Echoes of the End
In the hidden valley town of Eldridge, everyone knew of the legend—the tale of "The End." According to whispers and worn records, every fifty years, a curse would descend upon the town. For seven nights, one person would vanish, taken by something that dwelled in the shadows. And when the seventh night was over, "The End" would claim one final soul before leaving the town in silence...until its return.
As the fifty-year mark approached, the townsfolk became anxious. Most boarded up their homes, clinging to their loved ones, desperate to wait out the cursed week. But Tom, a young man who’d grown up in Eldridge hearing these tales, didn’t believe in the curse. He brushed it off as a silly superstition, laughing at the panicked glances exchanged among the elders.
The disappearances started anyway.
The first night, Tom heard whispers that old Mrs. Fletcher, who lived alone on the hill, hadn’t answered her door in the morning. Her house was empty, her bed cold. By the third night, the Smiths, a family of four, had gone missing as well. Tom’s bravado began to fade as each night took someone new, and he noticed the town growing quieter and emptier.
On the seventh night, his best friend Caleb disappeared. Tom felt a chill settle in his bones. There were no more people on the streets, and windows remained tightly shut, doors barred. The silence was thick, almost alive.
It was the eighth night, and the town had become a ghostly shell of itself. Tom locked himself in his home, sealing every door and window, hoping that the walls would keep him safe. But there was something else—a single candle placed in the center of his room, just like the old tales mentioned. Tom could never understand why the candle mattered so much, but now he found himself clinging to it, as though it could somehow keep him safe from whatever was lurking in the dark.
As midnight struck, his candle’s flame flickered. Tom watched it, feeling his heartbeat quicken with each shiver of the flame. The air grew cold, and a faint hum filled the silence, like a breathless chant. He closed his eyes, focusing on the dim light that kept him company. But then, the whispers grew louder, clearer, as if they were calling his name from within the walls, from every shadow.
"Tom..."
The whisper was so close, like a hot breath against his ear. He froze, his hands gripping the candle, desperate to keep it from going out. But the flame was already fading, no matter how he shielded it.
And then, with a final whisper, the candle went out.
In the darkness, Tom felt an icy hand grip his wrist, pulling him towards something vast and hollow, a place where sound died and shadows swallowed the light. He wanted to scream, but his voice was lost in the thick, eerie silence. He felt himself sinking, deeper and deeper, as if falling through the earth itself. The last thing he heard was the whispers—calling his name again and again.
The next morning, the townspeople who were left found his home empty. A faint chill lingered in the air, and in the center of the room lay a single, half-burned candle. It flickered briefly when they stepped inside, as if mocking them, before going dark forever.
And the town knew: the curse was finished—for now. But someday, The End would echo through Eldridge again.
Echoes of the End
In the hidden valley town of Eldridge, everyone knew of the legend—the tale of "The End." According to whispers and worn records, every fifty years, a curse would descend upon the town. For seven nights, one person would vanish, taken by something that dwelled in the shadows. And when the seventh night was over, "The End" would claim one final soul before leaving the town in silence...until its return.
As the fifty-year mark approached, the townsfolk became anxious. Most boarded up their homes, clinging to their loved ones, desperate to wait out the cursed week. But Tom, a young man who’d grown up in Eldridge hearing these tales, didn’t believe in the curse. He brushed it off as a silly superstition, laughing at the panicked glances exchanged among the elders.
The disappearances started anyway.
The first night, Tom heard whispers that old Mrs. Fletcher, who lived alone on the hill, hadn’t answered her door in the morning. Her house was empty, her bed cold. By the third night, the Smiths, a family of four, had gone missing as well. Tom’s bravado began to fade as each night took someone new, and he noticed the town growing quieter and emptier.
On the seventh night, his best friend Caleb disappeared. Tom felt a chill settle in his bones. There were no more people on the streets, and windows remained tightly shut, doors barred. The silence was thick, almost alive.
It was the eighth night, and the town had become a ghostly shell of itself. Tom locked himself in his home, sealing every door and window, hoping that the walls would keep him safe. But there was something else—a single candle placed in the center of his room, just like the old tales mentioned. Tom could never understand why the candle mattered so much, but now he found himself clinging to it, as though it could somehow keep him safe from whatever was lurking in the dark.
As midnight struck, his candle’s flame flickered. Tom watched it, feeling his heartbeat quicken with each shiver of the flame. The air grew cold, and a faint hum filled the silence, like a breathless chant. He closed his eyes, focusing on the dim light that kept him company. But then, the whispers grew louder, clearer, as if they were calling his name from within the walls, from every shadow.
"Tom..."
The whisper was so close, like a hot breath against his ear. He froze, his hands gripping the candle, desperate to keep it from going out. But the flame was already fading, no matter how he shielded it.
And then, with a final whisper, the candle went out.
In the darkness, Tom felt an icy hand grip his wrist, pulling him towards something vast and hollow, a place where sound died and shadows swallowed the light. He wanted to scream, but his voice was lost in the thick, eerie silence. He felt himself sinking, deeper and deeper, as if falling through the earth itself. The last thing he heard was the whispers—calling his name again and again.
The next morning, the townspeople who were left found his home empty. A faint chill lingered in the air, and in the center of the room lay a single, half-burned candle. It flickered briefly when they stepped inside, as if mocking them, before going dark forever.
And the town knew: the curse was finished—for now. But someday, The End would echo through Eldridge again.
