Page 15 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

Someone is out there.

Watching us.

The rustling grows louder, closer, like dry leaves whispering secrets beneath an unseen tread. My body stiffens, the cold grip of fear trickling down my spine like melting ice. The chanting seems too quiet, or maybe it’s just the thunderous roar of my heartbeat eclipsing all other sounds.

The figure in the shadows inches closer—not enough to reveal itself fully, but just enough to let me know it’s real.

And it knows we’re here.

What did I truly expect when I agreed to this?… nothing. I thought this would be another dead end, a fruitless search through the shadows of old stories and faded records. I hoped it would be. Everything we unearthed from dusty library archives and the dim corners of the internet spoke of events long buried in time. I clung to the belief that it was just folklore, that Nova’s death and the accident were cruel twists of fate, nature’s indifferent hand reclaiming its own.

I wanted to believe that this… thing, this whispered tale of a cult clawing its way back from the past, was nothing more than myth. That the recent deaths, scattered like broken beads on a string, were mere coincidence. But the knot tightening in my gut, the chill crawling along my skin, tells me otherwise. The figure watching me from the shadows is a silent confirmation, a dark echo of my worst fears, and it only feeds the storm inside my head.

Then, it happens, a piercing howl shatters the night, raw and primal. I flinch, my heart slamming against my ribs as I whip my gaze back to the clearing. And I wish I hadn’t.

A man, cloaked in flowing black vestments, stands behind one of the kneeling women. His hand is tangled in her hair, yanking her head back to expose the pale column of her throat. In his other hand, a blade glints in the firelight, wicked and gleaming like a fang. His face is a mask of malice, eyes hollow, mouth twisted into something that doesn’t belong on any human face.

He looks sinister, not just in appearance, but in the way his presence seeps into the air, poisoning it, making it heavy and suffocating.

However, they don’t resist. Instead, as if on cue, they all bow forward, their foreheads pressing into the barren earth, arms stretched out in reverence or surrender. The fire crackles louder, as though it too bears witness to this ritual, feeding on the dread that coils tighter with every heartbeat.

“She is the anointed,” the man bellows, his voice a jagged blade slicing through the night’s stillness, “for the creation of our mercy and creed. She shall save us all, and with her blood, our mother shall rise from the earth’s gaping womb.”

The chanting intensifies, a guttural symphony of voices that claw at the edges of sanity, relentless and oppressive. It’s as if the forest itself breathes with them, the shadows thickening, the air growing heavier with each cursed word.

“She surrenders her soul,” he hisses, tightening his grip on the woman’s hair, her neck stretched taut beneath the blade’s cruel gleam. “For us to be reborn. And in her blood, our seed shall fester and consume.”

The words hang in the air like the stench of decay, sinking into my skin, my veins, my very soul. The fire roars as if it too thirsts for the offering, casting monstrous reflections that writhe and convulse, mocking the fragile line between life and death.

And as I stare into the abyss of their ritual, I realize—this isn’t salvation. This is damnation, and we are far too deep to crawl our way out.

Goosebumps erupt on my skin and terror scolds my flesh. The man looks up to the sky and silently mouths something. He then draws his knife and ploddingly slits the girl’s throat. His blade digs deep, tearing into her as blood gushes out and splashes onto the ground. When he seems pleased with his butchery, he drops the knife. And, with his finger, he collects some of the blood and swipes it across his…. cut tongue.

Naseria stumbles back, her foot snapping a twig beneath the weight of her panic. The sound is slight, barely a whisper against the crackle of the fire—but it’s enough. The man’s head jerks up, his hollow eyes locking onto the shadows where we crouch. He lets the lifeless body slip from his grasp, the dull thud of it hitting the barren earth echoing louder than any scream.

“Show yourself,” he commands, his voice a low, venomous growl that seems to creep through the trees.

I can see the panic spiraling in Naseria’s eyes, wide and wild, her breath hitching in her throat. She’s on the brink of losing it, the scream bubbling up, ready to tear free and betray us all. Before it can escape, I shove off my knees and clamp a hand over her mouth, muffling the terror threatening to spill out.

Miro’s eyes are as wide as mine, bulging like they might rocket from his skull. It’s almost absurd, three fools fumbling in the dark, poking at things better left buried. If this were a horror movie, we’d be the cliché, the idiots who went looking for trouble, found it, and now wait their turn to be swallowed whole by it. And as the man steps closer, his shadow stretching toward us like the hand of death itself, I can’t shake the sinking feeling, we won’t make it out of this scene alive.

“Let’s go,”Miro signs urgently, his hands moving with sharp precision. Before we can be discovered, we scramble backward, though not as quietly as we’d hoped. Once we’re out of sight, we break into a sprint, crashing through the undergrowth, the pounding of our footsteps mingling with our ragged breaths. No one dares to speak as we tear through the forest, hearts pounding like war drums until we finally burst onto the tarred road, the cold night air biting at our lungs.

I lean over, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. “Are you all alright?” I manage, my voice hoarse. Miro, pressed against a tree, gives a tense nod, his chest heaving. But when I glance at Naseria, I freeze. Her face is streaked with tears, her breaths coming in short, panicked gasps, her whole body trembling.

A panic attack.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” I murmur, pulling her into my arms, trying to steady her. “Breathe, okay? Just breathe.”But her quiet sobs swell into full-blown crying, shaking her from the inside out.

“Aux Champs-Élysées, Aux Champs-Élysées, Au soleil sous la pluie, À midi ou à minuit…”I start singing softly, the way Mama used to when I was falling apart. My voice wavers, but I keep going, rocking her gently as the world narrows down to just this moment. I don’t know how long we stand there, but I only stop when her sobs quiet and her breathing slows, the tremors easing out of her limbs.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice raw.

“Always,” I reply, pressing my forehead against hers.

Miro pushes off the tree and flicks his lighter, offering us a cigarette. I shake my head, but Naseria takes it, her fingers still trembling slightly as she brings it to her lips.

“Our cab should be here soon,”Miro signs, his expression still tight, eyes darting toward the shadows.

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