The Whispering Woods
It was said the woods behind the old Baxter estate were cursed. Locals spoke of whispers—soft, chilling murmurs that grew louder the deeper you ventured. Sarah, a skeptic of ghost stories, decided to explore them one cold October night.
With a flashlight in hand, she entered the forest, the crunch of leaves underfoot her only companion. The air was heavy, and the towering trees loomed like silent sentinels. At first, it was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of the wind. But as she delved further, she began to hear them—the whispers.
They were faint at first, indistinct and fleeting, like voices carried on the breeze. "Sarah," they called, her name woven into the murmurings. She froze, scanning the darkness, but saw nothing. Her heart raced as the whispers grew louder, closer.
The flashlight flickered and died, plunging her into darkness. Panic gripped her, and she turned to retrace her steps, only to find the path gone. The trees seemed to shift and close in around her, their twisted branches clawing at the sky.
"Sarah..." the voice came again, clearer this time. It was familiar—her own voice.
Suddenly, she felt a cold hand on her shoulder. She spun around, but there was no one there. The whispers erupted into a cacophony, a symphony of screams and laughter that filled her ears.
The next morning, Sarah's flashlight was found at the edge of the woods. She was never seen again.
