《Whispers of the grave》


 First night

    The earth groaned and purred as if it knew the dead were stirrin and listening.


    Ziria knelt in the shadow of the oak, her breath clearly visible in the cold, still air. The graveyard stretched wide before her, a sea of forgotten stones and twisted vines. Many of them hadn''t had a visitor since they died, hundreds of years ago. The world felt unnaturally quiet this night, as though it held its breath, waiting to see if she dared to finish what she had started.


    Her slim hands trembled as she carved the final sigil into the dirt. The knife¡¯s edge glinted in the moonlight, stained with blood both fresh and dried. A dark green opal sitting on the handles edge, breathing in the last Light from the moon. Ziria pressed her palm against the sigil, the sharp sting of her earlier cut reigniting as her blood seeped into the lines on the ground. ¡°Dead men tell the best tales¡±, she murmured with a sigh.


    The spell whispered back to her, low and demanding, like wind through broken windows. Her voice trembled as she recited the words, ancient syllables that felt foreign on her tongue. The air grew colder, and the shadows around her deepened, pooling like ink. Her hair moved across her face as the wind swept over her.


    And then the ground moved.


    It wasn¡¯t a violent shift, but a subtle ripple, like something large stirring beneath her feet. Usually this ritual went quick and smooth, no shifts in the ground. The sigil glowed faintly, a sickly blue-green hue that made her skin crawl. The air thickened, both warm and cold air touched her and a shape began to rise from the earth¡ªa man, or at least something that had once been one, maybe.


    His form was shadow and smoke, his face undefined but somehow watching her with unseen eyes. A faint smile curled across what might have been lips.


    His voice crackled, like two voices trying to talk in tandem, deep and shrieking at the same time.


    ¡°You called, little necromancer.¡± His voice was almost kind, but it carried a weight that pressed against her chest.


    Ziria swallowed hard. ¡°I need¡­ a story.¡±


    The figure tilted its head, the motion smooth but wrong, as though it was unaccustomed to its own shape. ¡°A story is a dangerous thing to ask for. But you knew that, didn¡¯t you?¡±


    She didn¡¯t answer. She came here every other night for stories from the dead.


    The figure leaned closer, the edges of its form blurring into the mist. ¡°You will forgive me if I don¡¯t tell you of my death. Rules are rules, after all. But I will tell you of another. A boy, once full of light, who became something else entirely. Shall we begin?¡±


    Ziria nodded, unable to find her voice. She had come for a story, like she usually did. But this was the first time seeing this creature.


    ¡°Good,¡± the figure purred, settling into the air before her. ¡°Once, there was a child born under an unlucky and dark star. His name is not important¡ªnot to you, not yet. He was the son of a hunter, a boy who lived at the edge of a great great forest, where the trees whispered secrets in the wind and the ground bled black when it rained."This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    He paused, his unexciting eyes roamed over her, chills creeping up her body.


    ¡°He was a very curious child, bright-eyed and eager, but curiosity is a blade with two edges. One evening, when the moon hung heavy and low, he ventured too far into the forest. He¡¯d heard the stories, of course, about what lurked in those shadows. But stories are just stories, aren¡¯t they?¡±


    The figure¡¯s voice dipped lower, curling like thick smoke through the cold air. He clicked his younger before he continued.


    ¡°He followed a sound¡ªsoft, like singing, though no words could be made out of it. The deeper in the forest he went, the louder it grew, until it became something almost¡­ alive. A whisper in his ear. A caress on his skin. So close, but not there. He should have turned back. But children rarely do what they should.¡±


    Ziria felt her breath catch, the weight of the story pressing down on her as though she, too, were walking into that forest, seeing the trees, hearing a whisper.


    ¡°The boy stumbled into a clearing. It wasn¡¯t natural¡ªnothing in that place was. The trees leaned far in, their branches entwined like grasping hands. At the center stood a shadowed man.¡±


    The shadow figure paused, its smoky form flickering like a dying candle. His voice crackled like fire, a low clicking sound. Almost like a deep purring of a lion.


    "Was it a human man?", Ziria asked.


    ¡°Hmm...Not a man. Not really.¡±


    Ziria¡¯s voice was barely above a whisper. ¡°then what was he?¡±


    The figure seemed to smile. ¡°A predator. He wore the shape of a man, but his eyes burned with deep hunger, ready to devour. And the boy, foolish and curious, asked him a question.¡±


    ¡°What question?¡±


    The shadows deepened, and the figure¡¯s form seemed to loom over her, growing bigger, wider.


    ¡°¡®What are you?¡¯¡±


    Ziria shivered, the weight of those words sinking into her chest. What are you.


    ¡°The creature laughed, a sound that shook the tilting trees and sent the ground trembling. ¡®I am the end of stories,¡¯ it had said. And then it smiled, a terrible crooked thing, it bowed low and offered the boy a gift. A token of its power, beautiful and wrapped in shadows and lies.¡±


    The figure shifted closer, its voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.


    ¡°The boy took it, of course. And the moment he did, the man... no, the creature, was gone. But the forest never let him leave. Not truly. By the time he found his way back to the village and his home, he was no longer a boy. He was something else entirely. Something colder. And wherever he went, the whispers of the forest followed him.¡±


    The story ended, but the air remained heavy and cold, the silence between them almost felt like a hand tightening over her neck.


    Ziria¡¯s voice trembled as she tried to speak, she slowly swept her long black hair behind her ear. ¡°What happened to him? To the boy?¡±


    The figure¡¯s almost smile faded. ¡°He¡¯s still out there, wandering the edges of the living and the dead. A shadow of what he could have been but are not.¡±


    ¡°And you knew him?¡± she asked.


    The shadow figure¡¯s form flickered again like a candle, its edges unraveling like thick smoke. ¡°I know all who are lost to the forest. Just as I know you, Ziria. Beware what you seek, my sweet little necromancer. The dead have long memories, and I never forget.¡±


    Before she could speak again, the figure dissolved, its presence retreating into the sigil¡¯s faint glow. The graveyard was silent again, but Ziria¡¯s heart thundered hard in her chest. Usually the dead told her about people in her village, stories she could share. As a necromancer she helped the villagers connect to their ancestors, asking questions.


    She sat back, staring at the earth and the fading light of her spell. The words lingered in her mind, all tangled up by this event. A boy who wasn¡¯t a boy. A creature that gave gifts, gifts of death.

 Second night

    The graveyard welcomed her with a muted silence. Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that pressed down on her shoulders, made her feel as though she were trespassing in a place not meant for the living, not even those who were in between. Her ears felt muffled and heavy.


    Ziria walked between the graves, her lantern casting long and flickering shadows across the cracked stones. The ritual blade hung at her hip, the opal stone shining brigt, but she hadn¡¯t yet unsheathed it. Not yet.


    Something was very wrong.


    She stopped at the oak once more, her fingers tightening around the lantern¡¯s handle making her knuckles white. The sigils from the night before were still visible in the dirt, faint but present. That wasn¡¯t supposed to happen. Not at all. Magic faded quickly, especially hers. She always made sure. This¡­ lingered, like it was waiting for her.


    Her heart quickened. She felt her pulse radiate throughout her body. She tried to convince herself it was just residue, an echo of power she hadn¡¯t been careful enough to contain. But the air here felt too thick, too cold and too heavy.


    Still, she knelt.


    Her hands moved with practiced precision, carving fresh symbols over the old ones. The knife sliced her palm once more, and blood dripped onto the earth. The spell came easier this time, the words falling from her lips as though they belonged to someone else. She closed her eyes, taking a slow breath. Exhaling as the ground shuddered beneath her.


    She stepped back, her lantern swinging wildly as shadows danced across the graves. This time, the light seemed to avoid the sigil, bending away as though repelled by the shape taking form there.


    The shadow rose again, shaping into the figure she had summoned the night before.


    ¡°You again,¡± Ziria whispered, her voice sharper than she intended. Her mind filled with curiosity, and something sharper. Not fear¡­ but something new.


    The shadow tilted its head, its form flickering like smoke caught in a breeze. ¡°Did you miss me, my sweet little necromancer?¡±


    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t be here,¡± she said, taking a step closer. Her pulse raced, but she forced her voice to stay steady. She wasn''t afraid. ¡°When I summon the dead, I get someone new each time. Someone¡­ normal.¡±


    ¡°I am normal,¡± the shadow said, its voice edged with mockery.


    ¡°No, you¡¯re not.¡± Ziria clenched her fists. ¡°What are you?¡±


    The shadow¡¯s laughter was low and hollow, a sound that made her skin crawl. A sound of two, one low and one shrieking. ¡°I told you, little necromancer. I am the end of time. And you¡­¡± It leaned forward, its form stretching toward her. ¡°You seem intent on becoming lost in it.¡±


    Ziria¡¯s throat tightened, but she forced herself to hold her ground. ¡°You told me a story last night. About a boy. I want to know more.¡±The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    The shadow stilled. Its shape blurred at the edges, dark smoke leaking into the night. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t want that.¡±


    ¡°But I do.¡±


    For a moment, the graveyard was silent except for the sound of her own breathing. Then the shadow moved closer, its form towering over her like a stormcloud. The voice crackled like fire, like a low rumble of a storm.


    ¡°Very well,¡± it said, clicking its tongue. its voice dripping with something she couldn¡¯t quite name. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you more. But remember, little necromancer: stories have teeth. And they all have a cost¡±


    Ziria swallowed hard, gripping the lantern tighter. She tried to shape the shadow. What did he look like? His features changed with every breath, his eyes weren''t there but they saw her and she felt his gaze on her.


    ¡°The boy returned to the village,¡± the shadow began. Its tone was softer now, almost hypnotic, pulsating. ¡°But he was not the same. Oh, but he looked the same. His father¡¯s sharp jaw. His mother¡¯s dark and large eyes. But the villagers noticed things. Strange things.¡±


    ¡°The animals grew restless around him. His shadow stretched longer than it should, reaching for things unseen, all around. And the forest¡­¡± The shadow¡¯s voice dropped lower, crackling like fire again. ¡°The forest began to creep closer. Trees that had stood still for decades suddenly pressed against the edges of the village, their roots snaking into homes. The villagers whispered, but the boy didn¡¯t hear them. Never. He was too busy listening to something else. Or someone else.


    ¡°The gift.¡± she paused the shadow.


    Ziria¡¯s breath caught. ¡°The creature¡¯s gift?¡±


    The shadow nodded, its form flickering. ¡°It was a seed, planted deep in the boy¡¯s heart. It whispered to him, told him things he couldn¡¯t understand but couldn¡¯t ignore. It showed him how to call the shadows, how to bend the world to his will. Making everything and nothing. And for a time, he reveled in it. He was powerful. Untouchable.¡±


    The shadow paused, its voice softening into something almost sorrowful. ¡°But power is a burden, my sweet little necromancer. The gift was not without its cost. Magic always has a price.¡±


    ¡°What cost?¡± Ziria whispered.


    The shadow leaned closer, its form unraveling at the edges, he grew bigger and wider. ¡°It began to consume him. Slowly, at first. A shadow creeping into his veins. But as he used the power, it took more of him. His laughter faded. His eyes grew darker, sunk deeper. His body almost sunk in on itself. And one night, when the villagers came to confront him, they found his house empty.


    ¡°They say he went back to the forest. That it called him home, he wasn''t one of them anymore.¡±


    The air grew colder, and Ziria felt a chill crawl down her spine, her curiosity getting the best of her. ¡°What happened to him?¡±


    The shadow¡¯s smile was faint but sharp. ¡°No one knows. But the forest is still there. And on nights like this, when the moon hangs low and the wind carries whispers, some say they see him. A shadow among the trees. They hear him.¡±


    Ziria¡¯s fingers dug into the lantern¡¯s handle. ¡°Why are you telling me this story?¡±


    The shadow didn¡¯t answer at first. It simply stared at her with it''s almost, unseen eyes, its presence heavy and unyielding. Then it said, softly, ¡°Because you need to understand, my sweet little necromancer. Some stories don¡¯t end. They grow. They twist. And they consume everyone foolish enough to follow them. Like you. Like the boy with a curiosity stronger than his judgement.¡±


    Before she could respond, the shadow began to dissolve, its form unraveling like thick smoke.


    ¡°Wait!¡± Ziria called, stepping forward.


    But it was gone. Once again.


    She was alone again, standing in the cold, silent graveyard. Her heart thundered in her chest as she stared at the sigil, its faint glow already fading.


    The story echoed in her mind, each word sinking deeper into her thoughts. The boy. The gift. The forest that still called out to anyone that would listen.


    And the shadow that seemed to know more about her than she cared to admit.

 Second nightmare

    Ziria tightened her grip on the lantern¡¯s handle as she walked back through the graveyard, its faint glow painting her shadow in jagged lines along the cold ground. The silence pressed down on her ears, too heavy, too complete. Muted and so thick. The story the shadow had told clung to her like smoke, a seeping into the cracks of her mind.


    The boy. His dark shadow. The forest.


    She had never heard anything like it before. She had worked as a bridge to the dead for many years, listening to their secrets and their regrets, but the dead didn¡¯t come back to her summonings, never more than once.


    They didn¡¯t haunt her after she sent them back to their slumber. They didn¡¯t return with more stories.


    But it had. The Shadow.


    The thought made her stomach twist and turn. Had she done something wrong? She had repeated her steps over and over again.


    Her steps slowed as she glanced over her shoulder, the hair on the back of her neck prickling with acknowledgement. The wind whispered through the trees, tugging at her long black hair and carrying with it the faintest scent of decay. It was familiar, this was her domain, her sanctuary. But tonight, it felt... off.


    She shook her head, forcing herself to focus on the path ahead. The spell. She must have botched the spell. Maybe the sigils had been too faint, or the lines weren¡¯t perfect. Maybe her blood wasn¡¯t enough. Something was happening.


    She looked down at her palm, the cut still fresh. The thought of trying again tomorrow curled in her chest, equal parts dread and curiosity.


    What was the boy''s name? The shadow hadn¡¯t told her. Was he still a boy, or had the forest twisted him into something fearing and unrecognizable? She thought of the villagers in the story, whispering behind closed doors, and of the creeping roots that had snaked into their homes. Her heart thudded heavier in her chest. He had just been a boy, accepting a gift. And losing everything.


    Ziria forced herself forward, each step echoing louder than it should. She wasn¡¯t scared of the dark. She never had been. It was the place where she thrived, usually, where the living dared not follow. But tonight, something felt very different.


    The lantern flickered sharply as she reached the path leading back to her cottage. She stepped carefully, slower, her boots crunching against the frosted ground. The wind suddenly picked up, and her hair whipped in front of her face, blinding her for a short moment. She pushed it away impatiently, her breath curling in the cold air.


    That was when she heard it.


    A sound behind her.


    Sharp. Quick.


    She froze, her fingers tightening around the lantern until the metal bit into her palm. Slowly, she turned her head, her dark eyes scanning the shadows that stretched long and deep beneath the trees.


    Nothing.


    Her shoulders relaxed a fraction, but the feeling didn¡¯t leave her, the weight of being watched. Followed. Her pulse quickened, but she kept her steps even, refusing to let the unease show in her stride. She wasn''t afraid. She was darkness.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    The path narrowed, the trees on either side looming closer and closer. She caught herself glancing to the edges of the lantern¡¯s glow, where the dark seemed to writhe and stretch.


    And then it came again.


    A wild shriek.


    Not human. Not animal. Loud and sharp.


    It came from behind the nearest tree to her right, the sound high and jagged, like metal scraping against stone. The leaves moved unevenly in the wind, against it not with it.


    Ziria¡¯s breath hitched and her instincts screamed at her to run, but her feet stayed rooted. Curiosity getting the best of her. She wasn''t afraid.


    Her heart hammered so hard in her chest as she turned, holding the lantern high. The tree¡¯s bark gleamed wet in the faint light, but there was nothing there.


    She stepped closer, her pulse like a loud drumbeat in her ears.


    ¡°Who¡¯s there?¡± she demanded, her voice steady despite the knot tightening in her throat making her lungs restricted.


    No answer. Just the wind, teasing her with faint whispers that sounded almost like words.


    Her fingers brushed the hilt of the knife at her hip as she stepped closer to the tree, the opal warmed against her fingers. Her breath curling in front of her like smoke, the shriek had sounded so close, as if it had been just behind her.


    The shadows shifted slowly at the edge of her vision, and she whipped around, the lantern swinging wildly with her movements. For a small split second, she thought she saw something, something tall and angular, like branches bent into the shape of a man. Watching her carefully.


    But then it was gone.


    Her skin crawled as she stepped back, her boots slipping slightly on the uneven ground. The silence had deepened, the air was so still it felt as though the entire forest was holding its breath.


    Ziria swallowed hard and forced herself to keep moving forward. The cottage wasn¡¯t far now. If she could just make it inside¡­


    Snap!


    Another sound.


    This one softer. A quiet whisper.


    Her steps faltered, her head snapping toward the noise. It wasn¡¯t the wind this time. It was too deliberate, too close. She felt two eyes burning on her.


    ¡°Ziria.¡±


    Her name.


    It wasn¡¯t spoken, it was breathed, soft and sharp, curling around her like dark and thick smoke. Dancing around her body, teasing her skin. Nowhere and everywhere.


    She spun around, the lantern¡¯s light swinging wildly across the trees. ¡°Show yourself!¡± she snapped, her voice cutting hard through the stillness.


    Nothing.


    Her breath came quicker and harder now, her chest tightening as the feeling of being watched grew heavier. The shadows seemed to ripple, darker than they had any right to be casting unnatural forms on the ground.


    ¡°You can¡¯t frighten me,¡± she said, her voice low and steady. ¡°I thrive in the dark.¡±


    The whisper came again, softer this time, as though it were moving farther away.


    Ziria clenched her jaw and kept walking, her lantern casting long, trembling shadows along the ground. This was not welcomed. Her cottage was in sight now, the faint outline of it rising against the dark. She quickened her pace, her free hand brushing against the knife at her hip.


    The shriek came again.


    This time, it was closer. Almost touching her neck.


    She spun, her lantern swinging high, but there was nothing there. The shadows stretched long and deep, twisting into shapes that made her stomach churn.


    A laugh. Low and soft, barely more than a breath. Like a boy, and a man.


    It came from everywhere and nowhere, anywhere and all around, echoing through the trees.


    Ziria¡¯s blood turned cold. She wasn''t afraid. She gritted her teeth and turned back toward the cottage, her steps quick and deliberate. Whatever this was, she would face it. Tomorrow.


    But for now, she needed to think. To plan.


    And to figure out why the darkness, for the first time in her life, felt like it was staring back at her.