Cry Of The Unheard Novels & Stories

[June 2021. At the extreme depths of the Marina Trench, we detected a set of anomalies frequency. Initially thought to be the seismic vibration caused by whales, spectral analysis shows a structured pattern consistent with a type of language.] [January 2022. All decoding attempts failed. Researcher Daniel Lynch experienced an acute psychotic break while monitoring the signals. He pierced his eardrums with a pen. Before he died, he kept yelling, "They're hungry! They're hungry!"]

On this silent night, I can hear my silent cries the loudest. 🔸🔸🔸

Winter snapped almost causing my left ear to go deaf. “I’m sorry sir” he said softly with his head faced down. “YOU ARE A DISAPPOINTMENT NOTHING MORE!” he yelled. “I wonder how Mr. Haze would think if he saw you right now.” I felt something wetting my hand as I slowly took a glance at my hand which was on the table just beneath Sorrows head. Tears had covered it and I knew they came from Sorrow. “Everyone you can go home” Mr. Winter quickly said. We all started packing our books and heading out.

Bent over with my hands on my thighs I could feel my energy slowing being sucked out of me. Flashes of purple sprung to life all around out of the corner of my eye, swooping and diving above my head making me tumble back down to the dark surface. I watched in amazement as the flashes turned to a firey red silhouette burning brightly before it faded back into the shadows as small sobs could be heard. My hearing honed in as whispering words floated by " I don't know what you want from me! Please just leave me alone." the voice becoming more brittle with each word repeated soon dying out completely. I tried my best to zone in on the soft cries again, coming up only with the ringing of silen

The warmth was barely there. But it was there. Her hand trembled. She cried. Not from grief. From remembering. The tear fell on the flower. The petal opened further. The scent strengthened. The warmth grew. The light flickered. Her cry was small. But it was remembering. It was feeling. It was choosing. The cry spread. Through the ruins. Through the bare ground. Through the broken oak. Through every reality. Some heard it and remembered. Some heard it and felt. Some heard it and chose.

His hands clawing at the edges. Trying to climb out. Failing. Again. And again. My chest tightened. I couldn’t look away. He looked… lifeless. But not dead. Trapped. Struggling. I could hear him. A faint sound. A cry. Then louder— Screaming. Not just his. Others. Voices. Many voices. Echoing. Overlapping. Distorted. “Bete…” A whisper. Then again… “Bete…” Louder this time. Closer.

His eyes met mine for a brief moment, and what I saw there shook me to my core: a plea for death, for release. Cell after cell, the sights grew unbearable. One woman was clawing at her own skin, her nails bloody, her movements frantic and unhinged. Another man sat slumped against the bars, his face mutilated beyond recognition. The floor of his cell was littered with teeth, his or someone else’s, I couldn’t tell. The sounds were relentless: sobbing, screams, the clinking of chains, and the low moans of those too broken to resist anymore. It was a symphony of suffering, the kind of noise that gets under your skin and stays there, echoing in your mind long after the silence returns.

And then she heard it. A child’s cry, faint and trembling, carried on the wind. It pierced the silence, freezing Vivi in place. Her heart lurched, and her head whipped toward the sound. “Hello?” she called, her voice cracking with desperation. The cry came again, sharper this time, and she turned toward it instinctively, her legs propelling her forward before her mind could catch up.

It was as if she were being crucified and stoned at the same time. I felt her pain in every single note, sending shivers down my spine. It was as if she were screaming at me, pleading for me to exchange her suffering. At first, I heard muffled noises—like crispy dry leaves being moved and gathered. Confused, terrified, and breathless, I tried to observe the situation. But then, making my soul freeze, they came. Those noises. Yelping. Shouting. "Burn this witch! Burn this witch!" The voices were full of hatred, rage, and undeniable cruelty. As if they were witnessing the darkest part of their history.

Chloe Brooks wrinkled her nose at the smell of my burned foot—it was just too much for her. Thomas Wells had his servants toss me right out of the doors. I slumped against the wall, shivering from the pain. In the background, the TV in the living room droned on about a nasty typhoon hitting us tonight. There I was, in just a light jacket, in the dead of winter. I banged on the window, crying out, "Thomas, please! Let me in! The typhoon's coming, and I'll die out here!"