A fabled tale

The early morning sun filtered through the half-drawn curtains, casting a golden glow across the small, rustic kitchen. I could hear the steady tick of the old clock on the wall, each second marking the peaceful rhythm of our quiet life. The familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee hung in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the wooden beams that held our cabin together. I stood by the window, sipping from a chipped mug, the warmth seeping into my hands, a comfort against the slight chill of the morning.

Outside, the fields stretched out like an endless sea of green, the rows of crops swaying gently in the breeze. The dew-kissed leaves shimmered in the sunlight, promising another bountiful harvest. This was my life—simple, predictable, and safe. But as I watched the landscape bathed in the soft morning light, a part of me couldn't shake the feeling that it was all too perfect, like the calm before a storm.

Susan's laughter broke through my thoughts, drawing my attention to the small figure darting between the rows of corn. She was feeding the chickens, her bright auburn hair catching the light, a splash of color against the muted tones of the earth. Even from a distance, I could see the determination in her movements, the way she handled the feed with the precision of someone who had done this a thousand times. At sixteen, she was already more capable than I had ever hoped for, a testament to the strength she inherited from her mother.

"Morning, Dad!" she called out, her voice clear and bright, filled with the unshakable optimism that only youth could afford.

"Morning, Susie!" I replied, leaning out the door to catch her eye. She pretended not to hear the nickname, but I saw the corners of her mouth twitch in a smile. That smile, small and fleeting, was a piece of her mother that I clung to, a reminder that despite everything, life still held moments of pure, unfiltered joy.

I walked out to join her, the gravel crunching beneath my worn boots, each step steady and deliberate. The air was crisp, carrying with it the familiar scent of soil and growing things. The sky above was a pale blue, unmarred by a single cloud, stretching out infinitely as if to say that the world was still ours, still within our grasp.

"How are the girls this morning?" I asked, nodding toward the flock of chickens that pecked eagerly at the ground.

"They're as feisty as ever," Susan said, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes, the same piercing blue as her mother's, met mine with a mixture of pride and determination. "We'll have a good haul of eggs today, maybe even enough to trade for something special at the market."

"Maybe so," I replied, though my thoughts drifted to the market and the competition we faced there. Times were tough, and selling crops wasn't as easy as it used to be. But I kept those worries to myself, not wanting to dampen her spirits.

We worked through the morning, side by side, the silence between us a comfortable one. The rhythmic movements of tending to the farm were second nature by now—planting, watering, weeding. Each task was a thread in the fabric of our lives, and together, we wove a pattern of stability and routine.

By midday, the sun hung high in the sky, its heat pressing down on us as we sat on the porch, sharing a simple lunch. The shade offered some relief, and as I bit into my sandwich, I couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment. This was our life—steady, unremarkable, but ours.

"Think we should try the market again this weekend?" Susan asked, her voice pulling me from my thoughts.

"Could be worth a shot," I said, though the uncertainty lingered in the back of my mind. The market had been slow lately, and our earnings barely covered what we needed. But for Susan's sake, I kept my doubts buried. "Maybe we'll get lucky this time."

Her eyes brightened at that, and she nodded with determination. "We always find a way, Dad. We'll make it work."

Her unwavering belief in our ability to overcome whatever life threw at us was something I envied. She had her mother's resolve, and that was something I was grateful for every day.

As the afternoon wore on, the familiar rhythm of our work continued, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. The air had grown thick, almost stifling, and the sky, once so clear, had taken on a peculiar shade of gray. The breeze that had been our companion all day now felt different—colder, more insistent.

"Looks like a storm's brewing," I said, glancing up at the darkening sky.

Susan followed my gaze, her brow furrowed. "We should start packing up," she suggested, the tension in her voice mirroring my own unease.

We hurried to secure the tools and bring the animals into the barn. The first drops of rain began to fall as we finished, heavy and cold against our skin. We dashed back to the cabin, laughing as the rain came down in earnest, a sudden downpour that drenched us to the bone.

Once inside, we shook off the wet and settled into the warmth of the cabin. The fire crackled in the hearth, its light flickering across the room, casting long shadows that danced on the walls. The sound of the rain drumming on the roof was a steady rhythm, a lullaby that should have been soothing.

But something about it felt different—off-kilter, like a song played out of tune.

"How about a story before bed?" I asked Susan, trying to shake the unease that had settled over me.

She smiled, a bright contrast to the gathering gloom outside. "One of your war stories, or something you'll make up on the spot?"

I chuckled, the sound more hollow than I intended. "I don't make up stories, Susie. I just… embellish them a bit."

She laughed, a sound that filled the room with warmth and made the shadows retreat, if only for a moment. "Alright, Dad. Let's hear it."

I spun a tale, one that was a mix of truth and fiction, about a farmer who outwitted a clever fox to save his crops. Susan listened with rapt attention, her eyes wide as I mimicked the voices of the characters, adding just the right amount of drama to keep her engaged. It was a ritual, a bond between us that had grown stronger over the years, and it never failed to bring a sense of normalcy to our lives.

But as the story came to an end, I noticed something strange. The rain had stopped, and in its place was a silence so profound it seemed to swallow the world whole. The fire crackled in the hearth, but the sound was muted, distant, as if coming from a place far away.

"Did you hear that?" Susan asked suddenly, sitting up straight, her eyes wide with a fear I hadn't seen in them before.

I frowned, straining to listen. But there was nothing—no wind, no rustling of leaves, not even the chirp of the crickets that usually serenaded us at night. Just an eerie, oppressive silence that pressed in from all sides.

"I didn't hear anything," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, though the unease gnawed at my insides. "Maybe it's just the storm passing."

But the storm had not passed. The sky outside the window was unnaturally dark, as if night had fallen early, and the air inside the cabin felt thick and heavy, like it was closing in around us.

Susan's eyes darted to the window, and I could see the fear growing in them. She was usually so calm, so sure of herself, but now she looked like a child again, frightened and uncertain.

"Let's call it a night," I suggested, standing up and offering her a hand. "We'll feel better in the morning."

She nodded, but I could see the reluctance in her movements as she followed me to her room. I lingered in the doorway, watching her climb into bed, tucking the blankets around herself like a shield against the dark.

"Goodnight, Dad," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Goodnight, Susie," I replied, forcing a smile. "Sleep tight."

But sleep didn't come easily. I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the silence pressing down on me like a weight. The shadows in the room seemed darker than usual, deeper, as if they were hiding something just out of sight. I tried to shake the feeling, telling myself it was just the storm, just my imagination running wild.

But then I heard it—a sound so faint it was almost imperceptible, like a whisper carried on the wind. I sat up, my heart pounding in my chest, straining to hear it again.

There it was, soft and distant, a low murmur that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. I couldn't make out the words, couldn't even tell if it was a voice or just the wind playing tricks on me. But the sound sent a chill down my spine, a primal fear that I couldn't explain.

I got out of bed, my feet hitting the cold floor with a thud that seemed too loud in the oppressive silence. The cabin felt different. now, the warmth and coziness replaced by a sense of unease that I couldn't shake.

I moved through the hallway, the wooden floorboards creaking under my weight. The sound of the murmur grew louder, more insistent, like a voice trying to make itself heard through a thick fog. My breath came in short, shallow gasps as I approached Susan's room, the door hanging slightly ajar.

"Susan?" I called out, my voice trembling.

There was no response, only the continued whispering, a sound that seemed to seep into my very bones. Panic surged through me as I pushed the door open, only to find her bed empty, the covers thrown back as if she had left in a hurry.

"Susan!" I called out again, louder this time, my voice breaking the thick silence.

Nothing. The cabin was empty, devoid of life, as if Susan had never been there at all. My heart raced as I turned back to the hallway, the walls closing in around me, the shadows lengthening, deepening.

The front door was open. I didn't remember opening it, but there it was, the cold night air seeping in, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and something else, something I couldn't quite place. Something metallic, like blood.

I stepped outside, the ground beneath my feet feeling unsteady, shifting with each step. The world was cloaked in mist, thick and heavy, swallowing everything in its path. The trees that bordered our land loomed like dark sentinels, their branches twisting and contorting like the limbs of some ancient, malevolent creature.

And there, at the edge of the clearing, stood Susan.

She was facing away from me, her silhouette barely visible in the thick fog. Her hair hung limp and wet down her back, and her hands were clenched at her sides, her posture rigid and unnatural.

"Susan?" I called out, my voice trembling with fear.

She didn't respond, didn't even acknowledge my presence. She just stood there, staring into the darkness of the forest beyond, her body as still as a statue.

I took a step towards her, then another, my heart hammering in my chest. The closer I got, the more I could see the tension in her body, the way she seemed to be fighting against some unseen force.

"Susan, what are you doing out here?" I asked, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

The moment my hand made contact, she turned to face me. Her eyes were wide, filled with a terror that mirrored my own. But there was something else in them too, something that sent a shiver down my spine.

"Dad," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I heard it. The voice. It woke me up, and I… I followed it."

"Why, Susie? Why did you come out here?" I asked, my throat tight with fear.

"I don't know," she said, her voice barely audible. "I just… I felt like I had to. Like it was calling me."

Her words sent a cold, creeping dread through me. The voice—whatever it was—had lured her out here, into the darkness, away from the safety of our home. I had to get her back inside, away from whatever had drawn her out.

"Come on, Susie," I said, trying to keep my voice calm. "Let's go back to the cabin. We'll figure this out in the morning."

She nodded, but as I turned to lead her back, the whispering returned—louder, more insistent than before. It surrounded us, pressing in from all sides, filling my head with strange, unintelligible words that seemed to twist and warp in the air.

The mist thickened, swirling around us like a living thing, and I could feel it—something moving within the fog. A presence, cold and malevolent, watching us with an intensity that made my skin crawl.

And then, just as suddenly as it had started, the whispering stopped.

The silence that followed was deafening, more terrifying than the voice itself. It was as if the world had been plunged into a void, where nothing existed but the two of us and the endless mist that clung to the earth like a shroud.

But the silence wasn't empty. I could feel it, lurking just beyond the edge of the trees—something watching us, waiting.

I turned to Susan, only to find her staring past me, her eyes wide with fear. I followed her gaze and felt my blood run cold.

There, in the darkness of the forest, something moved.

It was a shadow at first, indistinct and formless, shifting and changing like smoke caught in the wind. But as it drew closer, I could see it more clearly—a shape that defied logic, twisting and contorting in ways that no living thing should. It was as if the darkness itself had taken on a form, a thing that was both there and not there, something that existed outside the natural order of the world.

My breath caught in my throat, and I wanted to run, to grab Susan and flee back to the safety of the cabin. But my legs refused to move. I was rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the sheer, overwhelming terror that gripped me.

The entity—or whatever it was—began to move closer. I could hear it now, the rustle of leaves, the snap of twigs underfoot, but its form remained elusive, a shadow that danced at the edge of my vision, always just out of reach.

"Susan," I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath. "Run."

But she didn't move. She was as frozen as I was, her eyes locked on the shifting shadow that crept closer and closer.

And then, just when it seemed like the entity would emerge from the trees and into the clearing, it stopped. The air grew thick with tension, the kind that precedes a storm.

For a moment, everything was still. The world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for something to happen.

And then, with a suddenness that left me gasping, the entity vanished.

The forest was empty once more, the only sign of its presence the lingering sense of dread that hung in the air.

I didn't wait to see if it would return. I grabbed Susan by the arm, pulling her with me as I stumbled back towards the cabin. My mind was a whirlwind of fear and confusion, but one thought stood out among the chaos—whatever that thing was, it was far from human.

We reached the cabin, and I slammed the door shut behind us, bolting it for good measure. Susan was shaking, her face pale and her eyes wide with shock.

"Dad… what was that?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"I don't know," I admitted, my own voice trembling. "But whatever it was… it wasn't anything I've ever seen before."

We stood there in the darkness, the weight of what had just happened pressing down on us. I didn't know what that entity was or why it had been lurking in the forest, but one thing was certain—it was something far beyond my understanding.

As I held Susan close, trying to calm the both of us, one word echoed through my mind, over and over again.

Entity.

Whatever that thing was, it wasn't human. It wasn't animal. It was something else entirely—something ancient, something unknown.

And it was out there, waiting.