I still don't know if it really happened, or if I imagined everything because I was so tired. But the way it felt… I don't think I could've made it up.

This was three years ago. I'd gone to Thailand with my friends. We were backpacking, trying to find places off the beaten path. One night, we ended up in this small village outside Chiang Mai. It wasn't on the map; we just followed some locals who told us we'd find cheap food and a place to sleep.

The village was strange from the start. Quiet. Too quiet. No music, no chatter, just the sound of cicadas and the occasional dog barking. But the people were nice—smiling, offering us food. They even pointed us to a small hut we could rent for the night. It was old, wooden, and creaked with every step, but we didn't care. It was cheap, and we were exhausted.

I was sharing the hut with one of my friends, Mark. We were lying on our mats, talking softly about how weird the village felt. Then, out of nowhere, Mark asked, "Do you feel like someone's watching us?"

I froze. I hadn't said anything, but I'd been feeling it too—this pressure, like eyes on my back. I told him to shut up and go to sleep. He laughed it off, but I could tell he felt it too.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up to the sound of whispering. It wasn't in English. It wasn't Thai, either. It sounded soft, like a song, but wrong. I turned over and saw Mark sitting up, staring out the open window. His back was to me, and his breathing was weird—fast and shallow.

"Mark?" I whispered. He didn't answer.

I got up and walked over to him, shaking his shoulder. "Hey, are you okay?"

He turned to look at me, and I swear his face wasn't his. It looked like him, but his eyes were different—darker, hollow. He just smiled at me and whispered, "He's here."

That's when I noticed the smell. Sweet, like flowers, but rotten underneath. I looked out the window and saw someone standing there. A boy. He couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen, pale, shirtless, with a traditional Thai tattoo across his chest. His eyes were locked on Mark, unblinking.

"Who's that?" I asked, my voice shaking.

Mark didn't answer. He just kept staring at the boy, his smile growing wider. The boy raised his hand and beckoned, like he wanted Mark to come outside. I grabbed Mark's arm, trying to pull him away from the window, but he was so strong—way stronger than he should've been. He stood up and started walking toward the door.

I panicked and did the only thing I could think of—I slapped him. Hard. His head snapped back, and for a second, he looked normal again. Confused, scared. He looked at me, then at the window, and his face went pale. "What the hell is that?" he whispered.

We didn't stay to find out. We grabbed our stuff and ran out of the hut, straight to the center of the village. We didn't see anyone—not the boy, not the villagers, nothing. Just empty streets and that awful smell, following us like a shadow.

The next morning, we found out from a street vendor in the nearest town that the village was abandoned years ago. Some tragedy, he said. A boy who killed himself after his lover betrayed him. They say his spirit never left, and he's always looking for someone to take his place.

Mark doesn't talk about it. He pretends it never happened. But sometimes, when we're hanging out, I catch him staring out the window, his face pale, his eyes distant. Like he's waiting for someone.

Like the boy isn't done with him yet.

A few weeks after we left that village, things started getting... weird. At first, I thought I was just imagining things, but the more it happened, the harder it was to deny.

Mark had always been the more laid-back one. But after that night, he changed. He stopped sleeping, or at least it seemed like it. He'd get up at odd hours, just staring out his window, like he was waiting for something—or someone. I'd catch him muttering in his sleep too, but the words weren't in English, and they weren't Thai either. It sounded like the whispering from that night.

I didn't know what to do. I tried to talk to him about it, but whenever I brought up that night in the village, he'd get defensive, like he wanted to forget it ever happened. But I could see it in his eyes—he was terrified. And so was I.

Then came the dreams.

It started with just one—me back in that hut, standing by the window, watching the boy with the tattoo. His eyes were locked on mine, just like before, and he was smiling, that same horrible smile. I'd try to scream, but no sound would come out. And then, the boy would step closer, and I'd wake up with my heart pounding in my chest.

But the dreams didn't stop. They kept happening, every night. And soon, Mark started having them too. I knew because he'd wake up in the middle of the night, sweating, gasping for breath.

"I saw him again," he'd whisper. "He's still out there. Watching."

I didn't want to believe him, but deep down, I knew something was wrong. And it wasn't just with Mark—it felt like something was wrong with me too. I kept hearing whispers, soft and distant, just like the ones that night. They'd follow me around, sometimes while I was walking, sometimes when I was alone in my room. I'd turn around, expecting someone to be there, but nothing. Just silence.

It wasn't until the third week after we got back that things really went downhill.

Mark didn't show up for work one day. I thought maybe he was just sick, but when I went to his place to check on him, the door was locked. I knocked for a while before I decided to break it down.

When I walked inside, the smell hit me first—sweet, like flowers, but decayed. It was exactly like that night in the village.

I found Mark in his room, sitting on the floor, staring at the wall. His eyes were wide open, but he wasn't blinking. I shook him, but he didn't respond. His body felt cold, like he hadn't moved in hours.

And then I saw it. A small, dark mark on his chest, right where the boy's tattoo had been.

I panicked, tried to shake him awake again, but it didn't work. I could feel something was wrong, like the air itself had changed. That's when I heard the whispering again, right behind me. Soft at first, but growing louder.

"Come back to me," it said.

I didn't stay. I ran. I don't know if Mark heard it too, or if he was already lost, but I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I called an ambulance, but when they arrived, Mark was gone—no pulse, no sign of life.

I couldn't go back to that village. I couldn't even talk about it without feeling sick. I don't know if it was the boy, or if it was something else, but I know Mark isn't coming back.

They say the spirit of the boy in the village still roams, looking for someone to take his place, to carry on his unfinished love. I don't know if that's true, but I do know that the whispering never really stopped. Every night, I hear it. Sometimes I think I'm imagining it, but deep down, I'm not so sure.

I still see Mark sometimes, but not in the way you think. He doesn't look the same. His eyes are dark now, hollow. And he's always smiling, like that boy from the village. Waiting for me to come closer.