Sofia woke to the sound of the whispers again. They were louder now, more distinct, though still buried beneath the steady drum of rain on the tin roof. Her name echoed in the storm like a ghostly refrain.
“Sofia…”
She sat up, heart pounding, the room cast in the pale light of dawn seeping through the grimy windows. For a moment, she convinced herself it was a dream. But when she strained her ears, she heard it again—soft and beckoning, like a child calling from a distance.
Pushing aside her unease, Sofia dressed and headed into the village. She needed answers. The whispers couldn’t be normal, and she was certain the villagers knew more than they let on.
The square was busier in the daylight, though the heavy rain still kept most indoors. Sofia approached a small sundry shop, its faded sign barely readable, and stepped inside. The smell of dried fish and wet earth greeted her. Behind the counter sat Mak Timah, the shopkeeper, her sharp eyes watching Sofia’s every move.
“Mak Timah,” Sofia said, forcing a polite smile. “I wanted to ask you something about the rain.”
The older woman’s face darkened. “The rain has always been here,” she said curtly, turning her attention to stacking cans on the counter. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“It’s not just rain,” Sofia pressed. “I hear voices in it. Whispers. They’re calling my name.”
The can Mak Timah was holding clattered to the floor. She turned to Sofia with wide, fearful eyes. “You shouldn’t speak of such things. Not here.”
“Why not? What’s happening in this village? What happened to my mother?” Sofia demanded, her frustration spilling over.
Mak Timah glanced toward the door, as if expecting someone—or something—to walk in. She lowered her voice. “Your mother heard the whispers too. She followed them into the forest.”
“The forest?” Sofia’s stomach twisted. “What’s in the forest?”
Mak Timah hesitated, then leaned in closer. “The jungle doesn’t belong to us. It’s older than the village, older than the mountain. When the rain calls, it’s not the wind. It’s them. Spirits. They take those who answer.”
Sofia stared at her, trying to make sense of the words. Spirits? It sounded like a superstition, a story to scare children. But something about the fear in Mak Timah’s voice made it hard to dismiss.
“Where exactly did my mother go?” Sofia asked.
Mak Timah shook her head. “The edge of the forest, near the waterfall. But don’t go looking for her. Some things are best left buried.”
That afternoon, Sofia found herself standing at the edge of the jungle. The rain was lighter now, more of a mist than a downpour, but the dense canopy of trees still made it feel like twilight. The whispers had grown louder as she approached, weaving through the rustling leaves like an unseen current.
She took a step forward, the muddy ground sucking at her boots. The air felt heavier here, charged with something she couldn’t quite name.
The path twisted and turned, leading her deeper into the forest. The whispers seemed to guide her, always just ahead, luring her closer. The trees grew taller and denser, their gnarled roots snaking across the ground like grasping hands. The rain dripped from the leaves in rhythmic patterns, almost like a heartbeat.
Sofia stopped when she saw the tree. It stood in the middle of the path, its trunk massive and ancient, its bark covered in strange carvings. Words she couldn’t read, symbols she didn’t recognize. But one thing was clear—this tree marked a boundary. A warning.
Carved into the trunk, in jagged letters, were the words: “Do not enter when the rain calls your name.”
Her breath hitched. The message was old, the carvings weathered, but it felt like it was meant for her. She glanced over her shoulder, the dense jungle swallowing the path she had come from. For a brief moment, she considered turning back.
Then she heard it—a voice, clear and distinct, cutting through the rain.
“Sofia…”
Her heart froze. It wasn’t just any voice. It was her mother’s.
“Mom?” she called out, her voice trembling. She stepped closer to the tree, her eyes scanning the forest beyond. The voice called again, softer this time, almost pleading.
“Sofia, help me.”
She didn’t think. She stepped past the tree, into the unknown.
As she walked deeper, the jungle seemed to shift around her. The trees grew more twisted, their roots rising like skeletal hands from the earth. The air grew colder, and the whispers became a cacophony, voices overlapping and echoing in her ears.
She stopped when she reached a clearing. In the center stood a stone structure, half-buried in the mud and overgrowth. It was an altar, ancient and crumbling, its surface etched with the same strange symbols she had seen on the tree. Pools of water collected around it, reflecting the darkened sky above.
The whispers ceased. The sudden silence was deafening.
Sofia approached the altar, her steps slow and deliberate. Something about it felt familiar, as though she had been here before. And then she saw it—a fragment of cloth caught on a root, faded but unmistakable. It was the same pattern her mother had worn the day she disappeared.
Her knees buckled, and she fell to the ground, clutching the cloth. Tears blurred her vision as she whispered, “Mom… what happened to you?”
The answer came, not in words, but in the sound of footsteps behind her.
She turned, her heart hammering in her chest. Standing at the edge of the clearing was a figure. Tall, thin, and shrouded in shadow. Its face was obscured, but its hollow eyes gleamed in the dim light.
It raised an arm, bony fingers pointing at her, and the whispers returned, louder than ever.
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