It was a crisp autumn morning when I decided to hike the Blackwood Trail. The trail was notorious for its beauty, winding through dense forests, past crystal-clear streams, and up to a breathtaking overlook that offered a view of the entire valley. But it was also known for something else—something darker. Locals whispered about hikers who had gone missing over the years, vanishing without a trace. Some said it was just bad luck, but others spoke of something more sinister lurking in the woods. I didn’t believe in superstitions, though. I was a seasoned hiker, and nothing was going to stop me from conquering Blackwood.

I packed my gear the night before: a sturdy backpack, a first aid kit, plenty of water, and enough food to last me the day. I even brought a map, though I was confident I wouldn’t need it. The trail was well-marked, and I had studied it thoroughly. As I drove to the trailhead, the sun was just beginning to rise, casting a golden glow over the trees. It was going to be a perfect day.

The trailhead was empty when I arrived, which wasn’t surprising. Blackwood wasn’t as popular as some of the other trails in the area, and most people avoided it because of the stories. I parked my car, slung my backpack over my shoulders, and set off into the woods.

The first mile was easy. The trail was wide and well-maintained, and the forest was alive with the sounds of birds and rustling leaves. I felt a sense of peace as I walked, the kind of peace that only nature can provide. But as I ventured deeper into the woods, the atmosphere began to change. The trees grew thicker, their branches intertwining overhead to block out the sun. The air grew colder, and the sounds of the forest faded away, leaving an eerie silence in their place.

I tried to shake off the feeling of unease that was creeping over me. It was just my imagination, I told myself. The woods were always quieter in the early morning. But as I continued down the trail, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched.

Around the two-mile mark, I came across a small wooden signpost. The sign was old and weathered, the paint peeling away to reveal the wood beneath. It pointed to a narrow, overgrown path that branched off from the main trail. The words “Whispering Falls” were carved into the wood, barely legible. I frowned. I hadn’t heard of Whispering Falls before, and it wasn’t on my map. But something about the sign drew me in, and before I knew it, I was stepping off the main trail and onto the overgrown path.

The path was rough and uneven, the ground littered with fallen branches and rocks. The trees here were even denser, their twisted branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, and the silence was oppressive. I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness.

After what felt like an eternity, I emerged into a small clearing. In the center of the clearing was a waterfall, its waters cascading down into a dark, still pool. The falls were beautiful, but there was something off about them. The water seemed to move in slow motion, and the sound it made was wrong—a low, guttural murmur that sent a chill down my spine. It sounded almost like… whispering.

I took a step closer to the pool, my curiosity getting the better of me. The water was so dark that I couldn’t see the bottom, and the surface was unnaturally still, as if it were made of glass. I knelt down and reached out to touch the water, but as my fingers brushed the surface, a sudden, sharp pain shot through my hand. I yanked it back and stared at the water in horror. The surface was no longer still—it was rippling, the ripples spreading out from the spot where I had touched it. And then, from the depths of the pool, something began to rise.

At first, I thought it was just a trick of the light, a shadow cast by the trees. But as it emerged from the water, I realized it was something far worse. It was a figure, tall and gaunt, its skin pale and slick with water. Its eyes were hollow, its mouth twisted into a grotesque smile. And then it spoke, its voice a low, guttural whisper that echoed through the clearing.

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

I stumbled backward, my heart pounding in my chest. The figure stepped out of the pool, its movements slow and deliberate. I turned and ran, crashing through the underbrush as the whispers grew louder, more insistent. I could hear the figure behind me, its footsteps heavy and deliberate, but I didn’t dare look back.

I ran until my lungs burned and my legs gave out, collapsing onto the forest floor. I lay there for what felt like hours, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my body trembling with fear. When I finally gathered the strength to stand, I realized I was lost. The trail was nowhere to be found, and the trees all looked the same. I pulled out my map, but it was no use. I was in a part of the forest that wasn’t marked, a part that shouldn’t exist.

As I wandered through the woods, the whispers followed me. They were everywhere, in the rustling of the leaves, the creaking of the branches, the wind that seemed to blow from all directions at once. I tried to block them out, but they grew louder, more insistent, until they were all I could hear.

And then I saw it—a cabin, nestled in a small clearing. It was old and decrepit, the wood rotting and the roof sagging. But it was shelter, and I was desperate. I ran to the cabin and threw open the door, slamming it shut behind me. The inside was dark and musty, the air thick with the scent of mildew. I fumbled for my flashlight and turned it on, the beam of light cutting through the darkness.

The cabin was empty, save for a single chair in the center of the room. The chair was old and worn, the wood splintered and the fabric torn. But what caught my attention was what was sitting on the chair—a journal, its pages yellowed with age. I picked it up and opened it, my hands trembling as I flipped through the pages.

The journal belonged to a hiker who had come to Blackwood years ago. He had written about the trail, about the whispers, about the figure in the pool. He had tried to escape, just like I had, but the whispers had driven him mad. The last entry was barely legible, the handwriting shaky and erratic.

“It’s here. It’s in the cabin with me. I can hear it whispering. It’s telling me to stay. It’s telling me I’ll never leave.”

I dropped the journal and backed away, my heart pounding in my chest. And then I heard it—the whispers, coming from the corner of the room. I turned my flashlight toward the sound, and there it was, the figure from the pool, its hollow eyes staring at me, its grotesque smile twisting into a grin.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” it whispered.

I screamed and ran for the door, but it was too late. The figure was on me, its cold, wet hands gripping my shoulders, its whispers filling my ears. I fought with everything I had, but it was no use. The last thing I remember is the sound of its laughter, low and guttural, as the darkness closed in around me.

When I woke up, I was back on the main trail, the sun shining brightly overhead. My backpack was gone, and my clothes were torn and muddy. I had no memory of how I got there, no memory of what had happened after the figure grabbed me. But I knew one thing for certain—I would never hike Blackwood Trail again.

And yet, even now, I can still hear the whispers. They’re faint, almost imperceptible, but they’re there, in the back of my mind, urging me to return. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see the figure, its hollow eyes staring at me, its grotesque smile twisting into a grin. And I know, deep down, that it’s only a matter of time before I give in to the whispers and go back.

Because the trail is calling me.

And I can’t resist its call.