Story 948: The Whispering One

The temperature dropped, the air thickening as the massive figure in tattered robes rose from the chasm. The mask of bone and shadow obscured its face, but the whispering never stopped—thousands of voices murmuring at once, each syllable crawling under their skin like insects burrowing deep.

Draven steadied his shotgun, his grip tight. “If we run, we die.”

Mira’s hands trembled over the Cursed Book, the ink on its pages writhing as if it knew what stood before them. “He’s not just a phantom,” she whispered. “He’s something worse.”

Elias flicked his lighter open, but the flame bent away, recoiling from the presence before them. “That’s a problem.”

The Whispering One tilted its head, the motion unnatural, deliberate. The walls groaned, and the portraits hanging in the mansion began to weep black sludge, their painted mouths contorted in agony.

Then, it spoke.

“Your names are already written in the hollow pages. There is no escape.”