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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Isandlwana, South Africa 1879
A bone-chilling wind whistled over the South African plains, stirring up red dust that hung eerily in the air around the fortress of Isandlwana. Captain Edward Hargreaves pulled his coat tighter and glanced up at the setting sun, frowned, then continued his inspection of the outer sentry posts. His men stood stiffly at attention, their gaze focused into the growing darkness beyond the fortress walls.
"All quiet out there, Sergeant?" Hargreaves asked as he approached the last post.
"Yes, sir. Not so much as a bloody rabbit stirring," the sergeant replied, squinting into the twilight gloom.
Hargreaves nodded, casting his own sharp eyes across the shadowy landscape. In the distance, he could just make out the hill of Isandlwana, a dark silhouette against the purpling sky. Somewhere upon that lonely mound lay the bones of the British force recently annihilated by the Zulu armies. Hargreaves suppressed a shiver, telling himself it was just the cold evening air.
"Make sure the night watch stays alert. No falling asleep at their posts, is that clear?"
"Yes, sir," the sergeant replied.
Hargreaves left him staring out into the night and headed for the glowing lights of the inner fortress. He did not see the sergeant make a strange gesture behind his back, a Zulu charm against evil spirits.
Inside the towering stone walls, soldiers huddled around campfires, seeking warmth and company as the night closed in. The smells of pipe smoke and roasting meat mixed with the odors of unwashed wool uniforms, horse dung, and woodsmoke. Hargreaves spotted a few small groups playing cards or dice, while others enjoyed a rare sip of rum ration. He allowed them their small comforts, knowing the long nights of sentry duty took their toll. At least inside the fortress, they were secure behind walls that no Zulu impis, or regiments, could hope to breach.
After finishing his supper, Hargreaves made his usual round to check on his junior officers. He found them in the mess hall, slouched on wooden chairs and benches, their faces flushed from a generous ration of rum.
"Evening, Captain!" called Lieutenant Bartholomew Greene, his words slurring. "Join us for a drink?"
"I think you've all had plenty for one night," Hargreaves said, frowning at the nearly empty bottles on their table. "I suggest you turn in soon. Wouldn't want bleary eyes tomorrow should the morning bring trouble."
His words drew a few drunken chuckles from the group.
"Oh come now, what Zulu would be mad enough to attack us here?" Greene scoffed. He thumped a fist against the table. "We're safe as a Sunday sermon behind these walls. Utterly impregnable."
Hargreaves gave the younger man a hard look. "Overconfidence has been the folly of many commanders. I'll not have it in my garrison. We stay alert and prepared, is that clear?"
