Whispers of the Unknown: A Collection of bedtime stories

Her Face

The town of Millbury was the kind of place where secrets simmered beneath the surface. It was a place of quaint homes, quiet streets, and a history that whispered through the old oak trees lining the roads. But for Jacob, Millbury was a place of nightmares.

Every night, as the moon climbed high and cast silver shadows through his bedroom window, Jacob dreamt of her face. She was a phantom in the night, a shiver born of purest fright. Her face was known yet strange, haunting his sleep with eyes that bore into his very soul. In her beauty's mask, dark secrets crept.

Jacob had moved to Millbury to escape the hustle and bustle of the city, seeking solace in the town's quiet charm. But ever since he arrived, the dreams began. At first, they were fragmented—a glimpse of her eyes, a whisper of her voice. But as the weeks passed, the dreams grew more vivid, more terrifying.

Her face held a thousand lies, each guise more unsettling than the last. She appeared as a young woman, an old crone, and a child. Yet no matter the form, her eyes remained the same—cold, probing, uncovering horrors Jacob had buried deep within.

Chapter 1: The Journal

It started innocently enough. Jacob had always been curious, and moving into an old, creaky house in Millbury seemed like an adventure. The attic, with its wooden beams and dusty corners, beckoned to him one rainy afternoon. Climbing the rickety ladder, he pushed aside cobwebs and old furniture, searching for hidden treasures from the past.

After an hour of exploring, Jacob found it—a weathered, leather-bound journal tucked away in an old trunk. The cover was cracked and faded, but the pages inside were remarkably well-preserved. The name "Walter" was scrawled on the first page in a hurried, almost frantic script. Intrigued, Jacob settled down by the attic window, the dim light casting eerie shadows, and began to read.

Walter's entries were erratic, filled with the ramblings of a man plagued by unseen horrors. The handwriting varied from neat and orderly to wild and chaotic, reflecting the turmoil within his mind. At first, the entries seemed mundane—notes about the weather, the state of the house, and the occasional visitor. But as Jacob read on, the tone grew darker, more desperate.

Walter wrote of a woman, a haunting beauty who visited him in dreams. Her face was a mask of perfection, but her eyes held a darkness that chilled his soul. She whispered to him, her voice like the rustling of dead leaves, speaking of forgotten sins and hidden lore. Each night, she revealed more, drawing him deeper into a web of fear and fascination.

"She comes to me in the night," one entry began, the handwriting shaky. "Her face is beautiful, yet it fills me with dread. I cannot escape her gaze. She knows my secrets, the things I have tried to forget."

As Jacob read, he felt a growing unease. Walter's descriptions were vivid, almost too real. He spoke of visions—flashes of memories that were not his own. He saw scenes from centuries past, of puritan settlers and their cruel, unforgiving ways. The woman, always present, watched from the shadows, her eyes cold and accusing.

"The sins of the fathers," Walter wrote in another entry, "are visited upon the sons. She shows me their faces, their suffering. I see them in my dreams, their eyes begging for justice. I cannot escape their pain."

Jacob's heart raced as he turned the pages, each entry drawing him deeper into the nightmare. Walter's descent into madness was palpable, the lines between reality and dream blurring more with each passing day. The woman became an obsession, her presence in his dreams a constant torment.

"I tried to resist her," Walter's final entry read, the ink smudged as if written in haste. "But she is relentless. She knows my darkest secrets, the things I have buried deep. She will not rest until I face them. God help me."