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The Man Who Whispers to Death

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There is an old fable, my grandmother would tell us every night of the full moon. When I was younger, I never thought one true, but now I believe in one more than death. It happened one night after my grandmother told me the fable of Whispering Death. I can still see his cold, satanic purple and blackened eyes and that ax.

It was a typical Saturday morning, as I sat at the table eating my eggs with my sisters, my grandmother came in with her fable book and we prepared for another boring tale. She opened the old, worn book and said “You must never repeat this story to anyone, do you understand?”

We all responded with a bored, “Yes Nana,” before she continued.

“The tale of the Whispering Death. About five hundred years ago, there was a small village that stood in the very spot in which our town now stands. Well one day, a beautiful woman conceived a child with a bandit who often raided graves. She was shunned for conceiving this child and each day she‘d whisper to the spirits of death to come and take her life. One day when she was close to her due date she took a walk in the woods. She sat in those woods for hours, at sunset she began the walk back home, but on the way was bitten by a poisonous spider.”

She sighed and continued, “That night she died with her unborn child. The villagers said that the moon light shined over her body, its once pure light was now a satanic red. The next morning the villagers came to dispose of her body, but when they arrived they found that her belly had been torn open…from the inside. A trail of blood leads out the window eventually vanishing. Twenty years after the incident, the villagers were finding young children and women decapitated. The specter told to be responsible had: gray skin the color of death, his clothes, hair, lips, mouth, tongue and even the whites of his eyes were an ungodly black. The pale purple of his eyes made them look demonic. Spiders bowed to his whim, it is said that baby was possessed by the devil to do his killing, and became Whispering Death.”

We stared at her disbelievingly as she said, “He still roams this land, hunting those who disrespect his beliefs.”

I told her that what she said was dumb. And that night, as I went to bed I heard a ghostly wail from the graveyard across the street. I thought nothing of it because there was no such thing as monsters.

It was around midnight when I was stirred from my slumber by the same wail, only it sounded like it was in my house. I got out of bed and poked my head cautiously into the hall way, a trail of blood lead from the entrance of my mother’s room to the kitchen. I fallowed it to find a horrid sight; My mother, grandmother, and sisters where decapitated in the kitchen.

Their heads were all sitting on the table staring at me. I ran to my mothers sobbing and hoping it was a dream. I then I looked up to see his face; those serrated teeth, and dark hallow eyes, sitting in the chair across the table from me. I shrieked and tried to run but when I looked back at the table he wasn’t there and I ran into something cold. I looked up at the seven foot tall man who’s arms lifted his ax with an oddly long handle to hack me apart.

But instead of meeting death he grabbed me by the hair and lifted me to his eye level. The pain was excruciating and my skin crawled as his blackened tongue licked the blood of my family from his black, lifeless lips. He sneered and with a cackle, he said, “Spiders crawl as bodies fall. I spare your life tonight so you may forever live in fright.”

With that he disappeared into a cloud of black smoke and I landed flat on my back. Where he once stood, a message was written in blood, “To paint the Earth red, blood must dance, spiders must whisper to death, and a toy must be lost to the darkness”

Police arrived and arrested me as the prime suspect because I was fifteen and the only living person in the house. Thirty years have passed since then, and as I sit in my cell I can hear his loud, eerie wails each and every night, followed by the sound of police sirens. Whispering Death has still not come to take my life. He may never, knowing that he exists, is a far worse torture than death. Tomorrow I am to be finally released into the free world. But I know it won't be family who will visit me tomorrow night. So I'm writing this letter to whoever may find it, please do not ignore the darkness, or it will hunt you.

Whispering Death is near drinking the red from the bodies he hacks. He’ll keep killing and inflicting sorrow. And if you ever hear his ghostly wail, pray that you will see tomorrow.

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