Whispers of the Forgotten

In the shadow of the mountains, where the mist never seemed to lift and the trees swayed even when there was no wind, lay the forgotten village of Darya. Once a thriving settlement with laughter echoing through its narrow streets, Darya was now a ghost town—abandoned, silent, and cloaked in rumors of dark happenings.

No one remembered exactly when people had stopped visiting Darya. Some said it was cursed, others believed the ground itself was poisoned. What was undeniable was that no one who went looking for answers ever came back. That is, until Amina decided to return.

Amina was in her late twenties, a curious journalist with a stubborn streak. Her grandmother, Nani Ruqayya, had grown up in Darya and fled as a child after a “great darkness” consumed the village. Every time Amina asked for details, Nani would grow pale and change the subject.

But when Nani passed away, she left behind a box for Amina—inside, a faded photograph of a family standing before a large wooden house, and a map with a trail leading to Darya. Written on the back of the photo in a trembling hand were the words: “You must bury the past before it rises again.”

---

Despite warnings from local villagers, Amina set off into the forest, determined to uncover the truth. The path to Darya was overgrown, nearly invisible beneath layers of moss and fallen branches. She carried a flashlight, camera, and Nani’s old journal.

As she crossed the threshold of the village, a chill prickled her spine. The houses stood crooked, their wooden frames rotted with time. Vines had crept through windows and wrapped themselves around doorways, like nature was trying to hold the darkness inside.

Amina found the house from the photograph. It was larger than the others, its door hanging off the hinges. Inside, dust danced in the light filtering through broken slats. The furniture was still there—abandoned mid-meal, like the family had just vanished.

She began taking pictures, documenting each eerie detail. But as dusk approached, a strange hum filled the air—low, rhythmic, like someone whispering a lullaby in reverse. The flashlight flickered.

Then, she heard it.

“Amina…”

A breath, right beside her ear.

She spun around. No one.

She tried to leave, but the fog had grown thick, and the path was gone. Her phone had no signal. She was trapped.

---

As night fell, the whispers grew louder.

She fled to the only place that felt familiar—an old well behind the house. Nani had written about it in her journal, calling it “the mouth of the earth.” According to the entries, villagers once made offerings into the well to “keep the silence fed.”

Heart racing, Amina peered into the darkness below. It was impossibly deep. She dropped a stone in. No sound.

Suddenly, a wind howled up from the well, and from the woods, shapes emerged—figures made of shadow, with eyes like dying embers. They surrounded the house, chanting in a language older than memory.

One of them stepped forward. It wore the shape of her grandmother.

“Why did you come back, child?” it whispered.

Amina could barely speak. “I wanted to know the truth…”

“The truth,” the thing said, “is buried.”

Then the ground beneath her feet cracked. Amina fell into the well, swallowed by darkness.

---

She awoke in a cavern. It pulsed with a faint, red glow. The walls were covered in ancient carvings—spirals, eyes, and figures offering gifts to something large and unseen. In the center was an altar, and atop it, a box identical to the one her grandmother had left her.

Hands trembling, she opened it.

Inside was a bundle of hair tied with a red ribbon, and a note:

“I buried it to stop the voices. I prayed it would be enough.”

Amina realized the truth. Her grandmother hadn’t just escaped the village. She had trapped something here—something old and hungry. But now that Amina had returned and opened the way, it was stirring again.

The cavern shook. The shadows poured in.

In a final act of desperation, Amina placed the bundle back on the altar and repeated the prayer from the journal. The shadows screamed—a sound like breaking glass and weeping souls—and then, silence.

---

Morning came.

Amina awoke at the edge of the village, the well sealed shut with stone and ash. The houses were now truly empty, their haunting presence lifted. The forest was quiet.

She returned to the city, but never spoke of Darya again. The story never made it to the newspaper. She buried the journal, the photograph, and the memories.

Some secrets, she realized, were better left beneath the soil.

But on certain nights, when the wind is still and the moon is full, she hears her name carried through the air—soft and chilling:

“Amina…”

And she wonders if the silence was ever truly fed.