In the small village of Kinver, cradled against the edge of a darkling wood, tales ebbed and flowed like the River Stour that wound through its heart. The villagers had long warned each other of the ‘Whispers of the Wayward,’ a phrase that sent shivers along the spines of children and adults alike. To most, it was merely a warning about the forest’s sprawling depths, tangled roots, and the shadows that lingered just beyond the treeline, but to Margaret Everly, it was a palpable threat.
Margaret had lived in Kinver her entire life. At six-and-twenty, she found herself under the weight of solitude, having lost both of her parents to the harsh realities of the world. They had always told her stories of the Wayward, of spectral figures luring the heartbroken into the woods with their soft, disembodied calls, but she had never believed. That was, until one fateful autumn evening when the chill in the air held an unusual darkness.
The sun had long disappeared behind a curtain of grey clouds, and Margaret was trudging home after a disheartening day at the mill. With her mother gone, and her father fallen ill, she loathed the weariness that pressed upon her, each step towards her family’s ramshackle cottage feeling heavier than the last. As she passed the threshold of the village, a rustling sound beckoned her attention. The woods loomed close, the trees swaying beneath an unseen breeze, their bare branches reaching out like skeletal fingers.
She halted for a moment, a sudden unease unfurling in her chest. It was then she heard it – a whisper, soft and tantalising, like the gentle lapping of water against the shore. “Margaret…” It was her name, clearly spoken, yet hauntingly distant. She turned, half tempted to flee back to the safety of the village, but curiosity had always been her downfall.
“Who’s there?” she called, her voice wavering as she peered into the shadowed undergrowth. Silence enveloped her, the only sound the rustling leaves above her head. Suddenly, the whisper came again, curling through the air like smoke. “Margaret… come…”
The allure of the voice tugged at something deep within her—a longing for comfort, perhaps, or a desperate yearning for companionship. Gathering her courage, she stepped forward, each footfall echoing unnaturally in the stillness. The soft, alluring tones grew stronger, leading her deeper into the heart of the wood where daylight dared not tread.
With every step, she felt an undercurrent of anxiety, yet the whisper urged her on, promising solace from her loneliness. The trees seemed to lean closer, branches forming a twisted archway that beckoned her into the depths of the woodland. “Margaret… come…”
Hours seemed to slip by like grains of sand as she walked, her surroundings transforming into a realm unrecognisable. It was darker here, the air heavier; an unsettling serenity cloaked the forest, and Margaret felt the remnants of reality fade away. Her thoughts whirled like autumn leaves as she wandered, utterly enraptured by the haunting melody that tugged at her heart.
And then, as sudden as a candle’s extinguishing flame, the whisper ceased. Margaret stood alone in an ethereal clearing, moonlight spilling between the gnarled branches, illuminating a circle of stone. The atmosphere finally shifted; a chill swept through the air, lacing her spine with trepidation. Something shifted in the shadows beyond the clearing, and she could feel eyes upon her.
“Margaret…” The voice whispered once more, but it was no longer gentle. It swirled around her, coming from all directions, urgent and desperate. Panic clawed at her mind, and she spun on her heel, intending to flee back to the safety of her cottage. However, beneath her feet the earth had shifted; the path she had followed was now a labyrinth of indistinguishable trails weaving into darkness.
“Margaret…” The whisper morphed into unintelligible babble, growing louder, more insistent. Then it shifted again, becoming a cacophony of anguished cries that pierced through her very soul. She pressed her hands to her ears, half-collapsing under the weight of the noise, straining to grasp reality, but all sense of direction fled her.
“Leave me be!” she cried out, heart racing furiously. But the voices only swelled, blending into chilling wails that reverberated through the air like unending storms, strong enough to break even the bravest will. She stumbled backward, her foot catching on an unseen root, and tumbled unceremoniously to the ground.
And then came silence.
The oppressive stillness was suffocating, as if the very essence of her fear had swallowed the noise whole. Breathing heavily, she pressed her palms against the cold earth and pushed herself up, shaking the disorientation from her head. While she was alone, the air felt thick with expectation, the shadows at the periphery watching.
“Margaret…” The whisper returned, softer now, almost coaxing. It felt intimate, familiar, and something in it tugged at her memory. In that moment, fragmented images flooded her mind—her mother’s gentle lullabies, the warmth of her embrace, the comfort of home. Tears brimmed as she remembered the unhappiness that had engulfed her since their passing.
“I want to go home!” she shouted into the darkness. In that bold declaration, the whispering ceased, and an eerie stillness engulfed her.
As she gathered her wits, a ghostly form materialised before her eyes, shimmering against the moonlight. A woman clad in gossamer robes stood there, her expression sorrowful yet serene, with eyes that glimmered like stars. The resemblance was unmistakable; it was her mother.
“Margaret…” the figure whispered, her voice hauntingly familiar. “Do not be afraid.”
Flashes of memories danced through Margaret’s mind—the tender moments of childhood, the warmth of her mother’s laughter echoing in the cottage, the wise words imparted in hushed tones. She was but a child again, aching to rest her head on her mother’s shoulder, to be wrapped in the safety of her embrace.
“Why can’t I find you?” she whispered, grief tightening her throat. “I’ve searched for so long.”
With inviting arms, her mother stepped closer, the shadowy veil of the woods fading momentarily. “You need not search anymore, my love. Take my hand, and I will guide you home—home to peace, free from the burden of this mortal realm.”
Despite the warmth emanating from the spectre, a flicker of doubt ignited in Margaret’s heart. “But I don’t want to leave! I want you back! I want to live!”
The ghostly figure’s smile faltered, and she looked sorrowfully at her daughter. “You must understand, Margaret; we cannot defy the paths that intertwine in life and death. Your time is not yet finished. There is still love to be found, still a life waiting for you.”
“No!” Margaret’s voice teetered on an edge of desperation. “Please, I cannot lose you again.”
“Listen to your heart,” her mother murmured, the words echoing through the clearing, wrapping around Margaret like a gentle breeze. “The past whispers—those who have lost their way cannot be found alone. You are stronger than the shadows. Find your light, my daughter.”
As the words settled in Margaret’s chest, the clearing began to dissolve around her, the surroundings softening into a shroud of iridescent light. In the fleeting moment, she wept for all the things left unspoken, the milestones her mother would never witness. But the warmth of her mother’s spirit enveloped her, and amidst the swirl of shadows, she felt clarity seize her heart.
In an instant, Margaret awoke, sprawled upon the cold, damp earth. The world had returned to its usual chill, but the sinister whispers had vanished, leaving behind a sense of resolve. As she blinked against the darkness, the moon shone brightly overhead, illuminating her path homeward.
With each step, the heaviness in her heart lifted, replaced by a flickering sense of hope. She understood she might never entirely escape the whispers of the Wayward, but she could choose to live, to honour the memory of the love she had lost, and forge her own destiny.
As she reached the edge of the village, dawn broke upon the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and rose. Kinver lay before her, a tapestry of familiar sights, a home waiting to be filled with new memories. She would take her mother’s light with her into the vast unknown, where whispers of the Wayward no longer felt like a haunting, but rather a gentle reminder of the ties that bound her to life.
Margaret smiled, knowing she would emerge as more than she was before—no longer a solitary figure wandering the edges of despair, but a woman ready to rediscover joy.
