Sequel to the first book of SRR: A filipino horror stories, this time it will take you back to the 80's.
Experience the terror of the 80's
All events in this book will be in the year 1984.
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Raymart had always been a carefree young man, navigating life in the lush, sun-drenched hills of Mindoro, Philippines. Raised amidst the laughter of neighbors and the vibrant sounds of roosters heralding dawn, his world had been one of warmth and safety. But all that changed the night his car careened off the mountain road, plunging into darkness, stealing away the laughter and replacing it with the sterile scent of antiseptic and the chilling beeping of machines.
After weeks of grueling rehabilitation in the hospital, where he fought against the backdrop of pain, he finally stepped back into the welcoming arms of his home. The sunsets painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, a sight that once filled him with joy now clawed at the edges of his tranquility. As he sat on his porch, watching the landscape bathe in twilight, the air grew thick with a lingering dread he couldn't understand.
That night, as he lay in bed, the memories of the accident clawed at his mind. The screeching tires, the loud sickening thud, and the sense of helplessness echoed in his ears. With every passing night, the shadows in his room deepened-a silent reminder of what he had survived and what lurked beyond the veil of sleep.
The dreams began as flickers-a kaleidoscope of distorted images, each more vivid than the last. In one, he found himself trapped in a dense forest, the moonlight barely penetrating the thick canopy above. Strange whispers beckoned him deeper into the unknown, words he couldn't quite comprehend. The voice called out to him, echoing as though it belonged to someone-or something-familiar. Then, one night, the whispers turned into screams. Raymart awoke, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. The walls of his room seemed to close in, the familiar sounds of the night morphing into dissonant melodies. He saw shadows dancing just beyond the reach of the moonlight spilling through his window, twisted and writhing, as if they had their own life.
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Desperate for answers, he sought out his childhood friend, Clara, who had grown into a local historian and possessed an uncanny knowledge of the darker tales that loomed over their province. It was she who shared the story of the "Wounded One," a malevolent spirit said to haunt the roads where tragedy befalls. Local lore spoke of how its presence could latch onto those who narrowly escape death, whispering taunts and drawing hem into the depths of despair.
