The wind howled like a banshee, rattling the shuttered windows of Foxglove Cottage as Lydia Mullins made her way to the front door. The autumn night had all but swallowed the waning light, casting elongated shadows that danced across the wooden floorboards. Inside, the comforting scent of burnt sage mingled with the faint notes of cinnamon from the candles flickering in the corners of the room. She clutched her worn cardigan tighter around her shoulders as she opened the door, peering into the inky darkness that stretched beyond the garden.
“Just the wind,” she whispered to herself, yet her heart quickened as if it knew better. Since moving to the isolated village of Grimthorn, Lydia had lost count of how many times she’d felt a tightening in her chest as dusk descended. Something about the shadows of the towering oaks felt alive, like a breath held in anticipation, waiting for the moment when it could no longer be contained.
Her phone buzzed insistently on the wooden table, the glow illuminating the text from Clara: “Just heard it’s been a month since anyone’s seen Old Ned. You reckon he’ll turn up?” Lydia bit her lip, discomfort creeping into her mind like a persistent fog. Old Ned had always been a solitary character in the village, a recluse with stories that danced dangerously close to madness—tales of whispers in the woods and shadows that followed him home.
She thumbed a response: “Yes, I suppose so. I’ll go check on him tomorrow.” The words felt hollow even as she tapped them out, and she couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched, her every move scrutinised by unseen eyes. She turned her attention to the small fire crackling in the hearth, allowing its warmth to wash over her and dilute the chill that seemed to seep deeper into her bones.
Hours slipped by, and the wind outside grew restless, battering against the cottage walls as if trying to break free from the night’s grip. As Lydia curled up on the threadbare sofa, sleep teased her eyelids, the soft sound of the fire lulling her into a sense of false security. It was then that a cry disrupted the silence—raw and primal.
She jolted awake, heart thundering in her chest. The wind had stilled, leaving behind an oppressive silence that hung thick in the air. It had been more of a howl than a cry, and though she doubted her reasoning, the sound had come from the direction of the woods. Lydia stood, reaching for the shawl that stretched over the arm of the sofa, still feeling the remnants of her dream slipping away like grains of sand. With a tremor of apprehension weaving through her veins, she made her way to the front door, her curiosity battling fear.
The night had taken on a spectral quality. The moon hung low, a pale eye casting eerie shadows that elongated and warped with each step she took into her garden. Every rustle of leaves twisted in her mind like whispers. The woods loomed ahead, dark and forbidding, but her feet betrayed her desire to retreat. Before she could question her instincts, she was moving towards the inevitable pull of the trees.
The path meandered deeper into the undergrowth, twisting beneath the gnarled roots of the oaks that clawed towards the sky like skeletal hands. As she walked, the memory of Old Ned’s stories echoed in her mind—bizarre fables of figures emerging from the blackness, a presence that lingered long after one had left the shadows. Real or imagined, they settled over her like a shroud.
Then, she heard it again. The cry. It came in bursts, a cacophony that echoed through the trees, rising and falling like the sound of a dying animal. Panic clawed at her throat as she pressed forward, adrenaline energising her limbs despite the instinct to turn back. Was this connected to Ned? Perhaps he was hurt, stranded in the grasp of the very thing he had warned her about.
Moments passed—a mix of dread and determination punctuating her steps—when the atmosphere around her thickened, so much so that she felt as if she were moving through water. The air crackled with electricity, every breath accompanied by the overwhelming sensation of being ensnared in something sinister. Movement among the parted underbrush caught her eye, and she froze.
A figure stepped into the moonlight, and Lydia’s breath hitched in her throat. It was old Ned, or at least a twisted reflection of him. His clothes hung in tatters, soaked with mud, and his face bore a gauntness that spoke of starvation or worse. His eyes, once sharp and observant, now seemed hollowed out, marred by something dark lurking beneath the surface.
“There you are, Lydia,” he croaked, voice gravelly and distant. “I was wondering how long it would take you to follow the sounds.”
“What happened to you?” Lydia gasped, taking a step back. She could see the silhouette of something moving behind him—the shadows behaved unnaturally, swirling and merging with the very essence of the forest around him.
“Do you ever feel it? The breath of the dark? It calls to us, you know,” he said, his voice curdling her blood. He began to tremble, and despite every instinct urging her to flee, she felt rooted in place, drawn nearer by an unseen force.
“What are you talking about?” she whispered, but the words seemed insignificant against the weight of his presence. The shadows surged forward, drinking in the moonlight and casting elongated tendrils that reached hungrily for her feet.
“They want to consume you,” Ned rasped with feverish intensity. “They’re hungry, always hungry. You need to keep your breath, Lydia. You can’t let it escape.”
A rush of terror flooded her senses, and she stumbled backwards, breaking the spell that held her. In that moment of sacrifice, the shadows recoiled, contracting as if wounded. “Get away from me!” she screamed, turning on her heel and sprinting back the way she came.
The darkness chased her, palpable and insatiable, breath swirling eerily around her limbs as she dodged branches that seemed to reach out deliberately. The path had shifted in the turbulent space of her flight, disorienting her as the trees pressed in, the very woods mocking her fear. It wasn’t until she broke through the boundary of the grove that she felt a measure of relief, spurred by the flicker of her house’s warm light illuminating the darkness like a beacon.
Flinging the door shut behind her, she leaned her back against it, breathing heavily, eyes wide, searching the corners of her little sanctuary for signs of the shadows. The wood creaked ominously around her, yet she was alive, safe—in control. But the echo of Old Ned’s words skulked in the shadows of her mind like a predator.
Hours melded into an unyielding dawn, and Lydia struggled to find respite in sleep, haunted by the weight of uncertainty that clung to her. Thoughts flitted from the darkness beyond her door to the figure of Old Ned, a spectre forever stained by his madness. Had he truly been consumed? Or had whatever lingered in the woods taken him, waiting for her next breath to claim?
As the morning light broke through the grime on her windows, she resolved to confront her fears. She would visit Ned that afternoon. Perhaps it was foolish, but she couldn’t let the shadows tug at the fraying edges of her sanity.
When Lydia arrived at his dilapidated cottage, the world felt deceptively normal. Sunlight bathed the cracked walls, flowers defied decay, and for a moment, she felt the invigorating sense of hope, a chance for redemption. But the moment she stepped onto the porch, a chill swept through her, parching her breath.
The door creaked open before she touched it, revealing a darkness inside deeper than night. Lydia hesitated, heart pounding as dread pulsed through her veins, urging her to flee. But her feet moved onward, pushed by an unseen force, the haunting promise of answers drawing her deeper within.
The cottage was unadorned, bathed in shadow. The windows were covered, and as she stepped inside, the door swung shut with a finality that made her shudder. “Ned?” she called, her voice trembling against the oppressive stillness.
And that was when she saw him. Old Ned sat in an armchair, his gaze fixed on a nondescript corner, his expression vacant. “You must hold your breath, Lydia,” he whispered, his voice barely a murmur.
“What do you mean?” she asked breathlessly. “What is happening?”
“They are here,” he said with a restrained urgency, and her heart sank as she felt the air constrict around her, thickening with an electrifying anticipation that made her vision swim. “Don’t let them take you. You can’t breathe,” he rasped, his eyes finally snapping back to focus, locking onto hers with an intensity that sent icy tendrils of fear racing through her.
In that moment, she understood. The shadows that lurked beyond the door hungered for her breath, and Old Ned was their harbinger. Something twisted in her gut, a primal instinct screaming at her to run, but it was too late. The air shimmered as if the very walls of the cottage pulsed with life, and voices began to whisper in the dark, caressing her mind with sinister promises.
She lurched back toward the door, desperation clawing at her throat. As she reached for the handle, a deafening silence enveloped her, a deep void that sucked the light from the room. In the darkness, fear transformed, crystallising into something infinitely worse.
“Lydia,” Ned’s voice came again, no longer shaky, but commanding. “You must exhale… let them in. Submit.”
But she couldn’t. The instinct to survive dominated. “No!” she screamed, turning, and in that moment, she felt her breath escape her lips, a phantom release that echoed in the stillness around them.
Lydia staggered back, and the shadows surged forward, rushing in like a powerful tide, seeping through every crevice of the room. They curled around her, engulfing her in a shroud of darkness, and she gasped, choking on the bitter air that permeated the space.
As she fought against the whispering void, she felt her heart racing, each frantic beat a challenge to the consuming silence. Desperation drove her into the corner like a trapped animal, and the shadows responded, growing hungrier, thirsting for that last breath.
“No, no, no!” she pleaded, hands tearing at the darkness that pressed in on her, yearning for warmth and light. But their grip was unyielding, cold and lethal, and in the hollow recesses of her mind, she knew she was losing the struggle.
The last breath escaped her with a snap, echoing in the stillness. Old Ned’s eerie gaze hardened, and in that instant, she realised that submission held a dark allure. But the darkness was not an answer; it was an abyss, one that promised nothing but despair.
In a final instinctual surge, Lydia broke free from the shadows’ grasp, drawing a deep, defiant breath that filled her lungs. She pushed through the darkness, every ounce of her being crying out for release. “I will not submit!” she roared, and though the darkness fought against her, she willed her way back towards the walls of reality.
Light broke through the suffocating smog, sizzling in a violent burst, and everything ignited and shattered in a cacophony of sound and colour. The shadows shrieked, recoiling from the potency of her voice as she forced her way back to the door, the last breath reanimating her spirit.
With one final surge of strength, she threw the door open and stumbled into the light of day. Sunlight poured over her skin, cleansing the remnants of darkness that clutched her. Gasping for air, she felt the warmth of life surround her, steadying her pulse as the world came back into focus.
Behind her, she heard the sound of shadows colliding and collapsing, echoing Old Ned’s maddening whispers. As she turned to face the cottage, it loomed before her, consumed by darkness—a vessel of insatiable hunger now broken, locking in the presence that had sought her.
Lydia took a step back, shaking, and retreated into the safety of the daylight. She could still hear the echoes of Old Ned’s warning lingering in her mind, but she had triumphed. As the shadows writhed within, centuries of despair cemented in silence, she knew that she had resisted; she had not given them her last breath… but what of those whoen were caught in its harrowing call?
The answer hung still in the air like the bittersweet fragrance of burnt sage, mixed with the haunting promise of the darkness, leaving Lydia to ponder the heavy lesson imparted by the woods. She understood now—the darkness would always be there, lurking, waiting for her breath, and as long as it existed, so too would the whispers draw the unwary into their eternal embrace.
