The Whispering Frost

No one dared speak of the Whispering Frost. In the frigid, desolate tundra of northern Siberia, the villagers of Kargash had learned to live in silence. Winter came early and stayed late, locking the landscape in ice and the people in fear. They knew better than to disturb the frost, for when the winds carried voices, it was already too late.

Jason had come to document the strange phenomenon for a documentary on remote cultures. He scoffed at the villagers' warnings, chalking them up to superstition and isolation. Armed with his camera gear and a stubborn will, he ventured to a crumbling outpost called Chertov’s Mark, a name that loosely translated to "The Devil’s Touch."

The outpost was infamous—a former Soviet research station abandoned after the entire team disappeared one winter night. Official records claimed it was hypothermia or an avalanche, but locals whispered of kholodnoye shchebetanye—the "Cold Whispers."

The journey to Chertov’s Mark was brutal. Jason trudged through knee-deep snow, his breath freezing in the air before it could even escape his scarf. The outpost emerged from the white void like a jagged wound in the landscape—rusted metal, shattered glass, and walls scarred with deep, inexplicable gouges.

Inside, the air was unnaturally cold, colder than outside. His thermos froze solid within minutes. Jason set up camp in what appeared to be the main laboratory, a cavernous space with overturned desks and smashed equipment. On the walls, faded warnings in Cyrillic read:

"DO NOT LISTEN."

"DO NOT ANSWER."

"KEEP YOUR EYES CLOSED."

Jason brushed the warnings aside as hysteria. He was here to find facts, not fairy tales. As night fell, he reviewed his footage. The howling wind outside seemed to harmonize, forming a strange, almost melodic hum.

Then he heard it.

A faint whisper, just behind his ear.

He spun around, his flashlight cutting through the shadows. Nothing. But the whisper returned, growing louder, weaving through the wind like a thread pulled taut.

“Jason…”

His name, spoken in a voice that was not his own. It was cracked and brittle, like ice snapping under pressure.

“Who’s there?” he called out, his voice trembling despite his resolve.

The whisper stopped, and for a moment, silence reigned. Then came the laughter—low, guttural, and wet, as if something were drowning beneath the ice.

Jason grabbed his camera and began filming, sweeping the room with his flashlight. In the far corner, he saw it: a hunched figure, cloaked in frost, its eyes two hollow voids of blackness. Its mouth was impossibly wide, jagged teeth glistening like icicles.

Before Jason could react, the figure lunged. He stumbled back, the camera slipping from his grasp. But the figure didn’t attack. It stood inches from him, unmoving, its breath a fog that filled the room.

And then it spoke.

In a thousand voices, overlapping and discordant, it whispered, “Listen. Let us in.”

Jason screamed, clutching his ears, but the voices drilled deeper, bypassing his hands, his skin, his skull. They filled his mind, unraveling every memory, every thought, until only cold remained.

Hours later, Jason awoke outside the outpost, frostbitten and disoriented. His camera was gone, and the path back to the village was a blur of white and shadows. The whispers were gone, but he could still feel them writhing in his head, like parasites burrowing deeper.

When he reached Kargash, the villagers recoiled. His eyes were sunken, his skin a deathly blue, but it was his voice that terrified them most.

It wasn’t his.

Jason’s lips moved, but the words came out in the same fractured, icy tones as the whispers. “The frost listens now,” he said, his face splitting into a frozen smile. “And it’s hungry.”

No one saw Jason again after that. But on cold, still nights, when the wind dies and the frost creeps close, the villagers swear they can hear him—his voice joining the chorus, calling them into the endless winter.

And those who listen never return.