¡WHISPERS AMONG THE STONES!

 

The moon hung low over Blackthorn Cemetery, casting silvery beams that painted the weathered headstones in an eerie light. It was the kind of night when the wind carried secrets and the shadows seemed to breathe. Legend had it that no one should be in Blackthorn after midnight—not unless they wished to meet the Cemetery Keeper.

Charlotte knew the tales well, but she dismissed them as small-town superstitions. Her friends dared her to spend the night there, promising bragging rights and free drinks for a month. Armed with only her flashlight and a heavy blanket, she climbed the iron gate and ventured inside. The cemetery stretched endlessly, with crooked tombstones jutting out like jagged teeth. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves.

She set up her little camp near the largest mausoleum, a grand structure covered in ivy and adorned with an angel whose gaze seemed to follow her. "Just a few hours," she whispered to herself, her voice trembling more than she liked. The stillness was oppressive, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or distant hoot of an owl.

Then came the first whisper.

It was faint, almost imperceptible, like a breath carried on the wind. "Charlotte..." Her name, spoken softly yet unmistakably. She froze, gripping her flashlight tightly, and swept its beam across the graves. Nothing but stone and shadow.

"Just the wind," she told herself, though her heart pounded against her ribs. But as the minutes ticked by, the whispers grew more persistent. They seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

"Charlotte... leave..."

She scrambled to her feet, shining the flashlight frantically. The beam fell on a figure standing a dozen feet away. A man, tall and gaunt, dressed in tattered black clothes that billowed despite the still air. His face was pale, his eyes sunken and hollow. He held a rusted lantern, its weak light casting a sickly glow around him.

"Who—who are you?" she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.

"The Keeper," he replied, his voice low and gravelly, each word carrying the weight of the grave. "You shouldn't be here."

Charlotte stumbled back, her foot catching on a loose stone. She fell, her flashlight skittering out of reach. The man stepped closer, the lantern swaying in his skeletal hand. Its light illuminated his face, revealing flesh stretched too tightly over bone, as if he were more corpse than man.

"You disturbed them," he said, gesturing to the graves. "They don't like to be watched."

The whispers rose to a cacophony, voices overlapping in a dreadful symphony of anguish and warning. "Leave. Leave. Leave."

Charlotte crawled backward, her hands scraping against the rough ground. She reached for her flashlight, but it flickered and died, plunging her into darkness. The Keeper loomed over her, his empty eyes piercing her very soul.

"Run," he hissed.

And she did. She bolted blindly through the cemetery, the whispers chasing her like unseen specters. The path twisted and turned, the graves seeming to shift and close in around her. The gate was nowhere to be found. Panic surged through her as she realized she was lost.

Then the ground gave way beneath her.

She tumbled into an open grave, landing hard on the cold, damp earth. Pain shot through her ankle as she tried to climb out, but the soil was too loose, crumbling under her weight. Above her, the Keeper appeared, his lantern casting a dim light into the pit.

"You shouldn't have come," he said, his voice devoid of malice yet filled with finality. "Now, you'll stay."

The whispers turned into screams as skeletal hands burst from the walls of the grave, grabbing at her arms and legs. Charlotte screamed, kicking and struggling, but the hands were relentless. They pulled her deeper into the earth, into the suffocating darkness.

Her last sight was the Keeper, standing silently above the grave, as if mourning another soul claimed by Blackthorn Cemetery.

The next morning, her friends found the flashlight near the gate, its lens cracked and its batteries drained. But of Charlotte, there was no sign. The graveyard was as still and silent as ever, save for the faintest whisper carried on the breeze.

"Charlotte..."

 Sergio Calle Llorens