Slowly the figure of the huntsman that was in front of me had disappeared. It all felt like a bad dream that had lasted only for a minute, my legs violently vibrated beneath me.
The forest was alive with whispers. They swirled around me,
a constant murmur against the backdrop of the rustling
leaves and the sighing wind. It was as if the very trees
themselves were breathing, their branches stretching out like
skeletal fingers, reaching towards me with a silent plea.
The voices were soft at first, almost imperceptible, like the
faintest breeze brushing past my ear. They came in snatches,
fragments of sentences, whispers of names that seemed
familiar yet foreign. They spoke of solace, of release, of a
refuge from the pain that gnawed at my soul. They promised
oblivion, a quiet escape from the torment of existence.
"Let us take you," they whispered, their voices a chorus of
ethereal sorrow. "We know your pain. We understand your
weariness. Come, rest in our embrace, and find peace."
They were the Whispering Women, I realized, the entities
that Mark had spoken of, though not with the same
reverence that he had used when describing the Weaver or
the Huntsman. There was a chilling familiarity in the
voices, a knowing that sent shivers down my spine. They
seemed to understand me in a way that no one else ever had.
They recognized the scars that riddled my soul, the darkness
that lurked within my heart.
"We know your secrets," they murmured, their voices like a
soft, insidious breeze. "We know the things you hide, the
things you fear. Let us help you shed the burden, let us wash
away the pain."
The words were like daggers, twisting and turning in my gut.
They were promises, yet they felt like threats. They were
offers of comfort, yet they seemed laced with malice.
I tried to fight them, to shut out their whispers, but it was
like trying to stop the wind. They infiltrated my thoughts,
weaving themselves into my deepest fears. They spoke of
my past, of the events that had shattered my life and left me
adrift in a sea of despair.
"Remember the night," they whispered, their voices drawing
me into the depths of my memories. "Remember the cold,
the fear, the pain. Remember the betrayal. Remember the
guilt."
They brought back images, vivid and raw, of the night that
had forever changed my life. The images were sharp, the
emotions searing, the pain as fresh as if it had just happened.
I pressed my hands against my ears, trying to block out the
whispers, but it was futile. They were inside my head, a
relentless chorus of sorrow and regret. They fed on my fear,
amplified my doubts, and chipped away at my resolve.
"Give in," they urged, their voices soft but insistent. "Let us
take your pain. Let us grant you oblivion. You deserve rest.
You deserve peace."
I could feel their presence, a chilling touch against my skin.
They were real, tangible, even though I could not see them.
They were the embodiment of my deepest fears, the voices
of my darkest thoughts.
"Come," they whispered, their voices laced with a chilling
allure. "Embrace the darkness. Let us be your solace."
I stood there, frozen in place, caught between the allure of
their promises and the fear of what might await me if I
surrendered. I was a puppet, dancing to the rhythm of the
voices, caught in the throes of a terrifying internal battle.
The forest was a maze, a labyrinth of twisted branches and
eerie silence. Every rustle of leaves, every sigh of the wind,
seemed to carry their whispers, amplifying the terror that
gripped my heart.
'Please stop!'
They were relentless, persistent, always there, gnawing at the
edges of my sanity. I tried to reason with them, to find logic
in their whispers, but they were pure emotion, pure instinct.
They were the embodiment of the darkness that lurked
within me, the whispers of the past that haunted my present.
I was lost, trapped in a psychological battle that threatened to
consume me. The Whispering Women were a constant
threat, their voices a siren song, tempting me with promises
of solace while simultaneously feeding my fears.
And as the forest closed in around me, I knew that I was
fighting a battle not only for my physical survival but also for my
sanity as well. The whispers were a reflection of my own
despair, a constant reminder of the pain I had endured, the
darkness that had consumed me. I was a prisoner of my own
past, held captive by the voices of the women who
whispered promises of oblivion.