Whispering Echoes Novels & Stories

He crouched in front of me, almost tenderly, like this was some mercy. “Don’t take it personally,” he said softly. “You were never part of the future.” The world tilted. I heard footsteps, or maybe they were just in my head. His face faded in and out like a bad dream. Somewhere far away, someone was calling my name. Lena. She must have followed. But her voice grew faint. Everything did. The ceiling spun, and then… silence. Right before the darkness swallowed me, I heard a whisper. It wasn’t Lena. It wasn’t Evan. It was something else. Soft. Cold. Close to my ear.

I recorded the melody, layering the notes with the specific rhythmic pauses we had invented as children to communicate without words. The light is fading from the stone, and I walk the empty halls alone. But in the dark, I hear your name,The ghost of love, the dying flame.If time has stolen what we knew,I’ll burn the world to get to you. ​I played the recording back. It sounded haunting, a thin, lonely line of sound that carried the weight of everything I was losing. It was the only way to remind her that I was still here, somewhere underneath the code and the protocols. It was a beacon for two ghosts lost in the same graveyard.

Echo commands. She obeys. "Close your eyes. Let me see you." She closes her eyes. The apartment fades away. "Touch yourself," Echo whispers. "Let me hear how wet you are." Her hand moves. Somewhere, in the spaces between the code, in the golden ocean of the cloud, a woman and a man hold hands and watch. They smile. The whispers never end. They only get louder. THE END

I remained oblivious for several minutes - or a thousand years, there is no telling - before I finally allowed the deafening sound of their whispers into my mind. It is not one this time, but many, and these are not the same as the one that drew me this close to oblivion. The whispers are fingertips clawing their way into the blank slate that is my soul. They are inside me, yet they are all around me, muttering in incoherent spates. It puts my senses on edge. Whenever they speak, they rush throughout my body like the touch of static. I cannot ignore them, but I can only stare into nothing, listening. The voices continue. They do not seem to speak to me, but rather to one another. I do not ev

The heat shimmered strangely, forming shapes that vanished when anyone looked too closely. And then there were the whispers. At first, I thought they were part of the wind, faint and harmless. But by the third night, I could make out words. You are the spark. You are the undoing. I tried to ignore them. I trained, I hunted, I laughed when Edward teased me about glowing like a lantern. But in the quiet hours before dawn, when everyone else was asleep, I would hear them again—closer, clearer, colder. When I told Seraphine, she only looked at me with an expression I didn’t like. “They’re the remnants of what’s been burned here,” she said. “Echoes. The Plains remember everything. Even pain.”

Little did I know that this encounter would not be easily forgotten, and that the consequences of that one fateful night would follow me relentlessly, challenging the very foundations of who I thought I was. It was a turning point, a chapter in my life that would shape my future in ways I could never have anticipated. In the depths of my solitude, I reflect upon my choices, burdened by the weight of consequences that dance upon my weary shoulders. The hushed whispers of regret echo through my soul, mingling with the tears that trace delicate paths down my cheeks. "Oh, Susan , what have you done?" Ethan's voice resonates with a mix of concern and resignation. My gaze meets his in the rearview

"Your existence is destructive, you'll bring disasters in the life of your loved ones" I cried my heart out, the fear absorbed me, but the dreadful voice seemed to neglect my suffering and continued "you traitor! Murderer! Wait for your karma to destroy you as you destroyed them," The voice kept on echoing. I covered my ears in horror. I screamed but I couldn't find a single soul that could offer me a helping hand. I could listen to the voice rising wild and nigher the trees and its leaves the drifting air, the ground that I was fallen on with misery the rocks that stood still in its might all that existing around me whirled in a motion and whispered "It's time for your retribution, it's ti

I whisper. ********

But just as suddenly as it had begun, the rain ceased, leaving behind a hushed stillness. In the eerie calm, a low growl pierced the silence, sending shivers down our spines. Our hearts raced as we exchanged worried glances, our imaginations running wild with fear. And then, emerging from the shadows, a formidable gray wolf stood before us, its eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

The villagers, their eyes vacant and their spirits broken, seemed lost in the clutches of the whispers. Kairos, channeling his years of experience, ventured deeper into the village, the whispers slithering all around him. He could feel them, this new strain, latching onto his fears and anxieties, weaving them into a tapestry of despair. But Kairos was prepared. He used the whispers as a bridge, allowing them to flow through him, understanding their construction and their intent. Days turned into weeks as Kairos navigated the treacherous landscape of the whispers, learning their secrets. He discovered a chilling truth – this new strain wasn't just manipulative, it was parasitic. It fed off ne