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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Horror
- Subject: Ghost Stories / Paranormal
- Published: 04/26/2024
Voices
Born 1946, M, from Famagusta, CyprusIn the stillness of my childhood nights, a paralyzing fear of the dark clutched at my heart, sending shivers down my spine. I'd lay in bed, wide-eyed, as cold sweats drenched my sheets. The silence of the house was a deceptive lull before the storm of my own thoughts, convincing me that shadows harbored unseen threats. Yet, it wasn't merely a child's rampant imagination that haunted me; it was the whispers. Ethereal voices that slithered out from the obsidian corners, murmuring secrets in a language not meant for mortal ears.
I confided in my mother about the spectral whispers, but she would wave them off as mere figments of childish frights. Yet, deep within, I harbored no doubts about their existence. The murmurs grew in strength, their insistence escalating with the fall of each shadowy veil of night. They bore no malice, but their alien nature was no less terrifying, their unfamiliar cadences weaving a tapestry of fear that was all too real.
And then, there was the red light — that ghastly harbinger. It cast an ominous spotlight, bathing the wall at the foot of the stairs in a sinister crimson. One night, roused by a pressing urge, I stumbled into the hallway.
There it stood, that malevolent beacon, its otherworldly luminescence calling out to me, as if it held secrets only the darkness knew.
Rooted to the spot, I was a statue of trepidation as the whispers swelled into a cacophony, their syllables a blurred menace. Then, in a breath, the red specter was extinguished, abandoning me to the suffocating embrace of the dark, with nothing but the echoes of my fear and the phantoms of my mind for company.
To this day, the nature of what I saw and heard that night defies explanation. But of one thing I am certain: the whispers have never ceased. They persist, a ghostly presence that haunts the darkest crevices of my psyche, a perpetual memento of the terrors that skulk in the unseen realms just beyond the thin curtain of our reality.
As a mere child with the magic of Christmas on the horizon, my heart was alight with the thrill of the mysterious.
Peering into the gloom, my pulse quickened at the sight of a light dancing amidst the shadows of the living room. It had to be him—Santa Claus, the bearer of rewards for my year's good deeds.
With each tentative step I descended, a wave of exhilaration washed over me, my small frame trembling with eager joy.
Convinced that Santa himself had graced my home with his presence, I imagined him concealed within the shadows, his watchful eyes ensuring my good conduct. The anticipation of meeting him bubbled within me, an eager desire to recount the litany of my year's kindnesses.
With the second step taken, a subtle shift began to unsettle the air. The light, once steady, now flickered capriciously before it began its eerie migration away from the wall, swallowed by the living room's gloom. What was once excitement curdled into a creeping dread, the realization dawning upon me that something was amiss.
My steps hastened, a desperate descent down the stairs, yet the light dimmed with each passing second. It seemed as though the darkness itself was devouring it, obliterating any sign of its existence.
A shiver cascaded down my spine, and a wave of dread engulfed me. In that instant, clarity pierced through the terror: this was no jolly Saint Nicholas.
It was an entity of profound darkness, an enigma beyond my grasp.
Rooted in place, ensnared by fear, I understood—the light was not a beacon, but a portent, a grim herald of an unspeakable evil that was now reaching out for me.
In the velvety darkness of the night, a voice sliced through the silence, one that was unmistakably not my father's. It was a deep, resonant baritone, laden with an authority that seemed to resonate from another realm. The timbre of it sent a cascade of shivers racing down my spine, each word articulated with a clarity that felt both commanding and ominous.
"Stop," it boomed, a simple command that froze me in my tracks. "Return from whence you came," it continued, the voice now a palpable presence in the shadow-draped hallway. I could feel the weight of unseen eyes upon me, compelling obedience.
With my heart hammering against my ribcage, I pivoted on quivering legs and ascended the stairs, each step an echo of my escalating dread.
As I reached the midpoint of the staircase, the house itself seemed to react to the voice's command.
A deafening crash shattered the stillness, reverberating through the very foundations. It was as if the walls themselves were protesting, the sound a violent release of pent-up energy. Panic seized me, propelling me forward with a newfound urgency. I sprinted the remaining steps, my breaths coming in ragged gasps, until I found sanctuary in the familiar warmth of my mother's bed, my small body wracked with tremors of fear.
Beneath the covers, I sought refuge, cocooning myself in a shroud of fabric, praying that the harbinger of the cacophony would not find me. The night stretched on, an eternity of terror, and I remained ensconced within my makeshift sanctuary, too petrified to even glimpse the possible horrors that lay beyond.
As dawn broke, we awoke to a scene of dishevelment. The festive poinsettia lights, once meticulously strung along the stair railing by my mother, lay in a shattered heap, as though wrenched down by an unseen tempest.
The dry sink, a steadfast fixture of the living room, had been unmoored from its station on the wall, its contents strewn about like the aftermath of a silent storm.
My family stood amidst the chaos, bewildered, grappling for an explanation to the night's inexplicable tumult.
My father's mind raced to the possibility of a home invasion, yet the house bore no signs of forced entry, nothing amiss but the chaos itself. My sister's tears were a silent testament to the fear that gripped us all, while my mother's speechless gaze swept over the disordered room. It was then that I noticed it—the undeniable proof of the night's disturbance.
On the edge of the dry sink, three distinct indentations were etched into the wood, the marks of an inexplicable force. Something had seized the sink with an otherworldly strength and hurled it to the ground, the source of the thunderous crash that had sent me fleeing in terror.
I remained silent, my voice a prisoner of the fear that clutched at my throat. Yet, in the depths of my being, I was acutely aware that a presence of malevolence had trespassed into our sanctuary, rendering it a place of uncertainty. The specter of that night lingers, a ghostly reminder of the unfathomable forces that weave through our existence, affirming that solitude is but an illusion.
The ordeal left an indelible mark on us all, a collective shudder that reverberated through the fabric of our lives, yet we found ourselves compelled to tread forward, into the light of day and the march of the mundane.
In the wake of the night's eerie occurrences, my family endeavored to resume our customary daily patterns, a veneer of normality painted over the inexplicable.
Yet, the residue of unease clung to me like a shadow. Each groan of the floorboards, every whisper of the wind, sent a jolt of alarm through me. The pervasive sense of an unseen gaze was inescapable, a spectral audience to my every move. My focus frayed, scattered by the constant vigilance, and the toll was evident in the faltering of my academic performance.
The house soon became a stage for the inexplicable; it was as if we had become unwilling actors in a play directed by an unseen force. Objects defied gravity, gliding across surfaces with a mind of their own.
Doors would slam with such sudden ferocity that the walls seemed to shudder in protest.
And the whispers—those sinister susurrations that seemed to emanate from the very ether—grew more insistent, a chorus of the damned that only we could hear.
With each passing day, the phenomena intensified, as though gaining strength from our mounting fear. The air itself felt laden with a malevolent charge, electrifying every moment with the anticipation of the next unexplainable event.
Shadows danced with a life of their own, fleeting across the walls in a macabre ballet. The sound of footsteps, unattached to any corporeal form, reverberated through the halls, a ghostly echo of an unseen interloper.
The sensation of invisible eyes upon us intensified, a constant, oppressive watchfulness. It was an inescapable truth—the architect of that night's terror remained hidden within our midst, a predator in the darkness, biding its time.
Our efforts to purge the entity from our home were met with relentless defiance. We sought counsel from priests and shamans, their sacred rituals permeating our halls with the smoke of sage and the sprinkling of holy water.
Yet, our actions seemed only to invigorate the presence, as if it fed voraciously upon our collective dread.
The entity's strength burgeoned, its malevolence palpable in every corner of our once-peaceful abode. Our lives became a daily gauntlet of fear and anxiety, each strange occurrence a reminder of our unwelcome guest's growing power.
Ultimately, the decision was wrenched from our hands. The darkness that had insidiously woven itself into the very fabric of our home left us no choice but to flee. We departed from the place we once cherished, each step away heavy with the sorrow of surrender. The experience etched itself into our souls, a scar that time would never fully heal.
A hollow sensation gnawed at me—the entity had triumphed. It had exiled us from our own home, and I could not shake the chilling certainty that it lingered there, in the shadows, biding its time until new souls dared to enter.
The sun's last embers had long faded, surrendering the house to an impenetrable darkness.
There I sat, in the solitude of my room, the night's stillness enveloping me like a shroud.
Abruptly, a clamor shattered the silence from below, jolting my heart into an erratic dance. The source of the disturbance was beyond my comprehension, a mystery veiled in the night.
With trepidation as my companion, I approached the staircase. A chilling sensation slithered along my spine, raising the fine hairs at my nape in silent alarm. Step by cautious step, I descended, the wooden boards groaning underfoot, their creaks a haunting chorus that resonated through the desolate house.
At the staircase's base, I was ensnared by a paralyzing terror. The scene that unfolded before me spoke of violence—a path of ruin lay where two familiar objects had been upended with ferocious force. Yet, it was the silence that ensnared the senses, a profound absence of sound as if the house itself had been placed under a spell, its very breath stolen by the night.
Petrified, I grappled with the incomprehensible turn of events. The silence was a tangible entity, amplifying my dread.
I spun on my heels, an instinctive retreat to the upper sanctuary, but halted as a disquieting realization dawned upon me. My ears, desperate for any sign of life, found none. The void was complete—devoid of whispers, devoid of breaths, a suffocating vacuum where even fear seemed to echo into infinity.
The epiphany struck with the force of a tempest, leaving me reeling. From that day forth, the voices were extinguished, their absence as profound as their once haunting presence. Silence became my unwavering shadow, a stark reminder of the night that changed everything. Though I shudder to contemplate what awaited me in the darkness below, the stark reality remains: some unseen force had manifested, leaving its mark upon the objects at the stairwell's base—a tangible testament to the night's otherworldly encounter.
In the oppressive silence, I found myself yearning for the whispers that once filled the air. Their absence was a void no light could illuminate, a silence no sound could penetrate.
The entity, a specter of the unknown, had not only claimed our voices but had also woven itself into the very essence of our existence.
As days turned to nights and nights to endless shadows, I could feel it watching, waiting, an omnipresent observer in our desolate abode. We were but marionettes in its silent play, our strings pulled by unseen hands.
And then, one fateful evening, as the clock struck the witching hour, the house began to groan—a symphony of despair. The walls bled shadows, and the air grew thick with a presence so tangible it nearly choked the breath from my lungs. It was then that I understood—the entity had not just invaded our home; it had become our home.
The darkness was no longer an intruder; it was the master of the house, and we, its unwelcome guests. With a heavy heart, I realized our only escape was to embrace the void, to become one with the silence. For in the end, it was not the whispers that we should have feared, but the quiet that came after.
And so, with a final glance at the husk of what was once a place of laughter and life, I stepped into the abyss, the darkness swallowing me whole.
The end... or perhaps, just a new beginning.
Voices(Peter Edward Evans)
In the stillness of my childhood nights, a paralyzing fear of the dark clutched at my heart, sending shivers down my spine. I'd lay in bed, wide-eyed, as cold sweats drenched my sheets. The silence of the house was a deceptive lull before the storm of my own thoughts, convincing me that shadows harbored unseen threats. Yet, it wasn't merely a child's rampant imagination that haunted me; it was the whispers. Ethereal voices that slithered out from the obsidian corners, murmuring secrets in a language not meant for mortal ears.
I confided in my mother about the spectral whispers, but she would wave them off as mere figments of childish frights. Yet, deep within, I harbored no doubts about their existence. The murmurs grew in strength, their insistence escalating with the fall of each shadowy veil of night. They bore no malice, but their alien nature was no less terrifying, their unfamiliar cadences weaving a tapestry of fear that was all too real.
And then, there was the red light — that ghastly harbinger. It cast an ominous spotlight, bathing the wall at the foot of the stairs in a sinister crimson. One night, roused by a pressing urge, I stumbled into the hallway.
There it stood, that malevolent beacon, its otherworldly luminescence calling out to me, as if it held secrets only the darkness knew.
Rooted to the spot, I was a statue of trepidation as the whispers swelled into a cacophony, their syllables a blurred menace. Then, in a breath, the red specter was extinguished, abandoning me to the suffocating embrace of the dark, with nothing but the echoes of my fear and the phantoms of my mind for company.
To this day, the nature of what I saw and heard that night defies explanation. But of one thing I am certain: the whispers have never ceased. They persist, a ghostly presence that haunts the darkest crevices of my psyche, a perpetual memento of the terrors that skulk in the unseen realms just beyond the thin curtain of our reality.
As a mere child with the magic of Christmas on the horizon, my heart was alight with the thrill of the mysterious.
Peering into the gloom, my pulse quickened at the sight of a light dancing amidst the shadows of the living room. It had to be him—Santa Claus, the bearer of rewards for my year's good deeds.
With each tentative step I descended, a wave of exhilaration washed over me, my small frame trembling with eager joy.
Convinced that Santa himself had graced my home with his presence, I imagined him concealed within the shadows, his watchful eyes ensuring my good conduct. The anticipation of meeting him bubbled within me, an eager desire to recount the litany of my year's kindnesses.
With the second step taken, a subtle shift began to unsettle the air. The light, once steady, now flickered capriciously before it began its eerie migration away from the wall, swallowed by the living room's gloom. What was once excitement curdled into a creeping dread, the realization dawning upon me that something was amiss.
My steps hastened, a desperate descent down the stairs, yet the light dimmed with each passing second. It seemed as though the darkness itself was devouring it, obliterating any sign of its existence.
A shiver cascaded down my spine, and a wave of dread engulfed me. In that instant, clarity pierced through the terror: this was no jolly Saint Nicholas.
It was an entity of profound darkness, an enigma beyond my grasp.
Rooted in place, ensnared by fear, I understood—the light was not a beacon, but a portent, a grim herald of an unspeakable evil that was now reaching out for me.
In the velvety darkness of the night, a voice sliced through the silence, one that was unmistakably not my father's. It was a deep, resonant baritone, laden with an authority that seemed to resonate from another realm. The timbre of it sent a cascade of shivers racing down my spine, each word articulated with a clarity that felt both commanding and ominous.
"Stop," it boomed, a simple command that froze me in my tracks. "Return from whence you came," it continued, the voice now a palpable presence in the shadow-draped hallway. I could feel the weight of unseen eyes upon me, compelling obedience.
With my heart hammering against my ribcage, I pivoted on quivering legs and ascended the stairs, each step an echo of my escalating dread.
As I reached the midpoint of the staircase, the house itself seemed to react to the voice's command.
A deafening crash shattered the stillness, reverberating through the very foundations. It was as if the walls themselves were protesting, the sound a violent release of pent-up energy. Panic seized me, propelling me forward with a newfound urgency. I sprinted the remaining steps, my breaths coming in ragged gasps, until I found sanctuary in the familiar warmth of my mother's bed, my small body wracked with tremors of fear.
Beneath the covers, I sought refuge, cocooning myself in a shroud of fabric, praying that the harbinger of the cacophony would not find me. The night stretched on, an eternity of terror, and I remained ensconced within my makeshift sanctuary, too petrified to even glimpse the possible horrors that lay beyond.
As dawn broke, we awoke to a scene of dishevelment. The festive poinsettia lights, once meticulously strung along the stair railing by my mother, lay in a shattered heap, as though wrenched down by an unseen tempest.
The dry sink, a steadfast fixture of the living room, had been unmoored from its station on the wall, its contents strewn about like the aftermath of a silent storm.
My family stood amidst the chaos, bewildered, grappling for an explanation to the night's inexplicable tumult.
My father's mind raced to the possibility of a home invasion, yet the house bore no signs of forced entry, nothing amiss but the chaos itself. My sister's tears were a silent testament to the fear that gripped us all, while my mother's speechless gaze swept over the disordered room. It was then that I noticed it—the undeniable proof of the night's disturbance.
On the edge of the dry sink, three distinct indentations were etched into the wood, the marks of an inexplicable force. Something had seized the sink with an otherworldly strength and hurled it to the ground, the source of the thunderous crash that had sent me fleeing in terror.
I remained silent, my voice a prisoner of the fear that clutched at my throat. Yet, in the depths of my being, I was acutely aware that a presence of malevolence had trespassed into our sanctuary, rendering it a place of uncertainty. The specter of that night lingers, a ghostly reminder of the unfathomable forces that weave through our existence, affirming that solitude is but an illusion.
The ordeal left an indelible mark on us all, a collective shudder that reverberated through the fabric of our lives, yet we found ourselves compelled to tread forward, into the light of day and the march of the mundane.
In the wake of the night's eerie occurrences, my family endeavored to resume our customary daily patterns, a veneer of normality painted over the inexplicable.
Yet, the residue of unease clung to me like a shadow. Each groan of the floorboards, every whisper of the wind, sent a jolt of alarm through me. The pervasive sense of an unseen gaze was inescapable, a spectral audience to my every move. My focus frayed, scattered by the constant vigilance, and the toll was evident in the faltering of my academic performance.
The house soon became a stage for the inexplicable; it was as if we had become unwilling actors in a play directed by an unseen force. Objects defied gravity, gliding across surfaces with a mind of their own.
Doors would slam with such sudden ferocity that the walls seemed to shudder in protest.
And the whispers—those sinister susurrations that seemed to emanate from the very ether—grew more insistent, a chorus of the damned that only we could hear.
With each passing day, the phenomena intensified, as though gaining strength from our mounting fear. The air itself felt laden with a malevolent charge, electrifying every moment with the anticipation of the next unexplainable event.
Shadows danced with a life of their own, fleeting across the walls in a macabre ballet. The sound of footsteps, unattached to any corporeal form, reverberated through the halls, a ghostly echo of an unseen interloper.
The sensation of invisible eyes upon us intensified, a constant, oppressive watchfulness. It was an inescapable truth—the architect of that night's terror remained hidden within our midst, a predator in the darkness, biding its time.
Our efforts to purge the entity from our home were met with relentless defiance. We sought counsel from priests and shamans, their sacred rituals permeating our halls with the smoke of sage and the sprinkling of holy water.
Yet, our actions seemed only to invigorate the presence, as if it fed voraciously upon our collective dread.
The entity's strength burgeoned, its malevolence palpable in every corner of our once-peaceful abode. Our lives became a daily gauntlet of fear and anxiety, each strange occurrence a reminder of our unwelcome guest's growing power.
Ultimately, the decision was wrenched from our hands. The darkness that had insidiously woven itself into the very fabric of our home left us no choice but to flee. We departed from the place we once cherished, each step away heavy with the sorrow of surrender. The experience etched itself into our souls, a scar that time would never fully heal.
A hollow sensation gnawed at me—the entity had triumphed. It had exiled us from our own home, and I could not shake the chilling certainty that it lingered there, in the shadows, biding its time until new souls dared to enter.
The sun's last embers had long faded, surrendering the house to an impenetrable darkness.
There I sat, in the solitude of my room, the night's stillness enveloping me like a shroud.
Abruptly, a clamor shattered the silence from below, jolting my heart into an erratic dance. The source of the disturbance was beyond my comprehension, a mystery veiled in the night.
With trepidation as my companion, I approached the staircase. A chilling sensation slithered along my spine, raising the fine hairs at my nape in silent alarm. Step by cautious step, I descended, the wooden boards groaning underfoot, their creaks a haunting chorus that resonated through the desolate house.
At the staircase's base, I was ensnared by a paralyzing terror. The scene that unfolded before me spoke of violence—a path of ruin lay where two familiar objects had been upended with ferocious force. Yet, it was the silence that ensnared the senses, a profound absence of sound as if the house itself had been placed under a spell, its very breath stolen by the night.
Petrified, I grappled with the incomprehensible turn of events. The silence was a tangible entity, amplifying my dread.
I spun on my heels, an instinctive retreat to the upper sanctuary, but halted as a disquieting realization dawned upon me. My ears, desperate for any sign of life, found none. The void was complete—devoid of whispers, devoid of breaths, a suffocating vacuum where even fear seemed to echo into infinity.
The epiphany struck with the force of a tempest, leaving me reeling. From that day forth, the voices were extinguished, their absence as profound as their once haunting presence. Silence became my unwavering shadow, a stark reminder of the night that changed everything. Though I shudder to contemplate what awaited me in the darkness below, the stark reality remains: some unseen force had manifested, leaving its mark upon the objects at the stairwell's base—a tangible testament to the night's otherworldly encounter.
In the oppressive silence, I found myself yearning for the whispers that once filled the air. Their absence was a void no light could illuminate, a silence no sound could penetrate.
The entity, a specter of the unknown, had not only claimed our voices but had also woven itself into the very essence of our existence.
As days turned to nights and nights to endless shadows, I could feel it watching, waiting, an omnipresent observer in our desolate abode. We were but marionettes in its silent play, our strings pulled by unseen hands.
And then, one fateful evening, as the clock struck the witching hour, the house began to groan—a symphony of despair. The walls bled shadows, and the air grew thick with a presence so tangible it nearly choked the breath from my lungs. It was then that I understood—the entity had not just invaded our home; it had become our home.
The darkness was no longer an intruder; it was the master of the house, and we, its unwelcome guests. With a heavy heart, I realized our only escape was to embrace the void, to become one with the silence. For in the end, it was not the whispers that we should have feared, but the quiet that came after.
And so, with a final glance at the husk of what was once a place of laughter and life, I stepped into the abyss, the darkness swallowing me whole.
The end... or perhaps, just a new beginning.
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