, her breath coming quick.

“Read,” the voice demanded.

Her hands trembled as she opened the book. The pages were filled with names—thousands of them, written in ink that bled like old wounds. Near the bottom of the last page, a blank space waited. She reached out before she realized what she was doing, the pull irresistible.

That’s when she saw it.

A shadow rose from the floor, darker than the darkness itself. Its shape was human, yet not. Hollow eyes glowed faintly, and its mouth twisted open though no sound came out—only the whispers grew louder, feeding on the silence it left behind.

“You are the last,” it breathed into her mind.

Lena stumbled back, heart racing. “The last what?”

“The last Whitlock,” the shadow hissed. “Your family sealed us here. Bound our voices to the dark. But a bargain must be kept. One Whitlock must return, or the silence ends.”

Her lantern flickered violently, threatening to die. The shadows stretched, reaching for her, clawing at her skin without touching.

She understood then. The chapel wasn’t abandoned—it was a prison. The whispers weren’t just voices. They were souls, chained to darkness by a curse her own blood had created.

She had two choices: flee and leave Elmridge to its fate, or take her place among the whispers.

The lantern went out.

The town awoke the next morning to silence sharper than a scream. Some said the woods seemed quieter, as though the trees themselves were holding their breath. But Lena Whitlock was never seen again.

Yet on nights when the wind twists through Blackthorn Forest, those who dare to listen swear they hear it: a single voice, soft and broken, whispering from the dark.

And if you listen too long, you might hear your own name.