In the hushed hours of the Whispering Pines Boarding House, the air hung thick with the aroma of Mrs. Fletcher’s apple pie, still lingering from dinner. Laughter had dimmed to contented sighs as guests ambled upstairs, the clink of dishware fading with each step. The house settled into its nightly rhythm, the creak of wood and rustle of pine needles outside composing a familiar lullaby.
In the dimming parlor of the Whispering Pines, gas lamps cast long shadows over the intricate patterns of the oriental rug, and the flames in the fireplace danced a slow waltz. The boarding house exhaled a sigh of serenity, its Victorian bones groaning ever so softly with contentment.
Upstairs, doors stood ajar, revealing slivers of lives being lived. In one room, an elderly couple whispered endearments as they prepared for bed, their voices a gentle murmur against the silence. The man’s weathered hand reached for his wife’s as he helped her with the clasp of her necklace, their routine an unspoken pact of years spent side by side.
Across the hall, a young writer hunched over his desk, quill scratching against paper in a steady rhythm. The glow from his oil lamp illuminated his furrowed brow, words flowing like a stream as he transcribed the day’s inspirations. His mind was elsewhere, lost in the throes of creation, but his presence added to the house’s tapestry of quiet activity.
Downstairs in the parlor, Mrs. Fletcher sat in her favorite rocking chair by the fire, darning socks and humming a tune from her youth. Her eyes were sharp behind wire-rimmed spectacles, catching each imperfection in the fabric with practiced ease.
“You’ve outdone yourself with dinner tonight,” Mr. Hawthorne complimented from across the room where he sipped his nightcap, an amber liquid swirling in his glass.
Mrs. Fletcher smiled warmly at him. “Why thank you, Mr. Hawthorne. The apples were particularly sweet this harvest.”
He nodded appreciatively. “A fitting end to an otherwise dreary day.” He gazed into the fire before adding more quietly, “The world outside seems to grow darker by the hour.”
“Indeed,” she agreed with a soft cluck of her tongue.
In another corner of the parlor, two travelers from back East played a game of chess, their moves deliberate and thoughtful. The ticking of the grandfather clock punctuated their concentration while outside, crickets serenaded the moon.
“It’s your move,” prompted Gregory, his finger hovering over his bishop.
Elaine studied the board with a furrowed brow before responding with a light-hearted quip that belied her strategic mind. “Patience is a virtue you clearly have yet to acquire.”
Upstairs again, Mrs. Fletcher’s newest guest tucked her daughter into bed, smoothing back hair from her forehead and planting a soft kiss there.
“Will we stay here long?” asked the child sleepily.
“As long as it takes for us to find our feet,” her mother whispered back reassuringly.
Initially, it was a murmur, akin to the lingering tone of a bell, followed by a chime that fractured the quietude, a bell toll that was clear and sonorous, cutting the tranquil atmosphere as if it were a knife. The sound was deafening yet the source was not discernible, for it did not come from any clock within Boarding House or any steeple in the vicinity of Demomire; rather, it seemed to emanate from everything from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously, an ethereal sound that hung in the atmosphere, carrying with it an air of mystery and an undercurrent of foreboding.
In its wake, stillness seized every soul within the walls. Eyes glazed over in unison; faces, once wearied by travel or etched with the day’s concerns, now slackened into vacant masks. Mrs. Fletcher stood in the middle of the parlor, her hand frozen on the back of a rocking chair.
The silence birthed a drumbeat—slow at first, then insistent, primal. Its cadence marched through the house, a rhythmic heartbeat, the sound was soon accompanied by distant screams and chants, as if a spectral congregation bore witness to what unfolded.
Unbidden, hands reached into pockets and bags. A gentleman in the corner retrieved a pocket watch, his movements methodical, deliberate. He placed it before him on a table with reverent precision. A young mother paused halfway up the stairs, her daughter beside her; both removed hairpins and trinkets, arranging them meticulously on a step.
The ritual continued in eerie silence save for the otherworldly cacophony that urged them on—the haunting melody of possessions being laid out like offerings to an unseen deity.
Garments followed; jackets were unbuttoned, skirts untied with mechanical grace. Fabric slipped from shoulders and waists to be folded into crisp squares and rectangles—each fold an act of devotion. They piled their clothes neatly as if preparing for a journey not marked on any map.
Mrs. Fletcher herself stood before the hearth, her fingers working deftly to unfasten her brooch—the one she seldom removed. It clinked softly as it joined the growing collection of personal effects on the mantelpiece.
In each room and corridor of Whispering Pines, residents surrendered their worldly encumbrances under the thrall of an unseen piper’s call—every action synchronized to the otherworldly drumbeat now entwined with cries and chants that no earthly choir could replicate.
As if guided by some ethereal choreographer, they completed their task. Possessions lay displayed before them—a tableau vivant steeped in otherworldliness—while their bodies stood exposed and vulnerable under gas lamp glow.
Naked and silent as moonlit specters, the residents of Whispering Pines filed out the front door. Their bare feet padded across the polished wooden veranda, a spectral procession weaving through the night. They descended the steps, a slow cascade of human forms bathed in the silver light that spilled from the windows and pooled upon the grass.
Under the pallid gaze of the moon, the residents of Whispering Pines ambled forth with an eerie synchronicity, their movements devoid of hesitation or fear. They shuffled across the lawn, bare feet treading the cool earth as if drawn by an invisible tether into the dense embrace of the surrounding woods.
Their eyes, wide and unseeing, stared straight ahead. No branches snagged at their skin, no stones beneath their feet drew blood. As each soul from The Whispering Pines Boarding House ventured forth, they dissolved into the forest’s thick cloak, vanishing as if swallowed by the earth itself. One by one, they faded from the realm of the known, their absence a silent enigma that would linger in the whispers of Demomire, their fates forever entwined with the shadowy tendrils of the woods.
Author
