The Voice That Shouldn’t Be

The moon hung low in the sky, a sliver of silver light barely strong enough to cut through the thick forest canopy. The trees stood like sentinels, their trunks gnarled and knotted, as if whispering secrets only they could understand. The night air was damp, carrying the scent of moss and decay.

Eric tightened his grip on the hilt of his knife, his breath shallow. He had been walking for hours, his boots heavy with mud, his mind lost in a labyrinth of uncertainty. There was no telling how far he had come — or if he had gone in circles. He should have been back by now.

The villagers had warned him not to go beyond the river. No one ever comes back, they said. The forest doesn’t let them.

But Eric didn’t believe in superstitions. He was a hunter, a man of logic. The wilderness was vast and untamed, but it wasn’t haunted. And yet, something gnawed at his gut — a feeling he couldn’t name, an unease that had begun the moment he crossed the river at dusk.

A branch snapped behind him.

Eric spun, his knife raised. Nothing. Only the hush of the trees, the whisper of the wind threading through the leaves. He exhaled sharply.

"Just your nerves," he muttered under his breath.

He pressed on, forcing his feet forward. The forest thickened, the air growing colder. His torch flickered, casting eerie shadows that twisted and crawled like living things. The farther he walked, the more distorted the world became.

Then he saw it.

A figure, barely visible through the trees.

His pulse spiked. He squinted, but the figure didn’t move. It stood still, watching.

"Who's there?" Eric called, voice hoarse.

No response.

He took a step closer. The figure remained motionless.

Torchlight revealed a person — no, not a person. A statue.

Carved from dark stone, the figure was cloaked in a tattered robe, its face obscured by a hood. It stood at the edge of a small clearing, hands outstretched as if offering something unseen.

Eric frowned. This hadn’t been here before. He was certain of it.

The statue’s fingers were chipped, weathered by time. His gaze fell to the ground beneath it, where strange symbols had been carved into the dirt. He didn’t recognize them, but they made his skin crawl.

Then, the whispering started.

Soft at first, like wind slipping through reeds. Then louder, circling him, coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once. Eric turned sharply, but the forest was empty. The air thickened, pressing against him like unseen hands.

He stumbled back, his heel catching on a root. His torch fell from his grasp, rolling across the ground, its flame sputtering. Darkness swallowed the clearing.

Eric scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding. The whispering rose to a fever pitch, words just beyond understanding. A cold touch brushed against his arm. He gasped, spinning around, but there was nothing there.

The statue.

Its hood had shifted.

Eric swore it had been facing forward, but now — it was turned slightly, as if watching him.

His breath came in ragged gulps. He took a step back, then another. His instincts screamed at him to run, but his legs refused to obey. The whispering filled his skull, rising and falling in a rhythm that felt like breathing — until, all at once, it stopped.

A heavy stillness blanketed the forest.

Eric exhaled, his chest tight. His fingers curled around his knife. He had to get out of here.

He turned — and froze.

The trees had shifted.

The path he had taken moments ago was gone. In its place, thick vines coiled like grasping fingers, sealing off the way back. The clearing was smaller now, the darkness pressing in.

The statue loomed before him, unchanged, and yet — he could feel it watching.

Panic clawed at his throat. This wasn’t possible. The forest couldn’t move. The trees couldn’t shift.

A sound broke the silence. A voice.

Faint, distant — calling his name.

His breath hitched.

Someone else was here.

He turned in circles, trying to pinpoint the direction. The voice was coming from deeper in the forest, beyond the clearing. It was familiar.

His mother’s voice.

But that was impossible. She had died years ago.

Eric hesitated. Every instinct told him to run in the opposite direction —but where? There was no path, no way out.

The voice called again, softer this time. Closer.

His feet moved before his mind could catch up, drawn forward as if by invisible strings. He pushed through the tangled undergrowth, the thorns tearing at his skin. The whispering returned, weaving around him like unseen fingers tracing his spine.

The trees blurred, the world twisting.

Then—

Light.

A faint glow shimmered ahead, golden and warm, unlike the cold moonlight above. He stumbled toward it, desperate, his body aching with every step.

The glow flickered, forming the shape of a doorway. A way out.

Or a trap.

He hesitated, pulse hammering.

Behind him, the whispering grew frantic, voices overlapping in a desperate, pleading chorus. The air thickened, pressing down on him, pushing him forward.

He looked back.

The statue stood at the clearing’s edge. Closer than before.

Watching.

Waiting.

Eric swallowed hard.

He turned toward the doorway, its golden light pulsing like a heartbeat. The voices behind him grew louder, urging him to stay, to listen, to understand.

He had a choice.

Step through the light — or turn back.

The whispering reached a crescendo.

The statue moved.

Eric took a breath—

And stepped forward.

Then—

Nothing.

Only darkness.

Silence.

A deep, suffocating silence, like the world had stopped breathing.

Eric felt weightless, suspended in an abyss of darkness that stretched infinitely in every direction. He could see nothing, feel nothing — except for the echo of his own heartbeat, slow and steady in the void.

Had he fallen? Was he still alive?

The golden light was gone. The whispering had ceased. He was alone.

Or was he?

A chill crept up his spine. The space around him felt wrong, like something unseen was watching. He turned, though he had no sense of direction, no ground beneath him.

Then—

A flicker.

Far ahead — or was it behind him? — a shimmer of light appeared, faint and pulsing. A thread of gold in the endless dark.

He reached for it.

The moment his fingers brushed against the light, the world shifted.

The darkness cracked, shattering like glass, and suddenly he was falling — not through air, but through time. Memories unraveled around him, snippets of his past interwoven with things that had never happened.

His father’s face, stern and weathered, watching him from the doorstep.

The river, swollen with rain, its surface reflecting a sky that didn’t belong.

A girl he had never met, whispering his name in a language he didn’t understand.

The statue, waiting at the edge of the forest.

Then—

He hit the ground.

The impact knocked the breath from his lungs. He gasped, his hands scraping against rough dirt.

He was back in the forest.

Or was he?

Something was different.

The trees were taller, their trunks impossibly thick. The air smelled the same — damp earth and moss — but the sky above was darker, the stars unfamiliar.

He pushed himself up, wincing. His knife was gone. So was his torch.

The whispering returned.

It came from all around him, softer than before, as if the forest itself was breathing.

Then, footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate. Coming closer.

Eric tensed, turning toward the sound.

A figure emerged from the trees.

At first, he thought it was another statue, but as it stepped into the pale moonlight, he saw that it was moving.

A hooded figure, clad in the same tattered robes as the stone effigy. Its face was hidden in shadow, its hands clasped before it.

Eric took a step back. His pulse thundered in his ears.

"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice hoarse.

The figure tilted its head, as if considering him. Then, it spoke.

"You don’t belong here."

The voice was neither male nor female, neither old nor young. It echoed in the air, in his mind, in his bones.

Eric swallowed hard. "Where is here?"

The figure didn’t answer.

Instead, it reached out a hand.

In its palm rested something small and dark — a stone, smooth and polished. Symbols etched into its surface pulsed with faint, golden light.

Eric hesitated.

The whispering grew urgent, rising and falling in waves. The trees seemed to lean closer, listening.

He looked at the stone, then back at the figure.

"What happens if I take it?"

The figure was silent.

Eric clenched his fists. Every instinct screamed at him not to trust this. And yet—

He had come too far.

He reached forward, fingers hovering just above the stone.

The whispering stopped.

The world held its breath.

And then—

A voice, different this time.

"Eric."

He froze.

The voice was unmistakable.

His mother.

The figure withdrew its hand, stepping back into the shadows. The stone in its palm flickered, then dimmed.

"Eric," the voice called again.

He turned sharply, scanning the trees. The whispering had been replaced by something else — something more human.

Footsteps.

Running.

A woman emerged from the trees.

His breath caught.

It was her.

But it couldn’t be. His mother had been dead for years. And yet, she stood before him, her dark hair loose over her shoulders, her eyes wide with something between relief and terror.

"Eric, you have to come with me," she said.

He shook his head, his thoughts tangled. "This — this isn't real."

She reached for him. "You don’t understand. There’s no time. You have to choose."

Behind him, the hooded figure remained still, watching.

The air hummed with tension.

The whispering returned, softer this time. The wind shifted, carrying the scent of something old — earth and stone and time itself.

Eric looked between them.

The figure. The stone. The mother who couldn’t be real.

A choice.

The weight of it settled over him, pressing against his chest.

Stay and take the stone?

Or follow the ghost of his mother?

The trees loomed. The whispering urged him forward.

He took a breath.

And stepped—

Into uncertainty.