I've always been a night owl. Something about the darkness,
the solitude and the quiet hum of the engine against the
backdrop of an endless sky full of stars.
It's like a drug to me. I've been driving these roads
for years, long enough to know that the night isn't just a
time, it's a place. A place I call the Ever Night.
The Ever Night isn't for everyone.
It's a realm where the line between the living and the dead,
the known and the unknown gets blurred.
It's a stretch of time and space where you're more likely to
encounter the inexplicable than the mundane.
You might think it's romantic, poetic even, but let me tell
you, it's anything but. It's a place where your thoughts
are your only companions, and sometimes they're the worst kind
to have. I eased my truck into a gas
station that looked like it had seen better days.
The neon sign flickered erratically, casting eerie
shadows on the cracked pavement. The place was a relic, a
leftover from a time when Rd. trips were the epitome of
American freedom. Now it stood as a monument to a
bygone era, and perhaps to the forgotten souls who still roamed
these roads. I killed the engine and sat
there for a moment, listening to the ticking of the cooling
metal, a lullaby for the restless.
I glanced at the rear view mirror, half expecting to see
something for someone staring back.
But it was just me, my eyes betraying the years and miles I
put between myself and the world I used to know.
I got out of the truck, my boots crunching on the gravel as I
made my way to the cafe adjoining the gas station.
The bell above the door jingled as I entered, announcing my
presence to no one in particular.
The place was empty, save for a lone waitress who looked as worn
out as the vinyl booth. She was cleaning coffee?
She asked, not bothering to look up.
Black, I replied. Taking a seat at the counter,
she poured the coffee, the dark liquid steaming as it hit the
bottom of the chipped mug. I wrapped my hands around it,
welcoming the warmth. Why are you out here?
She finally asked, breaking the silence.
I looked up, meeting her eyes. I could ask you the same.
She shrugged. It's a job, it pays the bills.
And you? She pressed.
I paused, considering my answer. I guess I'm looking for
something. Something or someone, Maybe
both, I said, taking a sip of the coffee.
But mostly I'm trying to understand the ever night.
She looked puzzled. The ever Night.
It's what I call this time. This place, the middle of
nowhere, in the middle of the night.
She nodded as if she understood, but didn't want to say it out
loud. Just then, the door jingled
again and a young man walked in. He looked out of place, like a
character from a different story who had accidentally stumbled
into this one. Mind if I join you?
He asked, his eyes meeting mine. I gestured to the seat next to
me. Be my guest.
As he sat down. I couldn't help but feel that
the evernight had just delivered something, or someone entirely
unexpected, and in that moment I knew that the line between
reality and nightmare was about to blur once again.
Little did I know. It was more than just a line
that would be crossed that night.
The young man slid into the seat next to me, his eyes bright and
eager. He looked like he'd just stepped
out of a college campus, not someone you'd expect to find in
a run down cafe in the middle of the ever night.
Name's Marcus, he said, extending a hand.
His grip was firm, confident. I'm Jack, I replied, sizing him
up. You look a little young to be
out here in the middle of nowhere.
He grinned, revealing a set of perfectly white teeth.
I get that a lot, But age is just a number, right?
Sometimes it's more than that, I said, taking a sip of my coffee.
Sometimes it's a collection of choices, experiences, and scars.
Marcus chuckled. You sound like a philosopher or
a guy who's seen too much, I replied, setting down my mug.
The waitress came over her eyes, meeting Marcus's coffee.
Tea, actually, he said, surprising me again.
Green, if you have it. She nodded and went about
preparing his drink. Marcus turned back to me, his
eyes a light with curiosity. So what brings you out here,
Jack? Business or pleasure?
A bit of both, I said cautiously.
I drive these roads for a living, but I also find a
certain satisfaction in it. What about you?
What's a guy like you doing out here?
Marcus leaned back, his eyes twinkling.
Podcasts, he said, as if that explained everything.
I raised an eyebrow. Podcasts.
Yeah, man, Creepypastas, horror stories, true crime, You name
it, I listen to it. Ever heard of corpse husband?
I nodded. I've come across his stuff.
Dark, unsettling tales. Exactly.
Marcus exclaimed. I used to listen to those
stories while driving home from my old job.
Got me thinking, why not make a career out of it?
Drive through the night, listen to creepy stories, and maybe
even experience one for myself. I looked at him, trying to gauge
if he was serious. You want to experience a Horror
Story? He shrugged.
Not like get murdered or anything, but something spooky,
Something I can talk about post online, You know, for the
clicks. I shook my head, incredulous.
You're braver than most, or maybe just more foolish.
Marcus laughed. Could be a bit of both, the
waitress said. A cup of steaming green tea in
front of Marcus. He took a sip and sighed
contentedly. So, any interesting stories to
share? He asked, looking at me
expectantly. I paused, considering whether to
open up to this stranger. The ever night had a way of
making people reveal more than they intended.
Let's just say I've seen things, I finally said.
Things that would make your creepypasta seem like bedtime
stories. Marcus leaned in, his eyes wide.
Do tell. I looked at my watch.
It was 2:23 AM. Time was slipping away, and I
had miles to go, But something told me that Marcus, or whatever
he represented it was an encounter I couldn't just drive
away from. Maybe another time, I said,
finishing my coffee. The night is long, but the road
is longer. Marcus nodded, seemingly
understanding. Until then.
Safe travels, Jack. As I got up to leave, I couldn't
shake the feeling that Marcus was more than just a curious
young man. He was a harbinger, a sign of
the unsettling experiences that lay ahead.
And as I stepped out into the ever night, I knew that the line
between reality and nightmare was about to get a whole lot
thinner. I climbed back into my truck,
the engine roaring to life with a comforting familiarity.
But as I pulled out of the gas station, my mind kept drifting
back to Marcus. His youthful enthusiasm for the
macabre was unsettling, yet oddly captivating.
I found myself intrigued, despite my better judgment.
My phone buzzed, a message lighting up the screen.
It was from Marcus. Forgot to share my story.
Meet up next rest stop. I hesitated, my thumb hovering
over the screen. This was the ever night, a realm
where caution was often the only thing standing between you and
the inexplicable. But curiosity got the better of
me. I tapped out a quick shore and
set the phone down. 20 minutes later, I pulled into a rest
stop, the kind that promised scenic views but delivered only
darkness and a couple of worn out picnic tables.
Marcus's truck was already there, parked under the dim glow
of a flickering street light. I got out and walked over.
Marcus was leaning against his truck, a steaming cup of what I
assumed was green tea in his hands.
Thought you'd chicken out, he said, grinning.
I've faced worse than a guy who listens to podcasts, I replied,
leaning against my own truck. Marcus chuckled.
Then his expression turned serious.
So you wanted a story, right? Something to rival those
creepypastas. I nodded, bracing myself for
whatever tale he had to spin. It happened three days ago, he
began, his voice tinged with a nervous energy.
I was driving through the bayous, somewhere between
Oklahoma and Louisiana, middle of nowhere, just the way I like
it. I listened, the night air
thickening with tension as Marcus recounted his experience.
He described pulling over to relieve himself, the unsettling
silence that enveloped him, and the sudden snap of a twig that
shattered the quiet. I couldn't see anything, he
continued, his eyes narrowing. The truck's lights were too
bright, blinding me, So I stepped further out, trying to
see what made that noise, and I prompted my own senses on high
alert. Nothing.
Just darkness and that eerie silence.
But then, as I turned back to my truck, I heard it, a soft thud,
like something hitting the ground.
I didn't wait to find out what it was.
I bolted, jumped into my truck, and floored it.
Marcus paused, taking a shaky sip of his tea as I drove away.
I glanced in the rearview mirror.
That's when I saw them deer standing on their hind legs,
staring at me as I speed off. I looked at Marcus, trying to
gauge his sincerity. His eyes met mine, wide and
unblinking. So what do you think?
He asked, a hint of vulnerability creeping into his
voice. I considered my words carefully.
I think the Evernight has a way of making our deepest fears and
fantasies come to life. Sometimes it's hard to tell
which is which. Marcus nodded, seemingly
relieved. Well, whatever it was, it's a
hell of a story, right? It is, I agreed, my mind racing
with questions and doubts. But remember, Marcus, stories
are like roads in the Evernight. Follow them too far and you
might not like where they lead. As I climbed back into my truck,
I couldn't shake the feeling that Marcus's tail was far from
over. And as I drove off into the
enveloping darkness, I wondered which of us was really chasing
stories and which was being chased.
I hit the road again, the truck's headlights cutting
through the darkness like a knife.
My mind was a swirl of thoughts, Marcus's story mingling with my
own experiences in the Ever Night.
The young man had a tail all right, but something about it
didn't sit well with me. Maybe it was the way he told it,
or maybe it was the tail itself. Either way, it left me uneasy.
As I drove, my eyes caught sight of something in the rear view
mirror. Marcus's truck was following me,
a distant pair of headlights in the enveloping black.
I felt a twinge of apprehension. Was this part of his thrill
seeking adventure, or was there something more sinister at play?
I decided to pull over at the next gas station, a rundown
place that looked like it had been forgotten by time.
Marcus pulled in behind me, parking his truck under a
flickering streetlight. I got out pretending to check my
tires, but my eyes were on Marcus's truck.
That's when I saw it. The deer antlers lodged in the
grill of his truck, stained with a dark, rusty color that could
only be blood. My mind raced back to his story.
He'd said the deer stood on their hind legs as he drove
away. So how did he end up with
antlers stuck in his grill? I walked over, feigning casual
interest. Nice truck.
Those antlers add a certain character.
Marcus looked up, his eyes meeting mine.
Yeah, picked them up on one of my drives.
Adds to the whole experience, don't you think?
I nodded, my mind screaming that something was off.
Sure does. Just then my eyes caught
something else, a hand barely visible, sticking out from a gap
in the tailgate of Marcus's truck.
My heart pounded in my chest as I moved closer, pretending to
admire his truck. Mind if I take a closer look?
I asked, my voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through
me. Be my guest, Marcus replied,
though I detected a note of hesitation.
I walked around to the back, my eyes locked onto that small gap,
and then I saw them, the eyes staring back at me, filled with
a terror that words couldn't describe.
They were human eyes, and they weren't Marcus's.
I stepped back, my mind racing. You've got quite a set up here,
I said, forcing a smile. Marcus nodded, his eyes never
leaving mine. It's perfect for what I need.
I walked back to my truck, my thoughts a whirlwind of
suspicion and fear. Marcus, or whatever he was, was
hiding something, something dark and twisted.
As I climbed into my truck, I took one last look at Marcus.
He was standing there, watching me, his eyes now a dark void
that seemed to swallow all light.
I hit the gas, my truck roaring to life as I speed away in my
rearview mirror. I saw Marcus climb into his
truck, but he didn't follow. Maybe he'd found what he was
looking for, or maybe he was still searching.
Either way, I knew one thing for sure.
The line between reality and nightmare had just been
shattered and I was driving blind into the ever night, where
anything was possible and nothing was as it seemed.
I drove for what felt like hours, the road stretching
endlessly before me. The Ever night had a way of
distorting time, making minutes feel like hours and hours like
seconds. My mind was a labyrinth of
thoughts, each one more unsettling than the last.
Who or what was Marcus? And what had I just narrowly
escaped? I considered going to the
authorities, but what would I tell them?
That I'd met a man who might not be a man in a place that defied
all logic. They'd lock me up before Marcus,
that was for sure. As I drove, my phone buzzed a
new message. My heart skipped a beat as I
glanced at the screen. It was an anonymous e-mail, the
subject line reading the truth about Marcus.
I pulled over my hands, trembling as I open the e-mail.
It was a news article dated a few weeks back.
The headline sent chills down my spine.
Local man Marcus Thompson, missing, feared dead.
The article went on to describe Marcus, a 25 year old who had
recently taken up Long haul trucking.
He was last seen at a gas station, the very one where we'd
met. The police had no leads, no
suspects, nothing. He had simply vanished into the
evernight. I sat there, the weight of the
revelation sinking in The Marcus I'd met was not Marcus at all,
but something far more sinister. And the real Marcus, it seemed,
had paid the price for venturing too far into the unknown.
I thought about his family, who were probably still searching
for him, clinging to the hope that he might come back.
But I knew better. The Evernight didn't give back
what it took. I deleted the e-mail, not
wanting any trace of this nightmare on my phone.
But as I drove on, I couldn't shake the feeling of guilt.
Had my encounter with the impostor given it the confidence
to continue its charade? Had I, in some twisted way,
become an accomplice to its dark deeds?
The road ahead was a blur, the lines between right and wrong,
real and unreal, merging into a murky Gray.
I thought about Marcus's enthusiasm for horror stories,
his desire for a life less ordinary.
In the end, he had gotten his wish, though not in the way he'd
hoped. As I drove through the
evernight, I realized that the realm had claimed another
victim, adding another chapter to its neverending story.
But this chapter was different. It was a cautionary tale, a grim
reminder of the dangers that lurked in the dark corners of
the world and within ourselves. I couldn't bring Marcus back,
but I could share his story as he'd wanted.
It was a poor substitute for the life he'd lost, but it was all I
could offer. And so, as I drove on, I made a
vow to myself. I would write this story not for
the thrill or the fame, but as a warning.
Because sometimes the most terrifying stories are not those
that we listen to, but those that we live.
And in the ever night, we're all just characters in a story
that's still being written, each of us teetering on the edge of
becoming the next cautionary tale.
I was back on the road, the dashboard clock reading 3:47 AM.
The evernight stretched out before me, an endless tapestry
of darkness. My mind was still reeling from
the revelations about Marcus, or the thing that had worn his
face. I had narrowly escaped, but the
real Marcus hadn't been so lucky.
I thought about sharing this story, warning others about the
dangers that lurked in the evernight.
But who would believe me? I could already hear the
skepticism, the dismissive laughs, and yet the tale was too
important, too horrifying, to keep to myself.
My phone buzzed again, snapping me out of my thoughts.
Another anonymous e-mail. My heart sank as I read the
subject line. You're next.
I pulled over, my hands shaking as I opened the e-mail.
It was a video file. I hit play and my blood ran
cold. It was footage of me, taken from
a distance at the very rest stop where I'd met Marcus.
I watched in horror as the camera zoomed in on my truck,
then on me, talking to Marcus. The video ended with a shot of
my license plate. I was being watched, stalked by
something that could wear human faces, something that had
claimed Marcus and was now coming for me.
I deleted the e-mail, my mind racing as I considered my
options. There was nowhere to run,
nowhere to hide. The evernight was everywhere,
and it had set its sights on me. I started the truck and floored
it, my eyes darting to the rearview mirror.
No headlights, no sign of Marcus's truck, But that didn't
mean I was alone in the ever night.
You're never truly alone. As I speed down the highway, my
headlights flickered, then went out.
I slammed on the brakes, my heart pounding as darkness
enveloped me. I fumbled for my phone, using
its dim light to navigate the inky blackness.
And that's when I heard it, a soft, whispering voice coming
from the back of the truck. Looking for this, it said, and I
turned to see my own face smiling back at me from the
darkness. But the eyes were all wrong,
empty voids of blackness that seemed to swallow all light.
I screamed, throwing the truck door open and stumbling out into
the ever night. I ran, my breath ragged, my legs
heavy with exhaustion. But no matter how fast I ran,
the whispering voice followed, always just a step behind.
As I reached a fork in the road, I realized the horrifying truth.
There was no escape, no way out. The Ever Night had claimed me
just as it had claimed Marcus and countless others before him,
and as I stood there paralyzed with fear, I felt a cold hand on
my shoulder. It's grip tightening as it
pulled me back into the darkness.
The last thing I heard was my own voice whispering in my ear.
Welcome to the evernight. And then there was nothing.
Only darkness stretching on forever.
A neverending tale of horror and despair.
I had become the Evernights final tale, a cautionary story
that would never be told, lost in the depths of a realm where
nightmares come to life and where the line between the
living and the dead no longer exists.
I'd always been drawn to the quiet, the kind of quiet you can
only find miles away from the nearest town, where the only
sounds are the rustling of leaves and the distant calls of
animals. That's why I moved out here, to
this old house, surrounded by nothing but woods and open
fields, a place where I could breathe, think, and live without
the constant hum of civilization.
The first year was exactly what I'd hoped for.
Tranquil and uneventful, I spent my days tending to my garden,
caring for a few farm animals and soaking in the solitude.
But then, one evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, it
happened. A knock.
Not on my door, but from the woods behind my house, a single
resonant thud that echoed through the trees and into the
very core of my being. I stood there, garden hoe in
hand, staring into the dense foliage.
The woods had always been a source of peace for me, but in
that moment they felt like an impenetrable wall, hiding
something unknown. I waited for another knock, but
it never came. Instead, a strange vocalization
filled the air. A whoop.
A sound so distinct and out of place that it sent a shiver down
my spine. I didn't sleep much that night.
My mind raced with possibilities.
Was it an animal, a person, or something else entirely?
I had no answers, only questions and a growing sense of unease.
Days turned into weeks, and the knocking returned.
Always once, sometimes twice, but never more than that, and
always accompanied by that eerie whoop, I tried to catch a
glimpse of whatever was making the noise, even setting up trail
cameras at the edge of the woods.
But the photos showed nothing, just empty frames of trees and
darkness. Whatever it was, it was smart
enough to avoid detection. I took to calling it Whoop, a
name as good as any for something I knew so little
about, And despite the mystery, I found myself growing
accustomed to its presence. It was like we had an unspoken
agreement, a boundary neither of us would cross.
I stayed out of the woods and it stayed out of my life.
Or so I thought. It wasn't long before I noticed
something else. My garden and animal pens were
being raided, carrots pulled from the ground, chicken feed
scattered, and once even a missing goat.
I fortified the fences, double checked the locks, but still the
raids continued. And always on the nights when
the knocking occurred, I couldn't shake the feeling that
Whoop was responsible, that it was sending me a message.
A warning, perhaps, but a warning of what?
I had no idea. All I knew was that the boundary
had been crossed, and the quiet life I'd sought was no longer as
quiet as it seemed. As the weeks passed, the
knocking became a part of my life, a haunting melody in the
otherwise peaceful Symphony of my rural existence.
I didn't know what Whoop was or what it wanted, but I knew it
was out there, lurking in the shadows, watching.
And so I watched back, waiting for the next knock, the next
whoop, the next piece of the puzzle.
But as I would soon discover, some puzzles are better left
unsolved. Patterns are the language of the
wilderness, the way a hawk circles its prey, the tracks a
deer leaves in the mud, the way the wind shifts before a storm.
I'd always been good at reading those signs, but this was
different. This was a pattern I couldn't
ignore, the pattern that seemed to be communicating something
far more complex than the simple rhythms of nature.
The knocking returned as I knew it would, but this time I was
ready. I'd spent the days since the
last knock fortifying my property, setting up more trail
cameras, even installing motion activated lights at the edge of
the woods. But whoop was elusive, always
staying just out of sight, just out of reach.
That's when I noticed it. The pattern.
One knock and my garden would be rated 2 knocks and something
would be missing from the animal pens.
It was like clockwork, a schedule that whoop seemed to be
adhering to with almost human like precision.
So I decided to test a theory the next time I heard a single
knock. I filled a bowl with fruits and
vegetables and set it on a Flat Rock about 20 yards into the
tree line. It felt like a peace offering, a
way to communicate that I understood the message even if I
didn't fully understand the messenger.
The next morning, the bowl was empty and my garden was
untouched. For the first time in weeks, I
felt a sense of relief, a glimmer of hope that maybe, just
maybe, I could coexist with this mysterious presence.
Emboldened, I continued the ritual. 2 knocks met, a bowl
filled with scraps of meat and fish set out near the animal
pens, and each time the offering was accepted, the raid ceased
and the boundary seemed to be reestablished.
But as the days turned into weeks, I couldn't shake the
feeling that I was playing a dangerous game that by
acknowledging WHOOP. By feeding it, I was inviting it
further into my life, crossing a line that should never be
crossed. I even tried to capture it on
film. I set up more trail cameras,
positioning them near the offering sites, hoping to catch
a glimpse of WHOOP in the act. But the photos showed nothing,
just empty frames of darkness and trees.
It was like Whoop knew it was being watched, and it didn't
like it. So I stopped trying to capture
it, stop trying to solve the mystery.
Instead, I focused on maintaining the boundary, on
keeping the peace. I continued to leave offerings,
continued to listen for the knocks, continued to live my
life in this uneasy state of coexistence.
But deep down, I knew it couldn't last, that sooner or
later the pattern would break, the boundary would be crossed,
and the life I'd built in this quiet corner of the wilderness
would be shattered. And as I lay in bed each night,
listening to the sounds of the woods, waiting for the next
knock, the next whoop, I couldn't help but wonder what
happens when the pattern breaks. What happens when whoop decides
it wants more than just a bowl of food?
And what happens when the hunter becomes the hunted?
Jesse was a man of the road, a truck driver who found solace in
the hum of an engine in the stretch of endless Hwy.
When he moved in, he brought with him the scent of diesel and
the promise of companionship. I thought maybe, just maybe,
life would get back to normal, or as normal as it could be,
with whoop lurking in the woods for a while.
It seemed like I was right. The knocking stopped, the raid
ceased, and the woods returned to their peaceful, silent state.
Jesse was skeptical when I told him about whoop, about the
knocks and the offerings. He laughed it off, said I'd been
alone out here too long, that my imagination was playing tricks
on me. But then he surprised me.
One evening he came home with a small box wrapped in a bow.
Inside was a necklace, a silver chain with a heart-shaped
diamond that glimmered in the fading light.
It was beautiful, and for a moment I forgot about the
knocks, the raids, the unsettling presence in the
woods. Consider it a peace offering,
Jesse said, smiling as he clasped it around my neck.
A way to bring a little light into this place.
I wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that the necklace
could somehow banish the darkness, that it settled over
my life. But deep down, I knew better.
I knew that whoop was still out there, that the boundary was
still fragile, that the piece was still uneasy.
As the weeks passed, I found myself listening for the knocks,
waiting for the whoop, half expecting to find another empty
bowl or raided garden. But nothing happened.
The woods remained silent, and I began to question my own sanity.
Had I imagined it all? Had the loneliness and isolation
finally gotten to me? Jesse seemed to think so.
He settled into life here, easily, taking on odd jobs when
he wasn't on the road, filling the house with laughter and
warmth. But he never ventured into the
woods, never crossed that invisible boundary that I'd come
to both fear and respect. I don't know what you think is
out there, he'd say. But I've seen enough to know
that the real monsters are human, not some mythical
creature in the woods. I wanted to argue, wanted to
tell him that sometimes the monsters are closer than we
think, that sometimes the boundary is not between human
and creature, but between the known and the unknown.
But I didn't. Instead, I let the silence speak
for me, Let the absence of knocks, the absence of raids
lull me into a false sense of security.
And so life continued, A delicate balance of peace and
tension, of known and unknown, of human and creature.
Jesse and I lived our lives, each in our own way, each
respecting the others boundaries, each pretending that
the woods were just woods, that the knocks were just knocks,
That whoop was just a figment of my imagination.
But as I would soon discover, some boundaries are meant to be
crossed, some knocks are meant to be answered, and some
monsters are all too real. The evening was settling in, a
soft blanket of twilight that usually brought me comfort.
I was on the back patio, the diamond necklace Jesse had given
me catching the last rays of the setting sun.
It was a beautiful piece, and for a moment I allowed myself to
get lost in its sparkle, to forget about the lurking enigma
of the woods. Then it came.
Knock, knock knock. 3 knocks, clear as day, each one a punch
to my gut. The first two were almost
back-to-back, but the third had a pause, a hesitation that threw
me off. My heart raced.
My palm sweated. 3 knocks. What did three mean?
I looked back at the house half expecting to see Jesse at the
window sharing my concern, but he was nowhere to be seen.
I was alone, facing whatever new message WHOOP was sending.
I went into OverDrive. I filled a bowl with fruits,
vegetables, fish, even sweets, anything I could think of that
might satisfy whatever craving had prompted the third knock.
I set the bowl on the Flat Rock, 20 yards into the tree line,
just like before. Then I waited, my eyes straining
to Pierce the gathering darkness.
My ears tuned to the slightest sound.
The night passed without incident.
No more knocks, No more whoops, No more raids.
I went to bed cautiously optimistic, hoping that the
offering had been enough, that the boundary had been
reestablished, that the piece had been restored.
But when I stepped outside the next morning, my heart sank.
The bowl was untouched, still filled with the food I'd left
out, and there, on my back patio was something that made my blood
run cold, a clump of hair, dark and knotted with a streak of
pink highlighting. I picked it up, my hands
trembling. And then I saw it.
It wasn't just hair. It was a scalp.
A human scalp. I dropped it, stumbling back
into the house, my mind racing, my stomach churning.
I had to find Jesse, had to tell him what I'd found, had to make
sense of this new, horrifying development.
I found him in the living room, his face pale, his eyes distant.
Jesse, you need to see this. I stammered, struggling to find
the words to convey the urgency, the danger.
He looked at me, his eyes meeting mine, and for a moment I
saw something there, a flicker of fear, a glimmer of
recognition. I'll be right there, he said,
his voice steady but his hands trembling.
I led him to the patio, my heart pounding, my mind screaming.
But when we got there, the scalp was gone, vanished, as if it had
never been there at all. Jesse looked at me, his eyes
searching mine, his face a mask of confusion and concern.
There's nothing here, he said, his voice tinged with doubt with
suspicion. But I knew what I'd seen.
I knew what it meant. And as I stood there, staring
into the empty woods, listening for the knocks that never came,
I knew that the boundary had been shattered, that the piece
had been broken, and that something, human or creature,
had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed.
The morning air was thick with the scent of damp earth.
When the police cars rolled up my driveway, their lights cut
through the fog, casting eerie shadows on the ground.
An officer approached me, his face stern, his eyes avoiding
mine. We need to access the woods
behind your property, he said. There's been a discovery, a
crime scene. My heart sank.
A crime scene in my woods. The same woods where Whoop had
been knocking, raiding, and leaving offerings.
I nodded, granting them access, but my mind was racing.
Had they found evidence of Whoop or something worse?
Hours later, the officer returned, his face ash and his
eyes haunted. We found bodies, he said, his
voice barely above a whisper. Five of them.
They were buried, but something dug them up. 8 parts of them.
I felt my knees buckle. Whoop, I thought.
It had to be Whoop. What else could it be?
What else could dig up bodies, consume human flesh, and leave a
scalp on my patio? The officer handed me a photo.
Do you recognize her? He asked.
I looked down and gasped. It was a young woman, her eyes
bright, her hair dark brown with a streak of pink, the same pink
I'd seen on the scalp. My scalp?
No, I stammered, my voice shaky. I've never seen her before.
The officer nodded, his eyes searching mine.
We've identified all 5 victims, he said.
They're from different parts of the country.
No connection to this area, but they were all strangled, beaten.
We're looking for a serial killer.
A serial killer, my mind reeled. Could Jesse be involved?
The thought seemed absurd, impossible.
And yet there was that necklace, the one he'd given me, the one
that matched the one in the photo I had to know.
I went inside, my hands trembling, my heart pounding.
I searched through Jesse's things, looking for any sign,
any clue. And then I found it.
A stash of items hidden away each 1A grim trophy, jewelry,
clothing, trinkets, and among them, another necklace identical
to the one he'd given me. The room spun.
I stumbled back, my mind a whirlwind of horror and
disbelief. Jesse was the killer.
He'd brought these women here, killed them, buried them, and
whoop had dug them up, consumed them, left their remains on my
patio. I went to the police.
I told them what I'd found. They searched the house,
confirmed my suspicions. Jesse was their prime suspect,
wanted for multiple murders. But he was gone, vanished into
thin air, leaving behind only questions, only darkness.
As I sat there in my empty house, staring into the empty
woods, I realized the horrifying truth.
Whoop wasn't the monster, Jesse was, and I had been living with
him, sleeping beside him all along.
But as the sunset, casting long shadows on the ground, I heard
it again. Knock, knock, knock.
And I knew that while one monster had been unmasked,
another still lurked in the woods, waiting for its next
offering, its next victim. And so I waited, too, my heart
heavy, my soul shattered, knowing that the boundary
between human and creature, between known and unknown, had
been forever broken, and wondering which was worse, the
monster you know or the one you don't.
Jesse was gone, a phantom on the run, leaving behind a trail of
horror that the police were still piercing together.
They believed he was connected to other unsolved murders, a
serial killer who had been hiding in plain sight.
The house felt hollow without him, but not empty, because I
knew I wasn't alone. Whoop was still out there,
somewhere in the dark recesses of the woods.
I thought about leaving, about packing up and running as far
away as possible, but where could I go?
That whoop or another Jesse couldn't find me.
No, running wasn't the answer. I had to face whatever was
coming, even if it chilled me to my core.
Days turned into a blur, each one tinged with a sense of
impending doom. Then one night it happened.
A news report flashed across my TV screen.
A camper had gone missing in the woods behind my house.
My blood ran cold, the same stretch of woods where Whoop had
been, where Jesse had buried his victims.
And then, as if on cue, I heard it.
Knock knock knock. 3 knocks. Louder than ever, each want a
hammer blow to my soul. I knew what it meant now.
Whoop had tasted human flesh and it wanted more.
And with Jesse gone, I was the only offering left.
I sat there paralyzed by fear, my eyes locked on the back door.
I could bolt it, barricade it. But would that stop whoop?
Could anything? I thought about the police,
about calling them, but what would I say?
That the creature in the woods was coming for me.
They'd think I was crazy, just like Jesse had.
So I did the only thing I could think of.
I prepared an offering. I filled a bowl with meat, the
last remnants from my fridge, and set it on the back patio.
Then I went back inside, locked every door, every window, and
waited. Hours passed, each one in
eternity. I sat in the dark, listening,
praying that whoop would take the offering and leave.
And then, just as the first rays of dawn began to break, I heard
it, a soft, almost inaudible whoop, followed by the sound of
something retreating into the woods.
I waited until the sun was fully up before I ventured outside.
The bowl was empty, the offering taken.
I let out a sigh of relief, my body trembling.
Had I just negotiated with a monster?
And if so, what did that make me?
I turned to go back inside and froze.
There on the patio was another clump of hair, dark and knotted
just like before. But this time there was
something else. A piece of fabric, torn and
bloodied, unmistakably human. My mind raced.
The missing camper, the empty bowl, the torn fabric.
It all added up to 1 horrifying conclusion.
WHOOP had claimed another victim, and it had left me a
gruesome reminder. I looked into the woods, their
depths darker than ever, and felt a shiver run down my spine,
because I knew deep down that the boundary had been shattered,
that the piece had been broken, and that whoop was no longer
content with offerings. It wanted more.
And as I stood there, staring into the abyss, I heard it
again. Knock, knock, knock.
Only this time, it wasn't coming from the woods.
It was coming from my back door. I've always found a certain kind
of peace in the wilderness, a silence that's not really silent
at all when you tune into the rustle of leaves, the chirping
of crickets, and the distant howl of a coyote.
I've been maintaining these trails for years, long enough to
know every twist and turn, every Creek and Cliff.
But there's one thing about these woods that's as unsettling
as it is unspoken. You never, ever respond to
voices calling your name if you can't see who's calling.
Sounds like a superstition, right?
Well, sometimes superstitions are soaked in truth.
It was a crisp autumn afternoon, the kind where the air smells
like damp earth and decaying leaves.
I was clearing some fallen branches off the trail when I
heard the frantic footsteps. My hand instinctively went to
the handle of my utility knife. In a job like this, you learn to
be cautious. She burst through the trees like
a deer escaping a predator, her eyes wide with terror and her
face flushed. Help, please, you have to help
me. Whoa, slow down, I said, my grip
loosening on the knife. What happened?
Her name was Jenny, and her words tumbled out in a torrent.
She and her husband had been hiking, enjoying the day just
like any other couple. But then he started acting off,
pausing every few steps, his eyes darting around as if he
were searching for something or someone.
What's wrong? She'd asked him.
I thought I heard Brandon, he'd replied.
Brandon was their son. Was.
He'd been hit by a car while riding his bike last year, a
parent's worst nightmare, the kind of thing that leaves a hole
you can't ever fill. Jenny had tried to reason with
him, told him it couldn't be Brandon, but her husband was as
stubborn as the old Pines that lined the trail.
He was convinced that he had to follow the voice, and he'd gone
off the trail to do just that. As she told me this, I felt a
chill that had nothing to do with the autumn air.
You did right coming to me, I said.
Recalling the warning that had been passed down from the old
timers who'd been maintaining these trails long before I took
up the mantle. We need to find him, and fast.
Jenny nodded her face a mixture of relief and lingering dread.
Please, let's hurry. I couldn't shake the feeling
that we were already too late, that the unspoken rule had
claimed another victim, but there was no choice but to try.
I radioed my base to inform them we had a situation, and then
Jenny and I plunged back into the forest, calling out her
husband's name. As we move deeper into the
woods, I couldn't help but think about the warning, the one about
not responding to voices. It's the kind of thing you hear
and file away under local lore, right next to stories of Bigfoot
in the Chupacabra. But standing there in the
gathering gloom, with a desperate woman beside me, it
felt as real as the ground beneath my boots.
And so we pressed on 2 souls in a forest full of whispers,
hoping against hope that we'd find one soul who'd ignored the
unspoken rule and lived to tell the tale.
The forest has a way of swallowing sounds, of muffling
cries for help and whispers of despair as Jenny and I ventured
deeper into the woods. Each shout for her husband
seemed to die the moment it left our lips absorbed by the
towering Pines and thick underbrush.
The sun was sinking fast, casting long shadows that seemed
to reach for us like skeletal fingers.
Jenny was a wreck, and who could blame her?
He's never done anything like this before, she said, her voice
tinged with a desperation that cut through the forest.
Natural hush after Brandon, after we lost him.
We've been careful, you know. We've clung to each other like
life, preservers in a storm. I nodded, not knowing what to
say. What can you say?
The loss of a child is a chasm most of us can't even fathom,
let alone cross. And now her husband had heard
the voice of their dead son, I couldn't begin to imagine the
emotional turmoil that must have been tearing through him.
As we moved further, I felt the atmosphere change.
It was subtle, like the first hint of winter in the air.
The forest grew quieter, as if holding its breath.
Even the wind seemed to hesitate.
It's soft rustle through the leaves, turning into an almost
inaudible whisper. Something's not right, I said,
stopping in my tracks. I reached for my radio and
called in for backup. We need more eyes and ears out
here. We're running out of daylight,
and God knows what else we're running out of.
Within an hour, the cavalry arrived.
Search dogs, a couple of helicopters buzzing overhead,
and volunteers from the local community.
They fanned out in a coordinated grid pattern, their flashlights
cutting through the growing darkness like lances of hope.
But as the hours ticked by, that hope began to wane.
The dogs picked up scents that led nowhere.
The helicopters reported 0 visibility beneath the canopy of
trees. The volunteers found nothing but
their own growing sense of unease.
We'll have to call it off for the night, the sheriff finally
said, his face lined with the same frustration and
helplessness we all felt. We'll resume at first light.
Jenny looked at me, her eyes brimming with tears.
What happens now? I put a hand on her shoulder,
wishing I had an answer that could lift the heavy shroud of
despair that had settled over us.
We keep looking, Jenny, as long as it takes, but as we headed
back to the makeshift command center, I couldn't shake the
gnawing feeling in my gut. It was as if the forest itself
was warning us, telling us that some mysteries are better left
unsolved, some voices better left unanswered.
And yet, as I looked at Jenny, her face a canvas of
unimaginable pain and fear, I knew we had no choice but to
plunge back into the whispering woods, to defy the unspoken rule
that had hung over this forest for generations.
Because sometimes, even in the face of unspeakable odds, you
have to hold on to that sliver of hope.
Even when every fiber of your being is telling you to turn
back, to let the forest keep its secrets, you press on.
And so we would. At first light, we would press
on. Dawn broke with a reluctant
light, as if the sun itself hesitated to illuminate the
secrets of these woods. We resumed the search, but the
atmosphere had changed. The forest seemed to watch us.
It's silence. A heavyweight that pressed down
on our spirits. I could see it in the faces of
the volunteers, hear it in the terse exchanges between the
sheriff and his deputies. Even the search dogs seemed
uneasy, their usual eagerness replaced by a skittish caution.
Then one of the dogs began to bark, it's howls echoing through
the trees like a mournful cry. We followed it to a steep drop
off a sheer Cliff that plummeted into a dark ravine.
My heart sank as I peered over the edge.
At the bottom lay the crumpled form of Jenny's husband.
The descent was treacherous, each step a calculated risk.
When we finally reached him, it was clear there was no hope.
No signs of life. No signs of struggle either.
Just a man lying there, as if he'd simply stepped off the edge
of the world. Jenny was inconsolable.
She fell to her knees beside him, her cries a raw wound in
the morning air. Why, she sobbed.
Why did he follow the voice? Why didn't he listen?
I had no answers for her, only the heavy burden of a truth.
I couldn't fully understand myself.
As the sheriff coordinated the grim task of recovering the
body. I stood there, staring at the
place where he'd fallen. It was as if the forest had
claimed him, swallowed him whole the moment he'd broken the
unspoken rule. And then I heard it, a whisper
so soft it was almost drowned out by the rustling leaves and
the distant murmur of the search team.
My name. The voice was faint but
unmistakable. It was my own voice, calling to
me from the depths of the ravine, from the shadows that
lay beyond the reach of the morning light.
I felt a chill that cut deeper than any winter wind, a terror
that gripped me with claws of ice.
I knew then that the unspoken rule was more than just a
cautionary tale, more than just a warning passed down through
generations. It was a boundary, a line drawn
by forces we couldn't comprehend, let alone defy.
And I realized something else as I stood there on the edge of
that steep drop off, staring into the abyss that had claimed
Jenny's husband and threatened to claim me.
The forest wasn't just a place of beauty and solitude, of
towering trees and hidden trails.
It was a living entity, ancient and malevolent, and it was aware
of us, Aware of me. I stepped back from the edge, my
heart pounding, my soul shaken to its core as we made our way
back to the world of men and machines, of logic and reason.
I knew that I would never be the same.
I knew that I would never again walk these trails without
hearing that whisper, without feeling those eyes upon me.
And I knew that the forest would be waiting, always waiting for
the next soul, brave or foolish enough to ignore the unspoken
rule, to answer the call that should never be answered, to
follow the voice that leads only to darkness and death.
And so it waits. And so it whispers, and so it
watches, its eyes filled with a hunger as old as the hills, as
eternal as the night. I've always been a man of the
mountains, a seeker of solitude. The Wyoming wilderness is my
cathedral, and Rex, my old German shepherd, was my loyal
acolyte. We'd been through a lot
together, snowstorms, close encounters with bears, and the
loneliness that only a vast expanse of untouched nature can
bring. Rex was more than a pet.
He was my confidant, my one constant in a life that shunned
the noise of civilization. That particular day had been a
good one. The sun was generous, the trail,
forgiving in the air, smelled like freedom.
I had my backpack filled with essentials, A flask of bourbon,
some canned beans, and a sleeping bag.
Rex trotted beside me, his tongue hanging out, his eyes
alert but content. We were miles away from the
nearest human soul, and that's just how I liked it.
As we descended into a small clearing to set up camp, I ran
into a couple of forest workers. They were gruff, bearded men,
the kind who look like they've been born with axes in their
hands. We exchanged nods, the universal
language of mountain men. Then one of them, a guy named
Joe with crow's feet etched deep into his sunburned face, leaned
in. Hey, buddy, he said, his voice
tinged with a seriousness that caught my attention.
You planning on staying the night?
Yeah, I replied. Why?
He glanced at Rex, then back at me.
Just a word of advice. Don't whistle at night.
Bad things happen to folks who do.
I chuckled. Old wives tale.
He didn't smile. Call it what you want, just
don't. I nodded more to end the
conversation than out of any real conviction.
Rex and I continued to our campsite, a cozy spot near a
stream. I pitched my tent, started a
fire, and sat down with my flask of bourbon.
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with
shades of orange and purple. Rex wandered off, sniffing
around, doing his dog things. I felt the warmth of the fire
and the bourbon mix, a comforting haze settling over me
as darkness enveloped the clearing.
A sudden thought pierced my mellow mood.
Rex had wandered off farther than usual.
I looked around, my eyes straining in the dim light.
No sign of him. A knot tightened in my stomach.
Rex was well trained. He always came back when called,
but what if he'd gotten himself into trouble?
A twisted ankle, a confrontation with a wild animal?
My mind began to race with possibilities.
I remember Joe's warning. A silly superstition.
I thought. What harm could a whistle do?
I put two fingers to my lips and let out a sharp, piercing
whistle, the kind that had always brought Rex running back
to me. But this time there was no
immediate rustle of paws against leaves, no joyful bark echoing
in the distance. My heart pounded in my chest.
What had I done? And that's when I realized the
forest around me had gone eerily silent, as if holding its
breath, waiting for something or someone to break the stillness.
I felt a chill run down my spine.
This was no ordinary night, and I had just invited something
into my world with that whistle, something I didn't understand.
I waited, each second, stretching into an eternity, And
then, finally, I heard it, a faint rustle in the bushes,
growing louder. But it wasn't just Rex's
footsteps I heard. There was something else,
something that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Rex burst into the clearing, but he wasn't alone.
Something was out there with us, lurking in the shadows, and
whatever it was, it had just heard my call.
Rex barreled into the clearing like a bat out of hell, his eyes
wide, his fur bristling. I'd never seen him like this
before. He circled around me, growling
low, his gaze fixed on the dark wall of trees surrounding us.
Easy, boy, I said, my voice tinged with a nervousness I
didn't want to admit to. I reached for my flashlight,
clicked it on, and swept the beam across the woods.
Nothing. Just the usual play of light and
shadow, the trees standing like silent Sentinels.
But Rex wasn't convinced, and frankly, neither was I.
I sat back down by the fire, my hand involuntarily reaching for
the flask. I unscrewed the cap and took a
long swig, feeling the bourbon burn its way down my throat.
Rex settled next to me, but he was still on high alert.
His ears perked up, his body tense.
I couldn't shake the feeling that we were not alone.
It was as if the air had thickened, as if the night
itself was watching us. I shook my head, trying to
dispel the thought. I was letting my imagination run
wild. Fueled by Joe's warning and the
isolation of the wilderness, I finished the last of the bourbon
and decided it was time to turn in.
I doused the fire, making sure to scatter the ashes.
Come on, Rex, I said, patting my thigh.
He followed me into the tent. Still uneasy but obedient, I
zipped up the entrance, settled into my sleeping bag, and closed
my eyes. I don't know how long I slept,
but I woke up with a start. My heart was pounding, my skin
slick with sweat. Something was off.
I felt it before I understood it.
A prickling sensation at the back of my neck, a gut feeling
that screamed at me to wake up. To be alert.
I unzipped the sleeping bag and reached for my flashlight.
I clicked it on, but the beam was weak, flickering.
Damn it, I muttered, smacking the side of the flashlight.
It brightened for a moment before dimming again.
I looked around the tent. Rex was gone.
Panic surged through me. Rex, I called out, my voice
tinged with desperation. No response.
I unzipped the tent and stepped out, my bare feet cold against
the ground. I raised the flashlight,
sweeping it around the clearing. Still nothing.
Against my better judgment, against the warning that now
echoed ominously in my mind, I whistled, a sharp, piercing
sound that cut through the silence of the night.
The moment the sound left my lips, the flashlight flickered
and died, plunging me Into Darkness.
My breath caught in my throat. I heard it then, a distant
crunching of leaves and branches, a sound that was
decidedly not Rex. It was heavier, deliberate, and
it was getting closer. I fumbled with the flashlight,
smacking it hard, praying for it to come back to life.
It flickered on, casting a feeble beam into the darkness.
And that's when I saw it. An outline.
A shape, something lurking just beyond the reach of the light.
My blood turned to ice. Rex was still missing, My
flashlight was barely working, and now there was definitely
something out there with me, and it had heard my whistle.
The outline of the figure was a blur of white and shadow, like a
smudge on the canvas of the night.
It was tall, unnaturally so, and hunched over as if burdened by
its own existence. My flashlight flickered,
threatening to die again, but in that brief moment of
illumination I saw its neck, long, sinewy, and twisted.
I stood there, frozen, my mind racing, but my body paralyzed.
The thing, whatever it was, moved in a slow, distorted
crawl. It's gate a mockery of human
movement. My hand tightened around the
flashlight, my other hand instinctively reaching for the
knife strapped to my belt. What the?
I whispered, my voice barely audible even to myself.
That's when it happened. The creature's head snapped
toward me, turning at an angle that defied anatomy, and then it
screeched. That sounds so horrifying it
felt like it could tear the fabric of the night.
It was a scream, but not just any scream.
It was a distorted, guttural whale, like a human voice being
strangled through the throat of some injured animal.
I bolted back into the tent, my heart pounding like a drum in my
chest. I grabbed the can of bear
repellent and my knife, cursing myself for not bringing a gun on
this trip. The screeching continued, now
accompanied by the sound of heavy, dragging footsteps.
It was coming closer. I braced myself, gripping the
knife tightly, ready to fight for my life.
And then, just as the shadow of the creature loomed over the
fabric of my tent, I heard it. A snarl, a bark, and then
another screech. This one tinged with what
sounded like fear. Rex.
The creature let out one final ear piercing whale, and
retreated, its screech fading into the distance.
I unzipped the tent cautiously, my knife still in hand, and
stepped out. Rex was there, his fur matted,
his muzzle covered in what looked like blood, but he was
unharmed, his eyes still filled with that mix of loyalty and
love that only a dog can give. Good boy, I said, my voice
trembling as I hugged him. I checked him over, making sure
he was truly okay. He was nervous, his body still
tense, but he was unscathed. I looked around the clearing, my
flashlight now mysteriously working perfectly.
There was no sign of the creature, but the air felt
lighter, as if the forest itself had exhaled in relief.
I packed up my gear, doused the remains of the fire, and with
Rex by my side, started the long trek back to civilization.
As we walked, the first rays of dawn breaking through the canopy
of trees, I couldn't shake off the feeling that we had escaped
something ancient, something malevolent.
I remember Joe's warning, and a shiver ran down my spine.
Some old wives tales are rooted in truths too horrifying to
comprehend and some warnings are better heated.
I don't whistle in the woods anymore and if you ever find
yourself lost in the wilderness, remember this.
Not everything that answers to a call is something you want to
meet. I love the wilderness.
The smell of pine needles, the crunch of leaves under my boots,
the way the forest seems to breathe around you.
It's like a drug to me. But don't get me wrong.
I'm no fool. I know that for all its beauty,
the forest can be a merciless place.
One wrong step, one missed sign, and you could find yourself in a
world of trouble. That's why when I heard about
the legend of the woman with the silver eyeglasses, I was more
intrigued than skeptical. It was Jim from Accounting who
told me about her. We were both clocking some
overtime, and he was looking for an excuse to procrastinate.
You ever hike up by Whispering Pines?
He asked, leaning back in his chair.
Sure, a few times, I said, not looking up from my screen.
Will you ever run into a woman, probably in her 60s, wearing
silver eyeglasses? I paused, finally giving him my
attention. Can't say that I have.
Why? Jim leaned in, dropping his
voice as if he were about to share state secrets.
Will they say she's a spirit? Got lost out there years ago and
never made it back. But here's the kicker.
If you help her find her way, you'll have good luck for the
next 7 years. I chuckled.
You believe that? He shrugged.
I don't know, but a buddy of mine swears he met her.
Said they walked together for hours, talking about life and
all. When they finally found the
trail, he turned around to thank her and she was gone.
Just like that. I leaned back, intrigued despite
myself, and did his luck turn. Guy won a small lottery the next
week. So you tell me.
I shook my head, smiling. Well, if I ever meet her, I'll
be sure to point her in the right direction.
But as I drove up to Whispering Pines the following weekend,
Jim's story stuck with me. The forest was its usual
captivating self, a labyrinth of towering trees and hidden
trails. But today it felt like the woods
were holding their breath, waiting for something or someone
to break the silence. I hiked for hours, losing myself
in the natural rhythm of the forest.
And then? As the sun dipped below the
horizon, I saw her, a woman in her 60s, silver eyeglasses
perched on her nose, standing off the trail and looking
utterly lost. Excuse me, she said, her voice
tinged with relief. Could you help me find my way
back to the trail? I looked into her eyes and saw a
kind of quiet desperation, A yearning to be found.
And in that moment, I made my choice.
Of course, I said, offering her a smile.
Let's find that trail. As we walked together, I
couldn't help but feel like I'd stepped into a story, one that
was as old as the hills around us.
And as we finally found the trail, I turned to thank her,
only to find that she had vanished, leaving nothing but
the whispering Pines to keep me company.
I stood there for a long moment, pondering the enigma that was
the woman with the silver eyeglasses.
Then, with a newfound sense of purpose, I continued down the
trail, wondering what other mysteries these woods held and
whether I was ready to face them.
Seven years of good luck or not. One thing was clear.
In these woods, you're never truly alone.
And maybe, just maybe, that's a good thing.
I've always said that the woods have a language of their own.
The rustle of leaves, the chatter of birds, the distant
murmur of a stream. It's like a Symphony that only
those who listen can hear. But sometimes, just sometimes,
the woods go quiet, dead quiet. And let me tell you, that's when
you need to be on your toes. I was about a mile deep into the
forest the day after my encounter with the woman in
silver eyeglasses. The sun was high, casting
dappled shadows on the forest floor.
Everything seemed normal. Just another day in paradise.
But then, as if someone had hit the mute button on the world,
everything went silent. I stopped dead in my tracks.
No bird song, no wind, not even the distant sound of water.
It was like stepping into a vacuum.
I've been in some tight spots before, cornered by a Mountain
Lion, lost in a snowstorm. But this was different.
This was eerie. You see, there's an unwritten
rule among those who know these woods.
If the forest goes silent, you don't stick around to find out
why. You move and you make damn sure
you make some noise while you're at it.
I picked up my pace, my boots crunching loudly against the dry
leaves. I hummed a tune, any tune, just
to break the silence. My skin prickled with the
sensation of being watched, but I didn't dare look back.
I kept moving, my eyes scanning the path ahead, my ears
straining for any sign of life. After what felt like an
eternity, I heard it. The distant sound of a stream,
the soft rustle of leaves in the wind.
The forest was speaking again, and its voice was like music to
my ears. I slowed down my heartbeat,
gradually returning to normal. But as I walked on, I couldn't
shake the feeling that I dodged a bullet.
You might call it superstition, folklore, or even an old wives
tale, but I know what I felt. It was a warning as clear as
day. Respect the woods or pay the
price, and it's a lesson I took to heart.
As I made my way back to the trailhead, I couldn't help but
think about the woman with the silver eyeglasses.
Had she experienced the silence too?
Is that what led her astray all those years ago?
I couldn't say for sure, but one thing was clear.
Her spirit was a guardian, a beacon of light in a world that
could turn dark in an instant. So if you ever find yourself in
whispering Pines in the woods, go quiet.
Don't ignore it. Move, make some noise, and
whatever you do, don't look back.
Because in these woods, silence isn't just golden, it's a
warning. And it's one you do well to
heed. We set up camp as the sun dipped
below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and
purple. The fire crackled its warm glow,
casting dancing shadows on the faces of my friends.
We were deep into whispering Pines, far enough from
civilization to feel truly alone, or so we thought.
Just as I was about to dig into my dinner, I saw him, an old man
with a long beard and a walking stick, materializing from the
darkness like a ghost. He didn't say a word as he
approached. His eyes locked onto the fire,
as if hypnotized. My gut told me something was
off. I was about to ask if anyone
knew him when my buddy Mark put his hand over his mouth and
shook his head. He gave me a look.
A serious, nononsense look that told me all I needed to know.
I kept my mouth shut. The old man took a seat on an
empty log, his eyes still fixed on the fire.
Then, as if he'd rehearsed it 1000 times, he began to tell a
story. It was a tale of love and loss,
of a man who ventured into these very woods and never returned.
His voice was hypnotic, each word carefully chosen, each
sentence a thread in a larger tapestry.
As he spoke, the forest seemed to listen.
The wind died down, the fire flickered, and for a brief
moment time stood still. I glanced at Mark, who was
hanging on to every word, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe
and fear. Finally, the old man finished
his story. He looked up, his eyes meeting
mine, and for a split second I saw something.
A flicker of sadness, A glimmer of relief.
Then, without a word, he stood up and walked back into the
darkness, his figure blending into the night until he was
nothing but a shadow. We sat in silence for a long
moment, each of us processing what had just happened.
Finally, Mark spoke up. You know the legend, right?
About the old man. I nodded.
Yeah, I've heard it. Never thought I'd live it.
Mark chuckled. Well, we just did.
And we're all still here, aren't we?
I looked around at my friends, their faces illuminated by the
dying embers of the fire. Yeah, I said.
We are. As we packed up the next
morning, I couldn't help but think about the spirits of
whispering Pines. The woman with the silver
eyeglasses, the old man with his haunting tail.
They were guardians of a sort, keepers of the forests, many
secrets. And as I made my way back to
civilization, I realized something.
In these woods, you're never truly alone.
There are eyes that watch you, voices that whisper in the wind,
stories that beg to be told. So if you ever find yourself in
whispering Pines, remember this. Respect the forest, heed its
warnings and listen to its stories.
Because in this world of mystery and magic, you're just a
visitor, and it's always wise to respect your hosts.