Whispers of the Forgotten Pines

The laughter twisted through the library, curling around Ethan like a noose. It wasn't loud. It wasn't even particularly menacing.

But it was wrong.

Clara yanked him up by the arm. "We need to move—NOW!"

Ethan's ribs ached from the fall, but he forced himself to his feet. The library was shaking, books tumbling from the shelves as if unseen hands were ripping them free. The air felt thick, charged—like a storm was brewing right inside the walls.

The lights flickered wildly, casting frantic shadows that seemed to reach for them.

Then, all at once—everything stopped.

The shaking. The falling books. The whispering.

Silence.

Ethan's breath came in ragged gasps. He turned, expecting to see Eleanor again. But she was gone.

Clara pressed a hand against her chest, trying to steady her breathing. "What the hell was that?"

Ethan swallowed hard. "I think… I think she's trying to tell us something."

Clara shook her head. "No. That wasn't her. That was something else."

Ethan was about to ask what she meant when he noticed something.

A door.

A door that shouldn't be there.

It stood at the far end of the library, nestled between two massive bookshelves. The wood was old, almost too old, like it had been there for centuries—hidden, waiting.

Except… Ethan had been in this library before. This door wasn't here. It had never been here.

Clara followed his gaze. "That… that wasn't there before."

Ethan stepped toward it. Every instinct screamed DON'T, but something deeper—something stronger—pulled him forward.

He reached out, pressing his palm against the rough wood.

The second he touched it, the whispers returned.

Louder. Closer. Right in his ear.

He sucked in a breath. The door wasn't just old. It was cold. Ice-cold, like it had been buried underground for years.

Then—

BANG.

The door shuddered.

Ethan jerked back. Clara grabbed his arm. "Ethan—"

BANG.

Something was on the other side.

Something that wanted out.

Ethan's pulse hammered against his skull. "What the hell do we do?"

Clara's eyes darted around. "We leave. We pretend we never saw it."

Ethan exhaled. "You really think it's gonna let us pretend?"

She didn't answer.

Because they both knew the truth.

Something had lured them here. Something wanted them to open this door.

And something was waiting on the other side.

BANG.

This time, the door cracked open—just an inch.

A gust of cold, damp air rushed out, carrying the scent of wet earth and something… metallic.

Ethan's stomach twisted. It smelled like blood.

Clara stumbled back. "Nope. Absolutely not."

But Ethan was frozen. His eyes locked onto the sliver of darkness beyond the door.

And then, through the tiny gap, something moved.

A hand.

Pale. Thin. Fingers curling around the edge of the door.

Clara screamed.

Ethan didn't think. He grabbed Clara's wrist and ran.

They sprinted through the library, dodging fallen books, skidding around the front desk. The air behind them grew colder, heavier, as if the thing behind the door was reaching for them.

The exit was just ahead. Ethan lunged forward, slamming his shoulder into the door.

It burst open.

They stumbled out onto the street, gasping for air. The night was eerily still. No wind. No sound. Just the dim glow of streetlights flickering above them.

Ethan turned back, half-expecting to see the thing chasing them.

But the library…

It was normal. Still. The door they had run from?

Gone.

Like it had never been there.

Ethan's skin prickled. He looked at Clara, her face pale, her hands shaking.

She met his gaze, and for the first time, there was no sarcasm. No witty remark.

Just fear.

"What the hell," she whispered, "did we just wake up?"

Ethan didn't have an answer.

But he knew one thing for certain.

They had only scratched the surface.