Whispers In The Dark

The Secret Of The Moors (by Glenn Riley)

His hostess reappeared, a steaming bowl perched precariously among her slender fingers. She set it down before him, along with a tankard filled with frothy ale.

"Eat, Mr. Whitaker," she urged, "The moors hold a terrible chill that seeps into the bone." As Johnathan devoured the hot broth, she settled upon a chair, hands gripping the seat tightly. She didn't move to eat, instead keeping her eyes fixed upon his face.

Johnathan tried to engage her in conversation, asking about the area, the locals, hoping to distract himself from the growing unease. Yet, she kept the talk brief, offering terse replies. Every flicker of the fire, every rustle of the wind carried an undercurrent of unspoken tension.

With his hunger sated, the lingering sensation of being watched grew almost unbearable. Clearing his throat, Johnathan ventured, "You are most kind, but do tell me... this tavern seems quite isolated. Are there... others on staff? You mustn't think me rude, but it feels very..."

Her face paled further, then her gaze flickered upwards as if sensing something only she could perceive. "Others? No, there is only myself." She seemed to choose her words with deliberate care. "Though you are right, perhaps. This place was... not always so.”

Something in her voice, a tinge of sadness, made Johnathan pause. "A different time, was it?" he prodded gently.

She sighed, a long and weary sound. "Forgive me, Mr. Whitaker. It's been a long and lonely day. There are tales the moors whisper. Perhaps tonight they weigh heavy on me." And with that, she stood abruptly. "It's getting late, and sleep must be beckoning you. Your room is up the stairs, first door on the left."

"And you, Ma'am?" Johnathan's brow furrowed.

"My chambers are at the rear of the tavern, have no worry," she offered, voice distant as though her mind was already occupied elsewhere. Her hand lingered over an old key hanging from a hook by the fireplace. "Remember, sir, no matter what you might hear in the night, stay locked in your room until the sun begins to rise. It's for your own protection."

Her warning hung in the air, heavy as the moorland fog. Sleep was far from Johnathan's mind as he trudged up the worn wooden stairs. The room was spartan. Despite the simple amenities, it was clean and the bed soft. He barricaded the door with the chair, the feeling of unease solidifying into dread. Every crack of the old house had him jumping.

As if by some cruel play of fate, a violent storm rattled the window frames. Thunder rumbled on the horizon, casting an eerie, strobing light across the room. In that moment of illumination, it seemed an impossibly tall shadow flickered past the window, followed by an inhuman wail. Johnathan gripped the bedsheets, sweat prickling his brow. Sleep had become the impossible enemy.

Hours later, a sound from below made him sit bolt upright. Muffled at first, it quickly turned into a relentless scratching against the windowpanes on the ground floor. Whatever was lurking possessed claws, scraping back and forth in a macabre rhythm . His pulse hammered against his ribs. This was no trick of the storm.

Frozen in place, he was suddenly aware of movement – shapes beyond the windowpane flitting and twisting under a ghostly silver light. Was it his imagination, or was the fog itself swirling into unnatural figures? With dread coiling in his chest, he knew these horrors must be what resided outside, the nightmares spoken of in whispers.

And then… silence descended once more. Only the monotonous rain remained, and the echo of his heartbeats pounding in his ears.

After what felt like an eternity, his eyelids twitched and began to feel heavy. But just as he was teetering on the edge of fitful sleep, there came another sound – not from outside, but from within the tavern itself. A dragging noise, slow and rhythmic. Like something... or someone... being moved across the wooden floor downstairs. Johnathan bolted upright, every cell in his body now screaming to leave this accursed place.