Whispers in the Dark

The village of Yuccavale had always been a quiet place. Isolated. Suspicious. The kind of town where rumors festered in the silence between words, where people spoke in hushed voices and stole glances over their shoulders.

Tonight, the whispers had turned into something else. Something colder. And Barry felt the weight of it the moment he stepped into the Rustwood Inn. The low hum of conversation dimmed as Barry crossed the threshold. Not silence. Just... hesitation. The kind where people made sure they weren't speaking the wrong words at the wrong time.

He sat at the counter. Listening."…strange things out by the river."

"…heard it was torn apart, nothing left but ribs and hair."

"…if the Guard catches him first, we won't have to worry."

Barry stiffened. Then another voice, lower, slower, slithering through the candlelight."The Calendar used to do things like that."

The glass in Barry's hand nearly cracked. A cold weight settled in his gut. The Calendar. His name. The name of the thing he used to be. The thing he swore was dead.His pulse pounded in his ears. The weight of the past pressing against his ribs.

It was Gideon Blackwell who had spoken. The man sat near the far window, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips. A storyteller playing to an eager audience. Barry clenched his jaw. Did Gideon know? Was this just idle talk, or was this something worse?

A slow, deliberate voice broke his thoughts. "You shouldn't let him get under your skin."

Barry turned.

Violet Chambers, The innkeeper. The only person in the room who didn't seem afraid of him. She poured him a drink he hadn't ordered. Her sharp eyes flicked toward Gideon. "He likes stirring the pot. But he's not the one you should be worried about."

Barry took the glass, but didn't drink. "Who should I be worried about, then?"

Violet leaned in just enough to lower her voice. "The ones who aren't talking."His pulse ticked up. "Meaning?"

She gave him a long, measured look."There are people in this town who know things they shouldn't."

Barry studied her, every instinct on edge. "And you? You know things too?"

Violet exhaled. "I know that fear makes people dangerous. And I know that if the wrong people decide you're a threat, it won't matter what you've done or haven't done. It won't matter if you're innocent."

Barry let that sink in.She was right. He knew firsthand what fear could do. He used to be the thing people feared.

Violet hesitated. Then, lowering her voice even further, she added: "I also know about the ones in the forest."

Barry's fingers tightened around his glass."The ones in the forest?"

She nodded. "Not just mutants. Not just outcasts. People who've disappeared—but never left."

Something cold ran down his spine. "What do you mean?"

Violet's expression darkened. "You ever hear about the people who go into the trees and don't come back?"

Barry nodded.

Violet leaned closer. "They come back."

Barry's blood ran cold."What?"

She swallowed, gaze flicking toward the windows, as if she feared something was listening. "Not the way they were. Not as themselves."

A slow, crawling dread settled into Barry's bones. Violet met his gaze. "There's something out there, sheriff. Something old. And it doesn't let go of the ones it takes."

Barry didn't answer.

The night felt heavier than it should. A quiet so thick it seemed to suffocate the trees themselves. Barry didn't sleep. He couldn't. The words that Violet had whispered echoed in his mind like a persistent chant. "They come back. But not as themselves."He knew something ancient stirred in the forest, but he never imagined it could reach into the lives of those who still walked under the moonlight. He'd thought he was the only monster in the woods—the only thing that needed to hide. But Violet's words haunted him, gnawing at the edges of his sanity.

Barry woke before dawn, the chill of the forest air creeping into his bones. He had made up his mind. If he was going to survive this—if he was going to protect what was left of his fractured soul—he needed to know what had been hidden in these woods for so long. And what had happened to the ones who went in, only to come out… different.

He strapped on his gear, leaving his office behind and heading straight for the forest. The sun hadn't even kissed the horizon when he crossed into the trees. His enhanced senses were on high alert, but even they couldn't prepare him for what he found.The air was thick with something other than just trees. It was as if the woods themselves had a pulse. Barry's eyes narrowed as he picked up the first scent—a sharp tang of something old. A feeling of dread washed over him, but he pressed on.Then he saw it.The markings.They were barely visible, hidden by underbrush and shadows, but unmistakable. Symbols, carved into the bark of trees in a pattern too precise to be natural. His heart rate quickened as he traced the markings. It was as though he was following a trail—a trail he had once known.His mind flashed back to the days when he was The Calendar. The marks on the walls. The symbols on the bodies. The way they had always led him deeper into the dark, into the twisted things that called to him."It's happening again."The thought was a whisper in his mind, but it felt as real as the ground beneath his feet. His past had never left.

The deeper he ventured, the more his senses seemed to overload. Something was close—something watching. And then he saw it. A figure, just out of reach, barely a shadow between the trees. Barry froze, his hand instinctively going for his gun. The figure turned slowly, and a cold shiver crawled up his spine. It was too familiar.

Fletcher.

Barry's breath caught in his throat. The man's face was pale, unnaturally so, as though the light itself had been drained from him. His eyes glinted, but not with recognition—no, it was something darker."You've been following me," Barry growled, his voice rough. "Why?"

Fletcher didn't speak right away. Instead, his lips twisted into a smile. A smile that was both empty and knowing."I don't need to follow you, sheriff," Fletcher replied, his voice low and gravelly. "I already know what you are."

Barry's hand gripped the handle of his gun tighter. "You don't know anything about me."

Fletcher tilted his head slightly, as if amused. "Oh, but I do. I know exactly what you are." His eyes flicked to the deep shadows around them, where the trees seemed to breathe. "And I know what's in those woods, too."

Barry's pulse quickened. He could feel the beast inside him stir, restless, like a wolf pacing in its cage. He needed answers. But Fletcher's cryptic words only made him more uncertain."I don't have time for games, Fletcher," Barry snapped. "Why are you here?"

Fletcher's smile faded, replaced by something far darker—a knowing glint in his eyes."I'm not here to play, sheriff," he said slowly. "I'm here to warn you."

Barry felt a surge of frustration, his control slipping. "Warn me about what?"

The trees seemed to lean in closer as Fletcher stepped forward, his breath cold in the air." Something older than both of us is watching. Something that hunts. And you, sheriff…" Fletcher paused, letting the silence hang heavy between them. "You're already marked."

Before Barry could respond, Fletcher melted back into the trees, disappearing into the shadows like a ghost.

Barry stood still in the woods, every instinct screaming at him to run, but his legs wouldn't move. His heart thudded painfully in his chest. Marked. He didn't know what that meant, but it wasn't good. And Fletcher's warning only deepened the gnawing feeling in his gut.

What did Fletcher know? Was this about the thing in the woods? Or was it something even darker? The marks on the trees. The whispers of something ancient. The strange power creeping closer with every passing day.

He was beginning to wonder if it was already too late. If he was already too far gone. The forest was silent now, but the words of Fletcher and Violet echoed louder than any of the night sounds. They come back.