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 mournful caw of a raven echoed through the mist-shrouded valley as the Witch Finder General's carriage rumbled down the pitted dirt road. The General, a severe man with icy blue eyes and a tightly trimmed beard flecked with gray, peered through the carriage window at the shadowy outlines of buildings emerging from the fog.
"Welcome to Bryn Teg, sir," the driver called over his shoulder. "Though I can barely see two feet in front of the horses in this cursed mist."
The General grunted in reply, his attention fixed on the vague shapes materializing out of the gloom. He had no time for idle chatter. There was witchcraft afoot in this remote Welsh village, and it was his duty to root it out.
The carriage jerked to a halt, and the General stepped down into the swirling eddies of mist that clung to his boots. His apprentice, Thomas, followed behind, struggling to keep his footing on the muddy track. Thomas was scarcely eighteen, his face pale and studded with pockmarks. Though the General valued the boy's assistance, he had much to learn.
As the apparitional buildings solidified into sagging cottages and a small stone church, a man emerged from the curtains of mist. He walked with a limp, leaning heavily on a carved stick.
"I am the magistrate of Bryn Teg," he wheezed. "Gareth Owen, at your service. You must be the Witch Finder General."
"I am. Matthew Hopkins." The General extended a black-gloved hand. "Tell me of the witch that plagues your village."
The magistrate's face crumpled. "She has cursed us, sir. Our crops fail, disease runs rampant... she summons the fog to hide her evil deeds." He shook his head mournfully. "We have burned her Fleet Street, but still she torments us."
The General's eyes narrowed. "Take me to this witch. I shall see that she troubles you no more."
"She... she is already dead, sir," the magistrate stammered. "We tried and executed her a fortnight past. Yet still, her foul mist lingers."
"Impossible." The General's voice was sharp. "No common fire can kill a witch. She has surely escaped to spread her vile enchantments from the shadows. But we shall drag her forth into the light." He turned to his apprentice. "Fetch the branding iron from the carriage. Heat it in the embers of the witch's pyre. We will root out this devil, wherever she may hide."
Thomas swallowed hard but obeyed, returning from the carriage with the cruel instrument: an iron rod with a forked tip. The General led Gareth to the village outskirts, where the charred remains of a wooden stake jutted from a pile of ash.
"You should not have burned the bodies," the General said, scattering the ashes with his boot. "The rites of exorcism must be properly performed."
He gestured to Thomas, who inserted the branding iron into the glowing embers. When the forked end glowed an angry red, the General withdrew it, the searing heat steaming the surrounding mist.
