WHISPERS IN THE WIND

There were no roosters to crow, no alarms to jolt her from sleep—just the distant rustling of leaves and the soft hum of the wilderness. Her eyes, still heavy with sleep narrowed against the growing intensity of the sunrise, the world slowly awakening around her. She fumbled for her phone in the bag squinting at the screen.6:33 A.M.

The embers of last night’s fire had dimmed to a faint glow outside casting flickering shadows against her tent. For a brief moment, disoriented by sleep, she forgot where she was. Then she saw the journal resting beside her, its worn leather cover catching the first glimmers of dawn, and everything rushed back.

With a groan, she sat up and stretched until her joins popped. She followed it up with a loud yawn as she reached for the zipper of her tent, fingers working it open with a slow zzzzzip before pushing the flap aside. The cool morning air rushed in sending a pleasant breeze upon her face. She inhaled deeply, taking in the crisp scent of damp earth and pine.

It had been years since she had slept beneath an open sky and despite the unsettling words of Tom Granger’s journal, there was something undeniably freeing about being here.

She ran a hand through her auburn hair, still tangled from sleep, and turned back to the journal. Her fingers brushed against the cracked leather surface as she flipped through its pages once more.

The entries had left a lingering unease in her mind. The strange symbols, the phantom footprints, and the ever-present feeling of being watched—Tom had described all of these things with increasing paranoia. But it was the final, unfinished entry that haunted her the most.

I must go… they are coming…

Who were they?

A sudden chill ran through her, and she shook the thought away with a dramatic shudder.

“Wuwuuuhh.” She exhaled, forcing a chuckle. “Enough of that. Time for breakfast.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of juice, twisting off the cap and taking a long drink. As she sipped, she packed up her supplies with methodical precision. She rolled up her sleeping bag tightly, fastened it to her backpack, and double-checked her gear. Everything was in place.

After she was done, she took another look at the notes she copied from Tom’s journal and opened a new page. She started to draw a map this time as she followed the trail. If his entries were accurate, Tom had camped somewhere near Whispering Grove on the night before he disappeared. But Ella had never heard of that name all the times she camped in these woods. That alone made her uneasy.

The deeper she ventured into the forest, the more the world seemed to change. The towering canopy grew denser, blocking out much of the morning light. Shadows twisted between the trees, stretching and shifting when she wasn’t looking.

Every so often, she paused often, scanning the trunks for any markings. Her grandfather’s voice echoed in her mind:

“Nature is your compass, Mi nieta. The trees are your guideposts—study their age, their scars, the way they lean. Every forest has a language. Learn to read it.”

Ella exhaled, running her fingers along the rough bark of an ancient oak. The pattern of its growth and the knots in its wood told a story of time and survival. She made quick notes on her map, ensuring she could retrace her steps.

So far, it wasn’t perfect. But she had a rough idea of where she was. If she got lost, she could find her way back.

It wasn’t long before she found them.

Rough, jagged carvings etched into the bark of several ancient trees, their patterns forming strange shapes. It reminded her of runes. The markings looked faded with time, weathered but they were still visible at close distance. Tom had said they were warnings, but to what? From whom?

She stepped closer tracing one of the carvings with her fingertips. The grooves were deep, deeper than any knife or tool should have cut. They did not look like they had been carved at closer look, if anything they looked to have been burned into the wood. The trees themselves felt… wrong. Their bark was rougher and drier, yet strangely cold to the touch. Freezing even.

Ella jerked her hand back, swallowing the growing unease in her chest.

She forced herself to press forward.

As the hours passed, she came upon an abandoned fire pit—a blackened circle of stones with ashes. The ashes were warm. Ella crouched beside it, sifting through the soot with her fingers.

Someone had been here recently. She thought.

A rusted small metal container lay nearby, half-buried beneath a pile of leaves. She reached for it, turning it over in her hands. The container was dirty, the grime smeared against her fingers. The container looked old, far too aged to belong to the recent camper she thought had made the fire.

Was this Tom’s?

Her heart pounded as she scanned the area. This must have been one of his last campsites before he vanished. The realization sent a chill through her. She was standing where he had stood, walking the same path he had taken all those years ago.

And then she heard it.

A whisper.

Soft. Indistinct.

She paid more attention standing completely still. The wind wasn’t blowing, the leaves were steady but the whisper was still there.

The words were impossible to make out, but the cadence was unmistakable—it was speech. Someone, or something, was speaking.

She spun around, searching the tree line, but she was alone.

Her breathing became shallow. Every instinct told her to turn back. To leave. But her grandfather’s words echoed in her mind:

“Jump, my dear. And if you fall, get up and jump again until you soar.”

She clenched her fists, exhaling through her nose.

 “Get a grip, Ella.”

No. She wouldn’t leave. Not yet.

She could now hear the sound. Well not hear, rather she could tell the direction it was coming from, so she followed.

The deeper she walked, the louder the whispers became. It was as if the very trees were murmuring, their voices threading through the air in a language she didn’t understand. She came upon a clearing.

At its center stood a huge monolith of stone, covered in the same strange carvings she had seen on the trees. The rock was ancient, its surface worn by time, but the symbols remained sharp. The very air around it seemed different—thicker, charged with an energy she couldn’t quite explain.

As Ella approached, the whispers grew to a chorus, overlapping voices that sent shivers down her spine. Her pulse quickened as she reached out, her fingers hovering just above the stone’s surface. And then…Silence.

The forest fell deathly still. No wind. No whispers. Nothing.

It was as if she was frozen in time and only her eyes could move. She could hear her own heartbeat, rapid and unsteady. Du-dum. Du-dum

And then, from behind her, the unmistakable sound of a footstep.

A twig snapped. A leaf crunched.

The footsteps moved slowly toward her, in perfect sync with her own heartbeat. Her blood turned to ice.

She turned around.

Nothing.

The clearing was empty.

Yet the feeling of being watched had never been stronger.

Her fingers trembled as she reached into her pack, pulling out Tom’s journal.

One phrase stood out now, clearer than ever:

“I am not alone.”

Ella’s throat became dry.. She had come looking for answers and she had found something far more terrifying.

Whatever had been watching Tom Granger back then…

It was still here.

And now, it was watching her.