Story 945: Whispers of the Cursed Gate

The void shifted, twisting in unnatural ways as the survivors stood before the massive, ancient gate. It loomed beneath a moon too large, too bright, casting elongated shadows that moved on their own. The iron bars of the gate weren’t metal—they were bone, fused together with crimson sinew, pulsating like a thing alive.

Draven adjusted his grip on his shotgun. “This feels like a trap.”

Elias scoffed, his fingers brushing the revolver at his hip. “Because it is.”

Mira stepped closer, the Cursed Book vibrating in her arms. “The Hollow Man said we need a key.” Her voice was tight, uncertain. “That means it’s here somewhere.”

The ground beneath them shuddered. Rotting hands burst through the soil, clawing their way free. The dead—not zombies, but something worse—emerged. Their skin was stretched too thin, their mouths locked in expressions of endless suffering. Whispers poured from their gaping lips, voices layered in agony and malice.