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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The tires crunched over the gravel road as I navigated the last stretch before my destination came into view. The quaint, single-story cabin was nestled at the edge of the woods, looking like something straight out of a pastoral painting. Behind it stood the towering pines and leafy deciduous trees of the aptly named Shadowed Glade forest.
I parked and stepped out, breathing in the crisp, earthy air. The setting couldn't be more perfect. No distractions, no noise pollution, just me and the sound of birdsong. After months battling writer's block, struggling to follow up my debut novel, I hoped this writing retreat in seclusion would help me recapture my creative spark.
As I fished the keys out from my bag, a flock of crows erupted from the forest canopy behind the cabin, their ominous caws shattering the idyllic silence. A chill crept down my arms, despite the afternoon sun shining overhead. Laughing at my own jumpiness, I went inside.
The caretaker, an elderly gentleman named Mr. Blake, had already turned on the heat and lights.
"Welcome, Miss Mallory," he said. "How was the drive?"
"Long but peaceful. This place is gorgeous."
He smiled. "Yes, the Glade has always been a source of...inspiration. Though some more sensitive writers found it too intense at times."
I glanced at him quizzically. "Intense?"
"The solitude, the aura of mystery about these woods," he said. "Some minds get caught up in the atmosphere. There’s an active imagination required for writers, after all.”
I nodded, suppressing another shiver as I peered out the window at the silent, watchful trees. Stop scaring yourself, Christie. You came here to write, not spin ghost stories.
After Mr. Blake departed with the promise to check on the generator weekly, I settled into my temporary writing nook. The cabin had no cell service or internet, exactly as I wanted. Just me, my notebook, a view of the lovely forest through the window, and endless cups of tea.
By midnight, I had filled dozens of pages with notes and fragments of new chapters. The story was flowing again. Pleased with the progress, I decided to turn in, tired from the long drive.
As I nestled under the covers, the branches outside my window rattled. The wind? No, there was no wind. I shuddered as the leaves continued to shake violently, whispering as they brushed against each other. Yet not a single bough or twig moved. It was as if the trees were stirring independently.
You’re exhausted and overstimulated. Sleep it off. This what you wanted...inspiration through solitude.
The next morning, golden light streaming through the curtains, the midnight episode felt silly. I made coffee, enjoying the peacefulness of the waking forest. Then, I noticed several black feathers on the porch. Inside the logbook of previous guests, I saw mention of crows. The cabin was near their roosting spots in the Glade, so visitors often found signs of the birds on the property. Nothing sinister.
