The Whispering Oak

The Whispering Oak

The town of Westbrook was small, nestled deep in the countryside, with winding roads and old, weathered buildings. The people were friendly, the air was fresh, and life seemed to move at a slower pace. But there was one place the locals avoided—the old oak tree at the edge of town.

It stood in the middle of a forgotten cemetery, its gnarled branches reaching out like twisted fingers. The trunk was thick and hollowed out, and its bark was dark, almost black, like it had been burned by some unseen fire. Some said the tree had been there for hundreds of years, while others believed it had always been there, even before the town had been founded.

But the most unsettling thing about the tree was the whispering.

On quiet nights, when the wind was still, people swore they could hear voices coming from the oak. Soft murmurs, like whispers carried on the wind, though no one was ever around. The voices were faint, almost like a memory trying to escape from the depths of time. The older residents of Westbrook would tell stories about the tree, stories of how it had witnessed things—dark things—that no one dared to speak of.

Catherine, a young woman who had recently moved to Westbrook to escape the chaos of city life, had heard the stories, but she didn’t believe in ghosts or anything supernatural. To her, the oak tree was just another piece of history, an old relic in a town full of them. One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the town was bathed in the soft glow of twilight, she decided to take a walk.

Curious about the oak, she wandered past the rows of gravestones, the air cool against her skin. The whispers were faint at first, almost imperceptible. But as she neared the tree, they grew louder. Catherine stopped, her heart beginning to race. She could hear them clearly now—soft voices, muttering something in a language she couldn’t understand.

“Hello?” Catherine called out, her voice breaking the stillness of the night.

The whispers stopped, and for a moment, there was complete silence.

Then, a cold breeze swept through the cemetery, making the branches of the oak sway. A low creak echoed from the trunk, followed by a sudden, sharp whisper, “Help me…”

Catherine’s breath caught in her throat. She stepped back, her heart hammering in her chest. Her feet felt heavy, as if the ground was pulling her toward the tree. Despite her fear, she couldn’t turn away. Something—something in those whispers—was calling her.

She took another step forward, then another, until she was standing directly in front of the oak. The air around her seemed to thicken, and she could feel the weight of the tree’s presence pressing down on her. The whispers had turned into soft moans, like a distant cry for help.

“Who are you?” Catherine whispered, her voice trembling.

The wind died down, and for a moment, there was nothing but the sound of her own heartbeat. Then, a voice, low and ragged, answered her from within the tree.

“I never wanted this…”

Catherine’s pulse quickened. She leaned in closer, pressing her ear to the cold bark of the oak.

“Who are you?” she asked again, more urgently.

The voice seemed to struggle, as though it were trying to remember something long buried. “I was… once like you… but I was trapped here. Trapped in this tree.”

Suddenly, the ground beneath Catherine’s feet seemed to tremble, and she stumbled backward. The oak groaned, its branches swaying violently, though there was no wind. A dark shadow seemed to emerge from the hollow of the tree, taking form before her eyes—a figure, obscured in darkness, its face hidden in the shadows.

“You don’t belong here,” the figure hissed, its voice like nails scraping against stone.

Catherine froze, terror flooding her veins. She tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. The figure stepped forward, and the ground beneath her cracked open like a chasm, threatening to swallow her whole.

“You must leave,” it whispered again, louder this time, its cold breath brushing against her skin.

With a surge of panic, Catherine turned and fled, her legs carrying her as fast as they could. She didn’t stop until she was back at her cottage, slamming the door behind her and locking it. She collapsed against the wall, gasping for air.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the shadowy figure from the tree, its dark presence looming over her. She heard the whispers again, distant but persistent, calling to her from the oak.

The next morning, Catherine went to the local library, desperate to learn more about the tree and the strange figure she had encountered. She found an old book about the history of Westbrook, written by a long-dead historian. It told of a man named Samuel Holloway, a former resident of the town who had been accused of witchcraft many years ago. He had been executed, and his body was buried beneath the oak tree. The book claimed that Samuel’s spirit had never rested, bound to the tree by some dark magic.

The whispers were not the voices of the dead—they were the cries of someone still trapped, a soul longing for release.

Catherine realized, with growing horror, that she had been chosen. Chosen to help the trapped soul find peace. But the oak would not let her leave until it had what it wanted.

And what it wanted… was her.