Page 13 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

For the price of salvation is always steep,

And the darkness is always waiting to collect.

Naseria snatches the paper from my hand, her eyes darting across the text as she reads it again, slower this time, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less ominous.

“Look at that, another reason we should notbe out in those fucking woods,”

“This—” Naseria snaps, waving the paper in the air like a battle flag, “Is why weshouldandaregoing into those damn woods.”

Miro exhales silently, slumping back in his chair, the fight draining from his eyes, leaving only the wistful shape of reluctant defeat.

Mama had a peculiar obsession, one that consumed her in the quiet hours of the night. She would sink into the depths of crime shows, lost in the dark intricacies of investigations and documentaries. The glow of the TV screenbecame her constant companion, drawing her into a world of human depravity and unspeakable truths. It was as though every crime scene, every haunting mystery, was a puzzle she longed to solve, to untangle the twistedness of the human psyche.

Papa and I would joke about it—laughing under our breath as we playfully mused,“She must know how to hide a body with all the hours she’s spent watching this stuff.”But she never found it funny. There was always a sort of understanding that this was not just a passing fascination. For her, the darker corners of the human mind weren’t just curiosities, they were an uncharted territory, a realm to be studied, understood, and dissected. And yet, every now and then, when her eyes would wander toward the screen, I’d find myself inadvertently watching, catching fragments of the macabre truths she’d uncovered.

Mama was a psychiatrist, one who had spent years unraveling the labyrinth of split human minds and emotions. Her love for the darker side of humanity was not some fleeting fancy, it was part of her very passion. Her ability to understand the fragile intricacies of the mind gave her an almost reverential interest in the cruelty humans were capable of. But she never indulged in the acts themselves. No, Mama was a scholar in this wicked dance, she studied the minds of monsters, probing them with the precision of a surgeon.

It was in those fleeting moments, when I’d catch a glimpse of the television’s eerie light in the darkness, that I’d start to understand the deeper connection between her work and the things she watched. It was then that I began to see the twine that tied all those gory tales together, and the reckless, often suicidal fools who ventured into haunted places, seeking answers to questions that were far better leftunasked. Those souls who, in their naivety, did not realize that their curiosity would lead them to a fate worse than death. They sought out the unlawful, unaware that in doing so, they were inviting the very horrors they never dreamed they could find.

And as I watched those tragic characters on screen, a shiver would crawl up my spine. For I knew, deep down, that in a world full of untold abominations, some questions should never be asked, because the answers are always more sinister than we could ever imagine.

We’re those suicidal morons.

“Please, Miro,” Naseria clasps her fingers around his arm, her eyes doing the pleading her voice couldn’t.

He tips his head up while rubbing a hand down his face. Then, with deliberate movements, he slumps deeper into his chair and signs, “Fine. But I’m stopping by my place first. I need my stash.”

“You’re gonna be high?” I raise an eyebrow, the absurdity clawing at my patience.

“It’s either that,” he shoots back, “or I stay home and hope you two nitwits make it back alive. Your pick.”

“Being incoherent while we’re getting chased through the woods mightnotland in your favor.”

“Incoherent and blissfully unaware of danger sounds way more promising,” he smirks.

No, it sounds like a powder keg waiting for the tiniest spark.

“Problem solved,” Naseria cuts in, already on her feet. “We’ll grab your crap and be on our merry way.” She shoves the papers into her backpack, zipping it up with a finality that leaves no room for more arguments.

Merry way, my as–, this is like a walk to our graves.

Chapter 7

Thorn – unknown 10619

I feel her so deeply, so violently, that the ache in my chest screams for release. It’s a hunger that claws and rips at me, a yearning so profound it threatens to break me apart, piece by piece. My thoughts of her are like wild, untamed flames licking at my soul, relentless and insatiable.

She’s a vision, a temptation—an obsession too fierce to be ignored, and a beauty so piercing it cuts through my every thought. I want to strip away all she knows, to reveal her to me and only me, to make her my own in every sense. I would do it brutally, without hesitation, for in the violence of my desire, there is something sacred. The hunger that churns in my stomach demands nothing less than to claim her completely, to erase every other thought from her mind but mine.

I have watched her, over and over, until my heart aches and my blood burns with the need to consume. I still see her in my dreams, her silhouette spinning like a goddess of flame, her every movement a spell that wraps itself around me. Whenshe danced—oh, how she danced—it was not just her body moving, but her very soul, pulling me deeper and binding me with cords too tight to ever unravel.

The night I first laid eyes on her, something inside me shifted and something raw and primal awakened. It was as if the earth itself had parted just enough for me to glimpse the fire she carries within, a fire I never want to extinguish. The more I see her, the more I crave.

She is no longer just a woman. She is a force. A sickness that invades my thoughts and fills the empty spaces of my soul. And her name—Odessa—echoes through my mind like a chant, a dark prayer I whisper under my breath in the quiet moments of the night.

My darling, my Odessa, you are the ache I cannot soothe, the storm I cannot escape. And the more I want, the more I need, the more I will do to possess.

Chapter 8

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