Whispers in the Dark

The jungle had always belonged to the predators. At least, that’s what the villagers believed. For generations, they whispered tales of a beast that hunted only under the new moon—a creature with glowing eyes, breath like smoke, and claws that left no trail. They called it "Shaqaal", meaning "the Silent One."

Few had seen it and lived.

In a remote village nestled at the edge of the ancient Zartan Forest, a young hunter named Rafiq had made a name for himself. Brave, strong, and clever, he had tracked wolves, leopards, even a starving tiger. But now, an unsettling silence had taken hold of the jungle. No birds sang, no monkeys chattered. And goats, cattle, and even people had begun disappearing—always on nights when the moon vanished.

The elders begged Rafiq not to go.
“This is not your prey,” warned old Zahra, the healer. “Shaqaal is not of this world.”

But Rafiq was proud. Too proud.
“I’ve never met a beast I couldn’t face.”

So, on the next moonless night, armed with only his bow, a blade, and a torch, he slipped into the forest, guided by the stillness and the creeping mist. The trees, tall and ancient, seemed to lean in as if whispering secrets to one another.

Hours passed. Nothing. No sign. Only fog and the sound of his own breathing.

Then, just as he neared the Black Hollow—a place feared even by seasoned hunters—he saw it.

Two eyes. Burning yellow. Motionless.

Rafiq froze.

The creature stepped into view.

It was no ordinary predator. Standing taller than a man, its body was sinewy, coated in dark, shadowy fur that seemed to absorb the light. Its face was wolf-like, but stretched too long, too sharp. And its limbs ended in long, hooked claws that barely touched the ground. It made no sound. No growl. No snarl. Just watched.

Rafiq raised his torch high and shouted, trying to scare it off. The creature blinked slowly—then disappeared. Not ran. Not jumped. Just melted into the mist.

He spun, heart pounding, trying to find it. That’s when the whispers began.

Not from one direction, but all around.

Low. Hollow. Echoing words he couldn’t understand.

He backed away, stumbling over roots, eyes darting. Then he saw movement—three shadows, maybe four, circling him. But every time he looked directly, there was nothing.

Suddenly, a claw lashed out from behind, slashing his shoulder. He cried out and swung his torch—but again, nothing.

The jungle came alive with the whispers. And the laughter.

Realizing he was no longer the hunter, but the hunted, Rafiq turned and ran.

Branches whipped his face, blood soaked his sleeve, and the trees blurred into darkness. He reached an old stone altar—the one from Zahra’s tales—said to be where Shaqaal had first appeared a hundred years ago.

He collapsed behind it, gasping, and dipped his fingers into a pouch he’d brought—ashes from his father's grave. In the old tongue, he muttered a prayer of protection, just as Zahra had taught him in secret.

The forest held its breath.

The whispers paused.

Then... silence.

Rafiq dared to peek over the stone.

There it stood.

Closer than ever. Staring.

But now its eyes weren’t glowing.

They were... confused.

Afraid?

The ashes worked. The old magic still lived.

The creature shrieked—an unearthly sound that pierced the air like glass shattering. It lunged at him—but something stopped it mid-air. An invisible force held it back, burning its skin like fire. The beast howled and vanished into the mist again.

Rafiq, trembling, marked a circle with the ashes around the altar and waited till dawn.

When the first light broke through the canopy, the jungle exhaled. Birds chirped. Leaves rustled. And the whispers died.


---

Rafiq returned to the village, bloodied but alive. He no longer boasted, no longer hunted. Instead, he became the forest's guardian—keeping the ashes sacred, warning others of the old spirits that still roamed beyond the veil.

The jungle was not just home to animals.

It remembered.

It waited.

And under the new moon, it whispered.

Still.