Following the chilling success of their first collection, Lady Eckland, Glenn Riley, and new collaborator, Bella Darkwood return to guide you through the shadowy corridors of fear with their second compendium, *Whispers In The Dark 2*. These master...
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I never believed in ghosts. Not even as a child, when my friends would tell ghost stories at sleepovers, trying to scare each other with tales of haunted houses and restless spirits. I simply didn't have it in me to suspend disbelief, to give in to the shivers and imaginary eyes on the back of my neck. Reality was enough for me.
At least, that's what I thought before the dreams started.
It began innocuously enough - a business trip to an old New England town, one last client meeting before the holidays. A quick overnight stay so I could tour the campus of a local university, a potential new client. I checked into a historic inn near the college green, welcomed at the front desk with warm cookies and mulled cider. The room was quaint, creaky floorboards and floral wallpaper, a patchwork quilt on a canopy bed. As I nestled under the covers that first night, I felt peaceful, even hopeful about the next day’s meetings.
That’s when I first saw her.
I awoke with a start in the midnight hour, the kind of startling panic that jerks you violently from sleep. My heart pounded as I scanned the empty room - had someone been here? But I was alone, with only the wind whistling outside, bare tree branches scratching against the window pane. I chalked it up to unfamiliar surroundings and jet lag, laying back onto the pillow, pulling the covers tight in the hopes that sleep would return.
As I drifted in that hazy state between waking and dreams, she appeared. An apparition, pale and translucent, gleaming in the darkness. She hovered by the window, the tattered white gown and frayed ribbon in her long hair flowing as if underwater. Our eyes met and I froze, mesmerized. The apparition’s eyes narrowed, her mouth a tight line, resentment emanating from her like heat from a fire. Then she vanished.
I shot up in bed, fumbling to turn on the bedside lamp with a trembling hand. Just my imagination, I insisted to myself. Too many scary stories heard around one too many campfires, come back to play a trick on my unconscious mind. With the light on I was able to regain composure, steadying my breath against the silent tick of the clock on the mantle. When exhaustion finally overtook me, there were no more apparitions in the darkness.
The next day I was relieved to escape to campus, arriving early to wander ivy-lined quads dotted with snow-dusted benches. Students rushing between classes paid me no mind, enveloped in down jackets and their own worlds. The meetings went smoothly, my clients effusive about collaborating again after the holidays. As dusk fell I decided to walk back through town to the inn, stretching my legs after a long day indoors.
Passing rows of stately houses, I paused at an old cemetery, nestled incongruously between a pizza shop and a laundromat. Curious, I pushed open the wrought iron gate, its chill biting my bare hands. Meandering between the crooked headstones, I noted the death dates - 1725, 1743, 1768. Lives coming to an end before America was even born. One grave in particular caught my attention, its marker surprisingly ornate compared to the weathered, slim stones surrounding it. Elaborate carvings of flowers and weeping willows bordered the inscription:
