Whispers in the Dark

CHAPTER X - The Forgotten Child

For many years, an old cottage in Black Hollow had been deserted. No one ever mentioned it, and those who did merely whisper cautions. Locals knew to stay away from it since it was a cursed location where far too many people had died. But for some reason Adam was forced to stand in front of its decaying wooden door in spite of all the muttered warnings.

According to the stories he had heard as a child, there was a boy who lived there once, whose face no one could recall, a child who had been erased from existence itself. One night, his parents disappeared, and the boy was never seen again. Some people said he had never been real at all, but the most bizarre thing was that anyone who entered that cabin returned changed, if they returned at all.

As a journalist who was constantly looking for the next big scoop, Adam was captivated by urban legends. He had previously investigated allegedly haunted homes, dispelling legends and exposing their real nature. However, something felt different here.

The air became heavy and thick as soon as he entered, and he felt an unseen force pressing against his flesh. Undisturbed for years, the floors were covered in thick layers of dust. The chairs were pulled back as though someone had just finished supper, the plates were still on the table, unaltered by the passage of time, and the furniture was exactly as it had been.

Then he heard it.

A child’s laughter.

It came from upstairs, faint and far away but eerily near. Adam gasped for air. His illumination flickered a little as if he were fighting the darkness as he pushed himself to move. As he climbed the stairs, the old wood creaked beneath his feet, and the walls moaned.

The laughter stopped.

At the end of the hallway was a single door that was slightly open. The air poured out of the crevice, abnormally cold. He pushed it open slowly.

Except for a solitary wooden chair in the middle, the room seemed tiny and deserted. His arrival caused the dust to whirl in the air. Something was observing him. He turned and saw a small figure standing in the corner with his flashlight.

A boy.

He was slender and pale, wearing antiquated clothes, and his features were hazy as if reality had trouble defining them. His eyes were blacker than the surrounding area, hollow holes.

“You found me,” the boy whispered, his voice laid, as if more than one person was speaking through him.

Adam’s pulse pounded in his ears. He tried to move, to step back, but his feet were rooted in place.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” the boy continued, tilting his head at an unnatural angle. “They don’t like it when someone remembers.”

“Who?” Adam croaked, his throat dry.

Too sharp, too jagged teeth showed when the boy grinned. The walls shook. The darkness grew darker. Then, suddenly, the room started to alter.

Something hideous was revealed when the walls melted away. Fleshy, throbbing veins replaced the twisted, rotting timber. An chasm that extended into emptiness was revealed when the floor cracked open. Out of the shadows, little, innocent-looking hands reached for him, grasping at the air.

A voice screamed in his head.

“Don’t forget me.”

Like a distorted vision, the boy's figure flashed and distorted. Adam was pulled toward the abyss by the hands that rushed forward and grabbed his ankles. He struggled, flailing and kicking, but the hold persisted.

The youngster, motionless, observing, grinning, was the last thing he saw before being completely engulfed.

Then there was quiet.

A few days later, the driver's side door of Adam's automobile was discovered ajar outside the cabin. Inside, unaltered, were his notebook and camera.

But Adam was gone.

And in the cabin, behind the door at the end of the hall, a new voice could be heard.

Laughing.