WHISPERS & ECHOES in Ink
A literary scrapbook of thoughts and fragments, where words drift before they take their final shape
“Beneath the crumbling archway, the garden still breathed with roses, their faded petals carrying the memory of a love that had once defied the dark. She lingered there, unsure if it was the fragrance of the flowers or the echo of his voice that held her captive.”
"The air shifted, thick with the weight of something unseen. From the corner of her eye, she caught the sway of the curtains though no wind stirred outside. A whisper—low, broken, and impossibly close—brushed her ear, though the room was empty. The faint smell of rose perfume filled the hall, and with it came the sound of footsteps, soft and deliberate, pacing just beyond the door."
"The forest breathed in whispers. Dew clung to the bark like pearls of glass, catching the faint morning light that sifted through the hanging veils of moss. Each strand swayed gently, brushing against unseen things that moved between the trees. A cool breeze coiled through the undergrowth, carrying with it the soft murmur of voices—faint, otherworldly, almost human. Somewhere in the distance, a lone bird called out, its song shattering the stillness for a heartbeat before fading back into the hush. The air smelled of earth and memory, as if the forest itself remembered every footstep that had ever trespassed upon its soil.
"As he turned the shadowed corner, the stench thickened—an acrid, suffocating presence that clawed at his senses. This was no ordinary haunting; it carried the unmistakable weight of something born of demonic descent. A chill ran through him as realization struck—the love of his life was in peril. Even her immortal beauty and the strength of a vampire’s blood would not withstand the malevolent power that stirred in the darkness ahead."
"The first freeze slipped in like something long dead returning home, leaving a thin white film over every living thing. The fields seemed to whisper beneath it, a soft brittle sound like bones remembering themselves. Even the air felt haunted, as if winter were not a season but a presence watching from just beyond the tree line."
"In the stillness of night, my mind turns upon itself like a serpent, devouring each fragile notion of peace it once possessed. What began as reflection has become a fever, and I am left trembling beneath the weight of my own imagination. Shadows of thought coil and writhe in every corner of my consciousness, whispering secrets I never knew I held, until I can no longer tell where I end and the darkness within begins."
"The frozen lake lay beneath a shroud of moonlit frost, hiding the truth like a body pressed beneath glass. In the hush of the night, her reflection wavered on the ice beside the faint shadow of the missing man, as if something beneath it whispered their names and begged to be let out. "