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...
A chill crept through the empty village as Kazuo guided his horse down the main road. None of the familiar sounds of chatter or children's laughter filled the air. Only his steed's hooves clip-clopping on the hard dirt punctuated the eerie silence. Kazuo scanned the rows of dark, vacant houses, a knot forming in his stomach. This was the village of his birth, the place he'd called home for the first twelve years of his life before being sent away for samurai training. By all rights, it should have been bustling with traders, farmers, and craftsmen bustling about their daily tasks.
Kazuo dismounted at the small stable adjacent his family's home. The building creaked in the breeze, bits of straw swirling around his feet. He drew his katana and moved toward the house, holding his breath. Faint candlelight flickered behind the rice paper windows.
"Father?" Kazuo called out, sliding the door open. His voice caught in his throat. The entire left wall and part of the roof were charred black, as though ravaged by flames. Yet no smell of smoke or fire lingered. Kazuo's pulse quickened. He swept his gaze around the main room, looking for signs of struggle, but found only upturned furniture and scattered belongings.
A tingle ran up Kazuo's neck. The feeling of unseen eyes watching. He spun, blade raised. No one stood in the doorway, yet he couldn't shake the sensation of a presence lurking just out of sight. Kazuo sheathed his katana. If this was his father's doing, there had to be an explanation.
Kazuo searched the house but found no clues, only more destruction. Sleeping mats shredded as if by claws. Ceramic jars shattered. A blood-red character painted on the garden doors that filled Kazuo with inexplicable dread though he could not read its meaning. Everywhere he looked, destruction marred the home, but there were no bodies. No bones. It was as if every villager had simply vanished.
A shriek rang out in the distance. Kazuo sprinted outside toward the sound. He burst from between houses onto a wider thoroughfare and drew up short. Rotting animal carcasses and carts lay smashed and strewn about the road as far as Kazuo could see. He slowly walked through the carnage, attempting to comprehend what had happened. The deserted village no longer held mystery but instead reeked of horrors he could scarcely fathom.
When he reached the blacksmith's shop, iron tools were bent and rusted beyond use. Sand, gravel, plants, anything that could spread now caked the inside of the building instead of metal wares. It was as if decades had passed, not a mere few weeks since Kazuo had bid his father farewell.
Mind racing and body tense, Kazuo strode toward the village shrine to demand answers from the local priest. But upon arriving, the once exquisite shrine now appeared derelict, its bright red wood faded and sagging. Torn rice paper windows revealed shattered lanterns and toppled offerings inside. As Kazuo stared at the worn building, a delicate figure passed in front of the doorway. He bolted after the person and followed the shadowy shape toward the woods.
