In the quiet mountain village of San Vallejo, nestled deep in the heart of a forest, life had always been peaceful. The townsfolk were used to the songs of birds echoing in the trees, the gentle rustle of leaves in the wind, and the soothing hum of the nearby river. But one night, everything changed.
It started with a low rumble, like distant thunder, barely enough to wake the villagers from their slumber. But the tremors grew stronger, until the earth beneath them heaved and cracked. Houses crumbled, the streets split open, and the once tranquil village was reduced to a heap of broken timber and stone. The earthquake lasted only a few minutes, but it left behind a devastation that would haunt the survivors forever.
As dawn broke, the village was eerily silent. The survivors emerged from the ruins, dazed and covered in dust. But it wasn’t the destruction of their homes that filled them with dread. It was the forest.
During the quake, something had been unleashed from the depths of the earth, something ancient and long forgotten. Dark fissures had opened at the base of the mountain, releasing a thick, suffocating mist that slithered into the village. At first, the villagers thought it was just fog, until they noticed the shapes moving within it—twisted figures that writhed and crawled, silent except for the faint sound of whispering.
The first to go missing was Old Man Ruiz. He had been searching for his dog when the mist swallowed him whole. By the time they found his body, his face was frozen in a twisted expression of horror, his skin cold and damp. No one dared touch him.
One by one, people began to vanish. The whispers grew louder each night, the shapes in the mist more distinct, their faces just out of sight, lurking in the shadows of broken houses. Children said they heard voices calling them from the cracks in the earth, and sometimes, when they stared too long into the mist, they saw eyes—cold, hollow, and watching.
Desperation gripped the village. The few who tried to flee found the roads blocked, as if the earth itself conspired to trap them. The mist now covered the entire valley, growing thicker with each passing day, and the whispers turned into low, guttural groans that echoed through the shattered streets.
It was in the dead of night when they learned the truth. The village elders, huddled together in what was left of the town hall, unearthed an old legend. Centuries ago, the village had been built over an ancient burial ground, a place where long-forgotten creatures were sealed beneath the mountain. The earthquake had broken their prison, and now they were rising, hungry for the souls of the living.
No one slept after that. The remaining villagers barricaded themselves indoors, but they knew it was only a matter of time. The mist crept closer, seeping through the cracks in doors and windows, the whispers now inside their very walls.
In the final hours, there were no screams, only silence as the last of the villagers were taken, their fates sealed by the ancient horrors that had awoken beneath the earth. By morning, the mist had cleared, and San Vallejo was nothing more than a forgotten ruin, swallowed by the forest.
No one speaks of the village now, and those who wander too close to the valley say they can still hear the whispers, faint and distant, carried on the wind—waiting for the next quake to set them free.