Whispers on the Wind

The swings moved in perfect unison, creaking softly as though some invisible force had set them into motion. I’d never seen the park so empty. The late afternoon sun cast long, golden shadows across the cracked pavement, but the scene felt far from serene. I rubbed the back of my neck, suddenly aware of how cold the air had grown despite the summer heat. Something wasn’t right.

I had only stopped to rest. My morning hike had turned into an unintended marathon after I lost track of time exploring the nearby trails. The park’s entrance had seemed like the perfect spot to catch my breath, maybe sip some water. But now, looking around, I felt an urge to leave—an urge to run.

The sensation began as a whisper: a subtle pressure on the edge of my awareness. It felt like eyes crawling over my skin, unseen but undeniable. I turned, scanning the park for signs of anyone else. The playground stood empty, the slide and jungle gym worn and rusting. Beyond that, thick trees lined the perimeter, their branches stretching like skeletal fingers against the sky.

And then I saw it. Or rather, them. Dozens of shadows nestled among the trees, unnaturally still and perfectly spaced. They didn’t shift with the sunlight or sway as the branches swayed. My pulse quickened. I told myself they were tricks of light, oddly-shaped gaps between the leaves. That would’ve made sense… if one of them hadn’t moved.

The shadow rippled, darker than the others, and stepped forward just enough for me to glimpse something impossible. It had eyes. Not human eyes, not animal eyes—just twin pinpricks of light, floating in the murk of its form. They blinked, slow and deliberate, as if savoring my reaction.

I stumbled back a step, my foot scuffing against loose gravel. The sound seemed to echo louder than it should have, snapping the spell for a moment. I bolted toward the park exit, my shoes pounding against the ground, breath tearing through my throat. The shadows didn’t chase me. At least, not that I could see. But the feeling that something was watching never left.

I made it to the parking lot, heart pounding like a war drum. My car was parked just a few yards away, and I fumbled for my keys, hands trembling as if they no longer belonged to me. The cold air seemed sharper here, biting into my skin.

Then I froze.

Something caught my eye: a small, folded piece of paper pinned under my windshield wiper. It hadn’t been there when I arrived. My stomach turned as I reached for it, fingers hesitant as if touching the note might set some trap in motion.

The paper felt rough, like parchment. Scrawled in uneven handwriting were just five words:

Don’t come back. Stay lucky.

I spun around, half-expecting to see those twin pinpricks of light hovering in the shadows of the parking lot. But the space was empty. The swings were still visible in the distance, their steady swaying mocking my panic.

I drove home in silence, replaying the events in my mind and trying to make sense of what I’d seen. That night, I tried to convince myself it was some elaborate prank, or my imagination running wild after a long day. Yet the feeling of those eyes stayed with me, the cold grip of their gaze haunting my dreams.

Weeks passed, and life returned to something resembling normal. The memory of the park lingered but dulled around the edges, becoming just another eerie story I’d tell myself late at night. Then, one morning, as I left for work, I noticed something on my porch.

Another note. Folded, weathered parchment, just like before. My hands shook as I unfolded it, dreading what I might find.

It read: They found you. Run.

I glanced up instinctively, scanning the street, the trees, the rooftops. But I didn’t need to look far. Across the road, standing beneath the streetlamp in broad daylight, was a figure made of shadow. Its pinprick eyes glowed faintly, and this time, it didn’t blink.

The swings were no longer swaying in the park. They were swaying in my mind, a pendulum counting down the seconds I had left.