Story 1161: Cobblestone Secrets

The city was old—so old that even its foundations whispered. Beneath the cathedral bells, past the gaslit alleys and rusted gates, stretched a forgotten road called Whisper Way, where the cobblestones never stayed the same.

They shifted, subtly, each night.

Not in shape—but in pattern. Symbols etched into the stone by hands no longer living. Some resembled runes, others resembled eyes. And some looked like screams carved in stone.

Lenna Morell, a university scribe and part-time grave sketcher, had heard the rumors while cataloguing city maps. There was no record of Whisper Way, yet every map—ancient or modern—had a blank space where it should’ve been.

That blank space called to her.

She found the street at dusk, nestled between a row of abandoned manors, where ivy strangled brick and shutters flapped like loose tongues. Her lantern flickered red as she stepped onto the cobblestones.

The first step was cold.

The second pulsed.

By the third, she heard them.