The Cry in the Dark
It was a cold, moonless night when Angela first heard it—a quiet, pitiful cry drifting in through her open window. She had recently moved to the house on the edge of the forest, thinking the solitude would help her finish her novel. But this cry… It was unlike anything she'd ever heard before.
At first, she thought it was an animal. Maybe a wounded fox or a lost fawn. But as the cry grew louder, it took on a distinctly human quality—sharp, desperate, and agonized. She tried to ignore it, pulling the blankets over her head and squeezing her eyes shut. Yet the sound of it kept slipping through, filling her room with dread.
By the third night, Angela couldn’t take it anymore. She grabbed her flashlight and stepped out into the biting night air. The sound led her deeper into the forest, the trees casting long, eerie shadows under her dim beam. Each step took her further into a thick fog, and soon the house was nowhere in sight.
The crying grew louder and more tortured, making her stomach twist. She called out, "Is anyone there? Are you hurt?" But only the trees and the endless darkness answered her.
Finally, she saw something up ahead—a small figure huddled against a tree, wrapped in what looked like a tattered gray blanket. She took a shaky breath, inching closer. "Hello?" she whispered.
The figure slowly turned to face her, and Angela’s heart stopped. It was a child—eyes wide and hollow, face streaked with tears and dirt. But something was wrong… The child’s skin was a deathly shade of gray, like it hadn’t seen the sun in years. Its mouth opened to release another wail, and Angela could see nothing but blackness inside.
She took a step back, but her feet seemed rooted to the ground. The child’s crying grew louder, more frantic, until it seemed to echo in her bones. "I’m… lost…" it said, voice shivering in the night air. "Help me… find my way home."
Angela felt a wave of pity, but every instinct told her to run. She forced herself to speak. "Where is your home?"
The child pointed deeper into the forest, where the fog was thickest, almost pulsating like a living thing. Before Angela could say anything more, the child’s face twisted into a smile—a dark, unnatural grin that didn’t belong on any child’s face.
A chill raced down her spine as she stumbled backward, feeling an overwhelming urge to flee. She turned, but as she did, she heard the cry again, louder and closer than ever, as if the child was right at her ear.
She ran, but the cries followed her, getting louder and more shrill, until they became a deafening roar. She reached her house, slamming the door behind her, chest heaving. But as she leaned against the door, she heard it again—a soft cry, coming from within her own home.
Terrified, Angela turned slowly, and there it was… the child, standing in the middle of her living room, its eyes now a bottomless black void.
The last thing Angela ever heard was the cry, echoing through the walls of her home, as if the child’s sorrow had become a part of the house itself—a warning to anyone who dared to come too close.
Now, people say that on moonless nights, if you stand near the forest edge, you can still hear the faint, eerie sound of crying, drifting through the trees, calling to anyone who might be foolish enough to answer.
It was a cold, moonless night when Angela first heard it—a quiet, pitiful cry drifting in through her open window. She had recently moved to the house on the edge of the forest, thinking the solitude would help her finish her novel. But this cry… It was unlike anything she'd ever heard before.
At first, she thought it was an animal. Maybe a wounded fox or a lost fawn. But as the cry grew louder, it took on a distinctly human quality—sharp, desperate, and agonized. She tried to ignore it, pulling the blankets over her head and squeezing her eyes shut. Yet the sound of it kept slipping through, filling her room with dread.
By the third night, Angela couldn’t take it anymore. She grabbed her flashlight and stepped out into the biting night air. The sound led her deeper into the forest, the trees casting long, eerie shadows under her dim beam. Each step took her further into a thick fog, and soon the house was nowhere in sight.
The crying grew louder and more tortured, making her stomach twist. She called out, "Is anyone there? Are you hurt?" But only the trees and the endless darkness answered her.
Finally, she saw something up ahead—a small figure huddled against a tree, wrapped in what looked like a tattered gray blanket. She took a shaky breath, inching closer. "Hello?" she whispered.
The figure slowly turned to face her, and Angela’s heart stopped. It was a child—eyes wide and hollow, face streaked with tears and dirt. But something was wrong… The child’s skin was a deathly shade of gray, like it hadn’t seen the sun in years. Its mouth opened to release another wail, and Angela could see nothing but blackness inside.
She took a step back, but her feet seemed rooted to the ground. The child’s crying grew louder, more frantic, until it seemed to echo in her bones. "I’m… lost…" it said, voice shivering in the night air. "Help me… find my way home."
Angela felt a wave of pity, but every instinct told her to run. She forced herself to speak. "Where is your home?"
The child pointed deeper into the forest, where the fog was thickest, almost pulsating like a living thing. Before Angela could say anything more, the child’s face twisted into a smile—a dark, unnatural grin that didn’t belong on any child’s face.
A chill raced down her spine as she stumbled backward, feeling an overwhelming urge to flee. She turned, but as she did, she heard the cry again, louder and closer than ever, as if the child was right at her ear.
She ran, but the cries followed her, getting louder and more shrill, until they became a deafening roar. She reached her house, slamming the door behind her, chest heaving. But as she leaned against the door, she heard it again—a soft cry, coming from within her own home.
Terrified, Angela turned slowly, and there it was… the child, standing in the middle of her living room, its eyes now a bottomless black void.
The last thing Angela ever heard was the cry, echoing through the walls of her home, as if the child’s sorrow had become a part of the house itself—a warning to anyone who dared to come too close.
Now, people say that on moonless nights, if you stand near the forest edge, you can still hear the faint, eerie sound of crying, drifting through the trees, calling to anyone who might be foolish enough to answer.
The Cry in the Dark
It was a cold, moonless night when Angela first heard it—a quiet, pitiful cry drifting in through her open window. She had recently moved to the house on the edge of the forest, thinking the solitude would help her finish her novel. But this cry… It was unlike anything she'd ever heard before.
At first, she thought it was an animal. Maybe a wounded fox or a lost fawn. But as the cry grew louder, it took on a distinctly human quality—sharp, desperate, and agonized. She tried to ignore it, pulling the blankets over her head and squeezing her eyes shut. Yet the sound of it kept slipping through, filling her room with dread.
By the third night, Angela couldn’t take it anymore. She grabbed her flashlight and stepped out into the biting night air. The sound led her deeper into the forest, the trees casting long, eerie shadows under her dim beam. Each step took her further into a thick fog, and soon the house was nowhere in sight.
The crying grew louder and more tortured, making her stomach twist. She called out, "Is anyone there? Are you hurt?" But only the trees and the endless darkness answered her.
Finally, she saw something up ahead—a small figure huddled against a tree, wrapped in what looked like a tattered gray blanket. She took a shaky breath, inching closer. "Hello?" she whispered.
The figure slowly turned to face her, and Angela’s heart stopped. It was a child—eyes wide and hollow, face streaked with tears and dirt. But something was wrong… The child’s skin was a deathly shade of gray, like it hadn’t seen the sun in years. Its mouth opened to release another wail, and Angela could see nothing but blackness inside.
She took a step back, but her feet seemed rooted to the ground. The child’s crying grew louder, more frantic, until it seemed to echo in her bones. "I’m… lost…" it said, voice shivering in the night air. "Help me… find my way home."
Angela felt a wave of pity, but every instinct told her to run. She forced herself to speak. "Where is your home?"
The child pointed deeper into the forest, where the fog was thickest, almost pulsating like a living thing. Before Angela could say anything more, the child’s face twisted into a smile—a dark, unnatural grin that didn’t belong on any child’s face.
A chill raced down her spine as she stumbled backward, feeling an overwhelming urge to flee. She turned, but as she did, she heard the cry again, louder and closer than ever, as if the child was right at her ear.
She ran, but the cries followed her, getting louder and more shrill, until they became a deafening roar. She reached her house, slamming the door behind her, chest heaving. But as she leaned against the door, she heard it again—a soft cry, coming from within her own home.
Terrified, Angela turned slowly, and there it was… the child, standing in the middle of her living room, its eyes now a bottomless black void.
The last thing Angela ever heard was the cry, echoing through the walls of her home, as if the child’s sorrow had become a part of the house itself—a warning to anyone who dared to come too close.
Now, people say that on moonless nights, if you stand near the forest edge, you can still hear the faint, eerie sound of crying, drifting through the trees, calling to anyone who might be foolish enough to answer.
0 Comments
0 Shares
0 Reviews
