Whispers of the Ruins
By Olivia Salter
The last time Erin saw her grandmother was a humid summer night, five years ago. They had been sitting on the porch, the air thick with the scent of magnolias and the buzz of cicadas.
“Do you ever feel like some stories don’t want to be told?” her grandmother had asked, her voice soft but distant.
Erin had laughed nervously. “Like ghosts guarding their secrets?”
Her grandmother didn’t laugh. Instead, she stared into the darkness, her fingers tracing the edges of the leather-bound journal on her lap. “Not ghosts. Something worse. Something that takes and never gives back.”
Two weeks later, her grandmother disappeared, leaving only the journal behind.
***
Erin hadn’t expected the package. It came on an ordinary Tuesday, while she was sorting through dusty shelves at the bookstore. Wrapped in worn brown paper and tied with string, it bore no return address. Her name, written in her grandmother’s familiar scrawl, sent a shiver down her spine.Inside was a map, its edges frayed and brittle, the paper marked with strange symbols. Tucked beside it was a note, written in the same hand:
“To find me, you must follow the path I took. But the ruins take more than they give. Be sure you’re ready to pay the price.”
Erin stared at the map, her pulse quickening. Her grandmother’s disappearance had been a wound that never fully healed, a mystery no one dared to solve. Her mother, especially, refused to speak of it.
When Erin brought the map home that night, her mother’s reaction was immediate and sharp.
“Burn it,” she said, slamming her hand on the kitchen counter.
“What?” Erin blinked, clutching the map.
“You heard me. Burn it, and don’t look back.”
“Mom, this could help us find her—”
Her mother’s face was pale, her voice shaking. “She’s gone, Erin. Gone because she wouldn’t leave those ruins alone. And if you follow her, they’ll take you too.”
Erin hesitated, her chest tightening. “What do you know about the ruins?”
Her mother looked away, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Enough to warn you. Enough to beg you not to go.”
But the note and the map felt like a call she couldn’t ignore.
***
The swamp was a suffocating labyrinth of tangled roots and stagnant water. Mist clung to the ground like a living thing, and the air smelled of decay. Erin followed the map, its lines guiding her deeper into the wilderness.Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the swamp were testing her will. The journal, now tucked into her backpack, seemed to pulse with its own energy, as though it could sense the nearness of its origin.
The first sign of the ruins was a faint hum in the air, a vibration that tickled the edges of her hearing. Then the trees parted, and she saw them: ancient stone structures half-sunken into the earth, their surfaces covered in carvings.
The carvings were unsettling—faces twisted in agony, figures frozen in desperate poses. Erin’s stomach churned as she realized some of the faces were eerily lifelike, their eyes seeming to follow her every move.
“You’re braver than I thought.”
The voice came from behind her, low and gravelly. Erin spun around to see an old man leaning on a crooked staff. His eyes were sharp, piercing her like twin daggers.
“Who are you?” she demanded, gripping the map tightly.
“I’m a warning,” he said cryptically. “The same warning I gave to your grandmother.”
“You knew her?” Erin asked, her voice tinged with desperation.
The man nodded, his expression somber. “I told her the ruins take what they want. I told her to leave. She didn’t listen.”
“And what do they want?” Erin’s voice trembled.
“Everything,” the man replied simply. “They take everything.”
***
The ruins seemed alive. As Erin stepped closer, the carvings pulsed faintly, as though the stones were breathing. The hum grew louder, resonating in her chest.The old man followed at a distance, his presence both reassuring and unnerving.
“What are they?” Erin asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Not cursed. Not haunted. They’re… hungry,” he said. “They take stories, memories, truths. They keep them locked inside, so they’re never forgotten. But they don’t give them back for free.”
Erin’s breath hitched as they entered a large central chamber. The walls here were different, adorned with intricate scenes that seemed to shift and change as she moved.
And then she saw her.
Her grandmother’s face was carved into the wall, her expression serene but hollow. Beside her, a scene unfolded: a woman holding a journal, stepping into the ruins. Her face twisted in shock as the journal disintegrated in her hands, her figure fading into the stone.
“She’s here,” Erin whispered, tears pricking her eyes.
The air grew colder, and the carvings began to glow. Light spilled from the walls, pooling in the center of the chamber. A shape emerged, flickering and translucent.
It was her grandmother.
“Erin,” the apparition said, her voice layered with echoes.
***
Erin froze, her heart pounding. Her grandmother’s eyes—though ghostly—were full of recognition and sorrow.“Why did you come here?” her grandmother asked, her voice soft but filled with urgency.
“I had to find you,” Erin said, her voice trembling. “I had to know what happened.”
Her grandmother reached out, but her hand passed through Erin like smoke. “I made a mistake,” she said. “I thought I could uncover the ruins’ secrets. I thought they would reveal the truth. But they took more than I was willing to give.”
“What did they take?”
“Everything,” her grandmother said, her voice breaking. “My memories. My soul. I’m bound to this place now. I can never leave.”
Erin’s chest tightened. “Then I’ll free you. There has to be a way.”
The old man stepped forward, his expression grim. “There’s always a way,” he said. “But the ruins will demand a price. They always do.”
The carvings trembled, and the whispers grew louder. Erin clutched her grandmother’s journal, the weight of it pressing against her chest.
“What do you want?” she asked, addressing the ruins directly.
The whispers swelled, filling the chamber with a single, resonant word:
“Story.”
Erin’s hands shook as she opened the journal. She thought of the life her grandmother had lived, the memories she’d recorded.
“This is hers,” Erin said, holding the journal out. “Take her story, and let her go.”
The ruins seemed to hesitate, the hum faltering. Then, slowly, the light around her grandmother began to fade.
“Thank you,” her grandmother whispered as she dissolved into mist.
***
When Erin woke, she was at the edge of the swamp, the journal gone. Her grandmother’s face no longer haunted the ruins.But something lingered—a faint hum in the back of her mind, a whisper she couldn’t shake.
Months later, she published her grandmother’s story, sharing it with the world. It became a sensation, a testament to legacy and sacrifice.
But late at night, when Erin stared into the mirror, she sometimes saw her own face begin to shift.
And the ruins whispered:
***
The book became an overnight sensation. Critics hailed it as “a masterful blend of memoir and mystery,” praising Erin for her vivid prose and the haunting depth of her grandmother’s story. It brought her attention she hadn’t sought and opportunities she hadn’t expected.But it also brought questions—ones Erin couldn’t answer.
“What inspired you to write about the ruins?” an interviewer asked during a live-streamed panel.
Erin hesitated, her fingers gripping the microphone tightly. “It was... personal,” she said, her voice measured. “A way to honor my grandmother.”
“And the supernatural elements? The voices, the carvings? Were those creative liberties?”
The audience leaned in, eager for her response. Erin’s chest tightened as she glanced at the shadowy edges of the stage, where the faint hum of the ruins seemed to linger.
“No,” she said finally. “Those were real.”
The room fell silent, a charged stillness spreading through the crowd. For a moment, Erin thought she saw a flicker of movement in the dark corners of the room—faces etched in shadow, watching her.
When the panel ended, she retreated to her dressing room, her hands trembling. The whispers were growing louder now, more insistent.
***
As the book’s success grew, so did the whispers. They followed Erin everywhere—echoing in the hiss of a kettle, the murmur of wind through trees, even the static between radio stations.At first, she thought it was paranoia, the cost of reliving the ruins’ horrors every time she spoke about the book. But then the shadows started to move.
It began with small things: a flicker of light where there was none, the sense of being watched when she was alone. One night, she woke to find the pages of her grandmother’s unpublished notebooks scattered across the floor, though she had locked them in her desk.
Then came the dreams.
In them, she was back in the ruins, the walls closing in as the carvings whispered her name. Faces she recognized—her grandmother, the old man, even her mother—emerged from the stone, their eyes hollow and accusing.
“You gave them my story,” her grandmother’s voice echoed in her mind, “but what have you kept for yourself?”
Erin woke drenched in sweat, the hum vibrating in her skull. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the ruins wanted more.
***
The first time she noticed something missing, it was a small detail—a childhood memory of her grandmother baking peach cobbler. She remembered the smell, the warmth of the kitchen, but not what her grandmother had said to her that day.As the days passed, more memories began to fade. Conversations, faces, moments that had once been vivid now felt like static.
One evening, Erin sat with her mother, who had finally agreed to talk about the book.
“You’re losing yourself,” her mother said, her voice trembling. “I can see it in your eyes. The same thing happened to her.”
“Who?” Erin asked, confused.
Her mother’s expression shifted from worry to horror. “Your grandmother, Erin. Don’t you remember?”
Erin’s breath caught. The memory of her grandmother’s face—once so clear—was now a blur.
“What’s happening to me?” Erin whispered.
Her mother grabbed her hands, her grip firm. “The ruins don’t just take stories. They take you. Piece by piece, they’ll erase you until you’re nothing but a shadow.”
***
Desperation drove Erin back to the swamp. The world she’d built—the fame, the book tours, the acclaim—felt meaningless if she couldn’t hold onto herself.The ruins were waiting, their hum louder than ever, vibrating through the ground like a heartbeat.
As she approached, the old man stepped out of the shadows, his face haggard and weary.
“I told you not to come back,” he said, his voice heavy with resignation.
“I don’t have a choice,” Erin shot back. “They’re taking my memories. My life. I need to stop them.”
The old man sighed, leaning on his staff. “You can’t stop them. But you can make another bargain.”
“What do they want?” Erin demanded, her voice cracking.
The old man’s eyes darkened. “The same thing they’ve always wanted: stories. Memories. Truths. But this time, they’ll ask for something deeper.”
***
The ruins felt alive as Erin stepped into the central chamber. The carvings glowed faintly, the faces shifting as though watching her every move.The whispers unite into words, filling the air with an unearthly resonance:
“What will you give?”
Erin swallowed hard, her voice shaking. “You’ve already taken my memories. What more could you want?”
The whispers grew louder, swirling around her like a storm. The old man stood at the edge of the chamber, his expression grim but silent.
“Your story,” the ruins answered. “All of it.”
Erin’s heart pounded. She thought of everything she had fought for—her grandmother’s legacy, her own identity. Without her story, who would she be?
“Will you give it back to me?” she asked, her voice barely audible.
The ruins pulsed with light, their answer clear: “No.”
Tears streamed down Erin’s face as she clutched her chest, the weight of the decision pressing down on her.
Finally, she nodded. “Take it.”
The light surged, and Erin felt a searing pain as the ruins reached inside her, pulling at the threads of her being. Her memories, her identity, her very essence—everything was drawn into the stone.
As the world faded, Erin saw her grandmother’s face one last time, etched into the walls alongside her own.
***
The book remained a bestseller, its pages now studied by scholars and devoured by readers. But Erin’s name faded from memory.Her mother kept a photograph of her on the mantle, though she could no longer recall why.
And in the ruins, the carvings whispered new stories—stories no one outside the swamp would ever hear.
The old man remained their guardian, watching as the ruins claimed their next victim.
And the hum continued, eternal and unyielding.
***
The swamp was eternal, its landscape shifting with time but its essence unchanged. The old man, who had no memory of his true name, wandered its depths with a purpose he both despised and couldn’t abandon.He was the keeper. The ruins had chosen him decades ago, claiming his story in exchange for sparing his life. Now, he remained a shadow, an observer of their endless hunger.
But something about Erin lingered in his mind. She had been different, her determination burning brighter than most who stumbled into the ruins. And unlike the others, she had left something behind.
Tucked in the folds of his tattered coat was a small scrap of paper, a fragment of Erin’s grandmother’s journal. The old man had taken it before the ruins could absorb it entirely, a quiet act of rebellion against their insatiable will.
***
The ruins hummed with satisfaction, their glow pulsating through the swamp. They had taken Erin’s story, her memories, her essence. Yet, the old man couldn’t shake the feeling that the ruins were growing restless.For years, they had fed on wanderers and seekers, their power expanding with each life absorbed. But the old man sensed a shift—a hunger deeper than before.
The ruins were no longer content with solitary stories. They wanted the world.
He knew he couldn’t stop them alone. But perhaps Erin’s sacrifice wasn’t the end. Perhaps it was the beginning of something greater.
***
Miles away, in the small town Erin had once called home, her mother sat by the fireplace, staring at the photograph on the mantle. The edges of the memory were blurry, but something in her heart refused to let go.The sound of a knock at the door startled her. When she opened it, she found a woman standing there—tall, with dark hair and piercing eyes. Her presence felt both familiar and unsettling.
“I need to speak with you,” the woman said, her voice calm but urgent.
“Who are you?” Erin’s mother asked, clutching the doorframe.
The woman hesitated. “I’m someone who knows what took your daughter. And I think we can bring her back.”
***
The woman introduced herself as Dr. Nyla Carter, an archaeologist who had spent decades studying ancient sites tied to inexplicable phenomena. Her research had led her to the ruins, though she had never dared to enter them.“I’ve seen what they can do,” Nyla said, spreading out a series of maps and sketches on the kitchen table. “And I believe they’re not just consuming stories—they’re creating something.”
“Creating what?” Erin’s mother asked, her voice trembling.
Nyla pointed to a symbol etched on one of the maps—a spiral surrounded by concentric circles. “A gate,” she said. “A way to expand their reach. If they succeed, no story will be safe. They’ll take everything—history, memory, identity—until there’s nothing left but them.”
Erin’s mother stared at the maps, her hands shaking. “And you think we can stop them?”
Nyla nodded. “But we’ll need someone who knows the ruins. Someone who’s been inside.”
***
The old man stood at the edge of the ruins, the scrap of journal paper clenched in his hand. The ruins hummed louder, their power pressing against his mind like a vice.He knew the ruins would sense his betrayal. But he also knew that if he didn’t act, their hunger would consume everything.
That night, he left the swamp for the first time in decades, the journey to Erin’s town filled with memories of the life he had lost. He arrived at her mother’s house just as dawn broke, his presence a shock to Nyla and Erin’s mother.
“You came,” Nyla said, her eyes wide with both relief and suspicion.
“I don’t know why,” the old man muttered, his voice weary. “But if there’s a chance to stop them, I’ll take it.”
Erin’s mother stepped forward, her eyes searching his face. “You knew my daughter?”
The old man hesitated before nodding. “She was brave. Braver than most. But the ruins…” His voice trailed off, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him.
Nyla studied him carefully. “You know their secrets. If we’re going to stop them, we’ll need your help.”
The old man sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Then we’d better hurry. The ruins don’t like to be challenged.”
***
The journey back to the swamp was fraught with tension. Nyla carried a satchel filled with tools and artifacts she believed could disrupt the ruins’ power. Erin’s mother clutched a photo of her daughter, her determination masking her fear.The old man led the way, his steps slow but deliberate.
As they neared the ruins, the air grew heavy, the hum vibrating through their bodies. Shadows twisted and danced in the corners of their vision, and the carvings on the stones seemed to shift as they approached.
“The ruins know we’re here,” the old man said, his voice grim. “They won’t let us leave easily.”
Nyla stepped forward, holding a small artifact—a shard of obsidian etched with ancient symbols. “Then we’ll give them something they don’t expect.”
***
Inside the central chamber, the ruins pulsed with light, their power almost overwhelming. The faces in the walls seemed alive, their expressions shifting between anguish and fury.Nyla placed the obsidian shard on the ground, its surface glowing faintly. “This will disrupt their energy,” she explained. “But only for a moment.”
Erin’s mother stepped forward, her voice shaking. “What happens if it doesn’t work?”
The old man stared at the carvings, his face lined with determination. “Then we give them what they want. And we pray it’s enough.”
The ruins’ hum grew louder, the carvings trembling as the shard activated. A wave of energy rippled through the chamber, and for a brief moment, the faces in the walls froze.
“Now!” Nyla shouted.
Erin’s mother held up the photo of her daughter, her voice cracking as she called out, “Erin! If you can hear me, come back!”
The light in the chamber flickered, and a figure began to emerge from the stone—a faint, translucent shape that slowly solidified.
“Mom?” Erin’s voice was weak, her form flickering like a dying flame.
Tears streamed down her mother’s face as she reached out, her hand trembling. “I’m here, sweetheart. We’re here.”
But the ruins roared with fury, their light surging as they fought to reclaim their prize.
The old man stepped forward, his voice rising above the chaos. “Take me!” he shouted. “Take my story, my memories—everything! Just let her go!”
The ruins hesitated, their hum losing strength.
And then, with a final surge of
***
Erin woke in her childhood bedroom, her memories fragmented but intact. The ruins were silent now, their hunger satisfied —for the moment.The old man’s sacrifice lingered in her mind, a reminder of the price of truth.
As she stared out the window, Erin knew the fight wasn’t over. The ruins were still there, still waiting.
But now, she had a story to tell—and this time, it would be a warning.
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