Whispers - A Short Horror Story

Whispers

"Some things seem much sweeter than what the eyes can see. If only I'd have known of the pain she'd cause me. My heart is toiled, buried deep in the ground. I planted it there myself, through a trance so confound. Her songs begin so dear, so mellow, so swoon, if only I'd of known it was all a magnificent, and yet so malicious ruse. A witch it be, while I write my final goodbyes, to amend with apologies of my heart that need't longer to thrive. Loyal, I wish I'd been so not to distress that of my good-woman's life no longer in vain, for the witch has killed me, to protect that of my wife's great pain. Here I am while I rip myself apart, warning never to enter the forest of fog. For, if your deeds aren't good to be done, your life might just become the epilogue."

Journal entry of Christopher Williams, date of Oct. 13, 1987

I will not disclose the town, nor the name of the forest where Christopher's body was discovered over forty years ago, however, I will explain my reasoning for sharing a confidential document from my agency, as it is one of great importance. I'm both warning and blessing you with this information over the internet since here, the relativity of man and truths doesn't intertwine.

Christopher Williams was a thirty-one year old lawyer who brought his wife on a brief anniversary peregrinate. He renovated a quaint house in the middle of the woods, secluded from anyone who could possibly disturb them while they had a week of free time to spare for whatever it is they pleased to do. However, it wasn't just his wife he planned on pleasing that week.

Every other night he'd bring another woman from the nearby town into the forest, making love to them without a shred of guilt while his wife would make dinner.

Williams was found at the edge of the forest with his eyes gouged out of his head with a gorey carefulness. Not a scratch, not even axxess blood brought its crimson rain down the empty sockets where his unthoughtful eyes of hazel had once homed. Death caught him with a slow pace as, according to his wife, he'd been cheating on her throughout the entirety of their trip as well as for months previously. If it weren't for the lack of wounds bestowed upon his body, grayed and cold with death's icy embrace, ####### Williams would have been prosecuted for his murder.
This is only one of the many notes left behind by men over the last two centuries who've spent at least a short period of time in a very specific forest that will often fog between the hours of midnight and 3 A.M., as recorded by officials.

I'm releasing the alleged suicide note of Christopher Williams because i'ts the letter that gives investigators the most clues as to why so many men were found dead either on the edge or in the center of the woods. I'm documenting this to explain the tragedy that truly prevails itself in those woods, a gloom so few seem to feel and yet, a gloom so powerfully dreadful that it could kill you.

I've gone to visit the forest before, to which I've vowed to always return to on the night of her death, the night of the death of Edith Charlotte Davis. Being born on February 13, in Liverpool, England, despite being on the lesser side of the middle-class life for the majority of her life, she enjoyed being home with her mother, whose name has been lost in time, sewing and baking while they awaited for her father to return home from work. Her life was both moderate and congenial, having lived in the same region, the same house, and the same home for the entirety of her life.

With a gorgeous mane of brunette hair like that of the Earth's great soil, and a vibrancy so bright with her personality, she was beloved in her town and though she was sought after by so many, nobody pegged her interest.

Love was something she hadn't thought of, not once, unless someone were to ask of her relationship status, she'd consistently deny men that of her heart, satisfied and exultant with her presence and the people she surrounded herself with.