Autumn had always been Elena’s favorite time of year. The crisp air, the kaleidoscope of colors, and the soft rustling of fallen leaves never failed to bring a sense of calm to her. This year, however, was different. Her grandmother, once a lively woman with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, had recently passed, and Elena found herself returning to the small, isolated town that her family had long since abandoned.
The town felt forgotten, like time had stood still since the last time she’d visited as a child. Old wooden houses, their paint peeling and their windows dusty, lined the narrow, winding streets. The locals, few as they were, eyed her warily. It was as if no one expected outsiders to visit, much less relatives of a woman who had chosen solitude over company for the past two decades.
Elena’s grandmother’s house stood at the edge of town, just before the dense woods began. The two-story structure looked like it hadn’t changed at all since Elena’s last visit ten years ago. The roof sagged slightly, and the garden was overgrown, but it still retained a strange charm. It was peaceful, almost too peaceful.
She spent the first day unpacking and getting reacquainted with the creaky old house, its faded wallpaper, and the odd, outdated furniture. But it wasn’t long before the serenity of the place started to feel… stifling. There was an unease that clung to the air, thick and heavy. Every creak of the floorboards, every gust of wind that rattled the windows, felt like a whisper of something more.
The discovery of the unmarked grave happened by chance. On her second day, Elena decided to explore the overgrown backyard. It had once been her grandmother’s pride—a garden filled with roses, herbs, and towering sunflowers. But now it was wild, overtaken by weeds and vines. While cutting through the dense foliage, Elena’s foot caught on something hard, sending her sprawling to the ground.
She turned back to see what had tripped her and found the edge of a stone slab peeking out from the dirt. Pushing the weeds aside, she uncovered more—a flat, weathered stone, unmarked and forgotten. There was no name, no date, nothing to suggest who might have been buried beneath it.
A chill ran down her spine as she crouched over the grave. Who was buried here? And why would her grandmother never mention it? The weight of the discovery pressed on her, a sense of foreboding settling in her chest. She stood there for a long time, staring at the stone, lost in thought. The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows that made the backyard feel far less inviting than it had earlier.
That night, the whispers began.
At first, Elena thought it was the wind. The old house creaked and groaned with every gust, and she had always been a light sleeper. But as the night stretched on, the whispers grew more distinct. They weren’t just sounds; they were words. And the words were her name.
“Elena… Elena…”
She sat up in bed, her heart pounding. The room was dark, the moonlight barely filtering through the heavy curtains. She strained her ears, waiting, but all was silent now. She tried to shake off the feeling, telling herself it was just her imagination, the residual unease from discovering the grave.
But the next night, it happened again. This time, the whispers were louder, more urgent. “Elena… you have to listen… Elena…”
She bolted upright, her breath catching in her throat. The voice was so close, so desperate. It wasn’t the wind, she was sure of it now. Someone—or something—was calling her. The whispers seemed to come from outside her window, floating through the air like a soft plea. But when she rushed to look out into the night, there was nothing there but the shadows of the trees swaying in the wind.
For the next few nights, the whispers continued. They grew more persistent, more frantic, as if the unseen presence was growing impatient with her lack of response. Elena tried everything to ignore them—leaving lights on, playing music, even sleeping with earplugs—but nothing worked. The whispers pierced through everything, creeping into her mind, tugging at her sanity.
By the fifth night, she couldn’t take it anymore. She needed answers. The grave, the whispers—it had to be connected. She grabbed a shovel from the old shed and headed out into the backyard, the night cool and still around her.
As she stood over the unmarked grave, shovel in hand, a deep sense of dread washed over her. She hesitated, but the whispers—now ever-present, even in the silence of the night—pushed her forward.
“Elena… you have to know… you have to dig…”
The dirt was hard and stubborn, but she dug feverishly, driven by a force she didn’t fully understand. Sweat dripped down her forehead, and her hands ached as the shovel struck deeper and deeper into the earth. She half-expected to hit a coffin, to uncover some long-forgotten skeleton. But when the shovel finally hit something solid, it wasn’t wood. It was metal.
Elena knelt down, her heart racing, and brushed away the remaining dirt with her hands. What she uncovered wasn’t a coffin at all. It was a small, rusted box. Trembling, she pulled it from the ground and pried it open.
Inside was a journal.
The leather was cracked and faded, but the pages inside were surprisingly well-preserved. She flipped through it, her breath catching as she saw the handwriting. It was hers. The letters, the style—it was unmistakable. But that couldn’t be possible.
She took the journal back inside, her mind spinning. Sitting at the kitchen table, she began to read, and as she did, her blood ran cold.
The journal was hers. But not from this life.
The entries were detailed, recounting moments from a life that felt both familiar and foreign. The woman who had written these pages looked like her, acted like her, but lived in a time long past. The journal chronicled her previous life in this very town—her joys, her fears, her secrets. But as the entries continued, they took a darker turn. The woman—her past self—had begun to notice strange things, just as Elena had. The whispers, the grave, the sense of something watching her.
And then came the predictions.
Each entry described in horrifying detail the future that awaited Elena. It foretold the moment she would discover the grave, the whispers that would follow, and—most chillingly—how she would die.
The last few pages were a frantic scrawl, warning Elena that her death would come at the hands of someone close to her, someone she trusted. The handwriting grew erratic, desperate, as if her past self had been trying to leave her a message, a warning, before it was too late.
But the final shock came when she read the very last line.
“I am trapped here. I am the one whispering to you. And soon, you will be, too.”
Elena’s hands shook as she closed the journal. The whispers had stopped, but the silence was somehow worse. She felt cold, her body numb, as the weight of the truth settled in.
The person she feared most was not a stranger. It wasn’t someone in the town or a long-dead spirit. It was her.
Suddenly, there was a creak from the hallway. Elena froze, her breath catching in her throat. Slowly, she turned toward the sound.
Standing in the doorway was her reflection, but not quite. The figure was her, yet different—pale, gaunt, with hollow eyes that gleamed with a sinister knowledge. It smiled at her, the same twisted smile she’d seen drawn in the final pages of the journal.
“Elena,” it whispered, its voice soft and cold, “it’s time.”
Before she could scream, the figure lunged forward, and the world went black.
The next morning, the town remained as quiet as ever. No one noticed the empty house at the edge of the woods or the freshly dug grave in the backyard, unmarked as always. But if you listened closely, as the wind blew through the trees, you could hear the faintest of whispers.
“Elena… Elena…”
Want to read a bit more? Find some more of my writings here-
A Deep Dive into Motherless Brooklyn: A Twisted Tale of Identity, Isolation, and Urban Chaos
Book Review: Fifty Shades of Grey
Powerless but Powerful: Why Everyone’s Talking About Powerless by Lauren Roberts
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