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...
Thunder rumbled in the distance as the battered Model T sped down the muddy back road, headlights cutting a feeble swath through the inky night. Inside, five men sat in tense silence, soaked with sweat and rain, their faces illuminated by flashes of lightning. These were desperate men, still reeling from the bloody shootout that erupted during their attempted bank robbery just hours earlier.
Frankie white-knuckled the steering wheel, squinting into the deluge. "We gotta find shelter soon. This storm's turning nasty."
The others grunted in reply, lost in their own thoughts. Joe stared at the blood staining his shirt while Lenny kept fidgeting with his pistol. Ralph slouched low in his seat, hat pulled over his eyes. Angelo gazed out into the rain-swept darkness, wondering how it had all gone so wrong so quickly.
Earlier that evening, they had burst into the First National Bank waving guns, screamed at employees and customers to get down, and began violently emptying cash drawers. It was mayhem...until the security guard emerged from the back office blasting away with his shotgun. When the smoke cleared, two of their gang lay dead while the rest fled into the stormy night with nothing to show for it but blood on their hands.
Frankie spotted an old plantation house silhouetted against a lightning flash off a gravel road. A wooden sign reading Braddock Manor swayed in the wind as he turned the Model T down the overgrown drive. The five men staggered through the downpour onto the decrepit veranda just as an ear-splitting thunderclap exploded overhead.
Frankie tried the front door and wasn’t surprised to find it unlocked. Inside, the house creaked and groaned as rain pelted leaded glass windows. Shadowy shapes of sheet-draped furniture loomed in the darkness.
Angelo shivered, peering up at the cobwebbed staircase. “I got a funny feelin’ about this place. We shouldn’t stay here.”
“You got any better ideas?” Frankie snapped. “Storm’s only getting worse. We’d never make it to town in this soup.”
The gang began searching the musty rooms, discovering dust-laden relics from the Civil War era. Faded Confederate uniforms still hung in a large armoire while tobacco pipes and brandy glasses gathered dust on sideboards. Outside, the storm descended into fever pitch.
The men converged in the parlor, collapsing around a claw-footed table. Joe broke out a flask of whiskey while Frankie struggled to start a fire against the damp chill. As flames finally erupted in the hearth, a blood-curdling shriek echoed from upstairs that raised the hairs on the back of their necks.
Lenny leapt up, Wilhelm pistol clenched in one meaty fist. “What the hell was that?!”
Ralph peered up at the ceiling, rainwater dripping from the brim of his hat. “Just the wind playing tricks. Old houses make weird noises in storms.”
