Once upon a cold autumn evening, my husband, Sam, convinced me to go hunting with him. I had always been wary of the dense forests surrounding our town, but he insisted, begging me to join him on his annual hunting trip. “It’ll be fun,” he said. “Just us, the trees, and the thrill of the hunt.” Against my better judgment, I agreed, packing up reluctantly and following him into the wilderness.
The forest was silent that night. A strange fog clung to the ground, swirling around our feet as we made our way deeper into the trees. Sam seemed unbothered, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something – or someone – was watching us. As the evening wore on, shadows seemed to dance in the corners of my vision, and the silence grew heavier, almost suffocating.
Hours later, just as we decided to rest near a clearing, we heard a rustling noise. “Did you hear that?” I whispered. Sam nodded, his face ashen, his eyes wide. He raised his rifle, scanning the treeline. But then, a voice called out from the darkness, whispering my name. It was soft, like a breeze, but unmistakable – it was my own voice, echoing from somewhere deep within the woods.
Fear gripped me. “Sam,” I whispered, trembling, “let’s go back.”
Before he could answer, a figure appeared in the fog, a shadowy shape with no face, only empty eyes that seemed to stare straight into my soul. It raised a hand, beckoning me forward, and I felt an uncontrollable urge to follow. Sam grabbed my arm, pulling me back. “Don’t look at it!” he yelled.
We ran, crashing through the underbrush, stumbling and falling, but the shadow seemed to follow us, gliding silently through the fog. By the time we reached the car, both of us were breathless, our hearts pounding. As we sped away, I glanced back once more, and there it was, standing on the edge of the treeline, watching, waiting.
We never spoke of that night again, but sometimes, in the quiet of the early morning, I still hear my own voice whispering from somewhere deep within the woods, calling me back.
As the days went by, I couldn’t shake the memory of that shadowy figure. I started waking up in the middle of the night, hearing faint whispers echoing through the house, calling my name in that same eerie tone. Sam tried to reassure me, saying it was all just a trick of the mind from our terrifying night in the woods. But I knew better.
One night, I woke up to find Sam gone from our bed. The front door was wide open, and cold air filled the house. Panic surged through me as I searched the darkened rooms, but he was nowhere to be found. Grabbing a flashlight, I stepped out into the night, calling his name into the stillness.
The fog had returned, thicker than ever, and as I stepped closer to the treeline, I spotted him standing just inside the woods, his back to me, staring deeper into the darkness. “Sam!” I called, my voice breaking with fear. But he didn’t respond or even turn around.
Taking a shaky step forward, I reached out for him, but as my fingers brushed his shoulder, he slowly turned to face me. His eyes were empty, hollow, like they’d been drained of life. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out—only that same whisper, echoing my name in my own voice.
And then, from the fog, the shadowy figure emerged, standing right beside Sam. I could see now that it had no face, only a dark void where its eyes and mouth should be. It extended a hand towards me, beckoning me once more.
I wanted to run, to scream, but my legs felt heavy, rooted to the ground. The whispers grew louder, surrounding me, drowning out my thoughts until I could no longer tell where my own voice ended and theirs began.
The last thing I remember is that shadow reaching out and pulling me deeper into the fog, its cold grip sinking into my skin as everything faded into darkness.
They never found us. Only our empty house remained, with the front door wide open and footprints leading into the misty woods. Some say that, on quiet nights, they can hear faint whispers drifting out from the trees, calling lost souls to join the shadows that wait within.