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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Marrow Creek, American Midwest, 1984
The smell of rain hung heavy in the air as the battered pickup truck rumbled down the lonely backroad. Grant peered through the foggy windshield into the darkness, searching in vain for some marker to guide them. The dense forest lining the road was an impenetrable wall of black, broken only by the truck's feeble headlights.
"We're lost," said Wren, breaking the tense silence. "I told you we should have just used the GPS on my phone."
"We don't need any damn GPS," Grant muttered. "I know where we're going."
Wren shook his head but didn't push the matter. He leaned back into the sagging rear seat next to Paine, who was tightly gripping an aluminum baseball bat. Rider sat shotgun, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth.
The four teenage boys, eighteen years of age, were embarking on what should have been a grand adventure. For as long as anyone could remember, the legend of Mad Helen had lurked in the shadows of the sleepy town of Marrow Creek. Some said she was a witch who cursed the land, while others swore she was just an unfortunate woman driven mad by grief. But all versions ended the same way - with Mad Helen being burned alive in the old mill deep in the forest. Her vengeful spirit was said to rise every forty-one years to exact her revenge on the townsfolk.
Tonight was the forty-first anniversary of her last supposed appearance. Rather than cowering indoors like the rest of Marrow Creek, Grant had convinced his friends that they should confront the legend head-on. They would be heroes vanquishing a great evil, real or imagined. At least that was how he had sold it to them.
"There!" Grant exclaimed, catching a glimpse of the ramshackle roof of the mill poking through the trees. He pulled the truck onto the weed-choked dirt path leading towards the abandoned building. The wooden structure seemed to materialize from the darkness as they approached, looking just as dilapidated as the stories described. He killed the headlights and engine, allowing an ominous silence to swallow them.
"Grab the flashlights," ordered Grant. He reached behind his seat for the baseball bat he had borrowed from his little brother. They had raided their family homes for makeshift weapons, giddy with excitement on the drive over. But now, confronted by the reality of their location, apprehension tempered their bravado.
Their beams cut through the darkness as they cautiously exited the truck. The damp air was heavy with the mineral smell of rust and wet stone. Grant could hear the others' uneasy breathing as they huddled close, flashes of pale faces caught in the darting flashlight beams. He cleared his throat, trying to project a confidence he did not feel.
"Let's check it out."
The door creaked open reluctantly, as if the mill itself was rejecting their intrusion. Grant entered first, bat cocked and ready to swing. Their lights revealed a barren room with peeling paint, exposed beams, and a dirt floor. A stone hearth occupied one wall, ancient soot stains still visible within. Iron chains with frayed ends lay coiled in the center, and rusted farm tools littered the corners.
