The 13th Hour

whispers.

It was the kind of night that swallowed sound, where the air grew thick and damp, and even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Nora sat in her car, hands gripping the steering wheel, staring at the dark line of trees ahead. Her phone buzzed again, a message from her sister: *Where are you? Why would you even go back there?*

She typed out a quick reply: I have to find out what really happened. And then she left the phone on the passenger seat, silencing the persistent worry that flooded her screen.

Nora had always known that the old family cabin deep in the woods was a place best left alone. As kids, she and her sister would play on its rickety porch, and her grandmother would warn them to never wander too far into the forest. "There's things out there, child. Things that watch," she'd say, staring into the shadowed woods like she could see something moving just beyond the trees.

Her grandmother died in that cabin ten years ago, and they found her the morning after she left a frantic voicemail. Nora had listened to it over and over: a crackling voice, broken by sobs, gasping about whispers that wouldn't leave her alone. But the police found no one in the woods. Just the cold body of an old woman, her face twisted in terror.

Nora never returned to the cabin after that. Until now.

She stepped out of the car, flashlight in hand, and took her first step towards the cabin. The trees loomed overhead, branches twisting together like a dark canopy. It was quieter than she remembered, the usual hum of crickets replaced by an oppressive silence that seemed to press against her eardrums. Every footstep crunched loudly in the stillness.

She reached the porch and stopped, her breath catching in her throat. The cabin was exactly as she remembered it—weathered wood, windows smeared with dirt, and the front door slightly ajar. She hesitated, the unease creeping up her spine. But she pushed forward, gripping the flashlight tighter, and nudged the door open with a creak.

The air inside was stale, carrying the faint scent of rot and damp wood. Nora shone the beam of light around the room, casting long shadows across dusty furniture and forgotten trinkets. It looked like no one had been here since the night her grandmother died.

She took a step inside, and the floor groaned beneath her. As she swept the light around, she caught a glimpse of a faded photograph on the mantle—her grandmother, smiling in front of the cabin, arms wrapped around Nora and her sister. The sight tugged at her heart, but before she could dwell on it, something cold brushed against the back of her neck.

She spun around, shining the flashlight into the shadows. Nothing. Just the empty room, the open door behind her leading into the pitch-black forest. She forced a shaky laugh, trying to steady her nerves. *It's just your imagination.*

But then, she heard it—a soft, raspy whisper that drifted through the air, barely audible. It seemed to come from all directions at once, slipping through the cracks in the walls and the gaps in the floorboards.

"Nora..."

She froze. The voice was thin, like dry leaves scraping across wood, but it spoke her name clear as day. She swept the flashlight around the room, the beam shaking in her unsteady grip. Nothing. Just shadows dancing along the walls, mocking her fear.

She took a deep breath, trying to convince herself it was a trick of the wind, but she knew better. Her grandmother's warnings echoed in her mind, and the fear that had brought her back here now took root in her chest, spreading icy tendrils through her veins.

Suddenly, the door behind her slammed shut with a deafening bang, sealing her inside the darkness of the cabin. Nora spun around, fumbling for the handle, but it wouldn't budge. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, drowning out everything else, until she realized there was something else beneath the panic—a low murmur, like a distant chant.