A Ghostly Encounter
They always said the Chase held secrets. Over the years rumors of ghost sightings, lost children, lights that danced just out of reach.
But Private Callum Hargreaves had grown up nearby. He’d run through these woods with scraped knees and muddy boots, long before he wore the army’s green.
He used to love the quiet, the peacefulness that the woods brought.
Tonight, it felt wrong.
The mist had rolled in fast, blanketing the forest floor. Dusk bled into night like ink in water. Callum’s breath fogged in front of him not from cold, but from the weight in the air.
His squad had finished training hours ago, but he hadn’t gone back. He couldn’t. Not yet. His thoughts were loud again memories knocking like fists on the inside of his skull.
“Just walk it off,” he muttered, his voice low. “Like always.” he told himself.
He followed an old deer track or maybe just instinct into the dense pines. The kind that made their own darkness even before sunset. The ground was soft, smelling of wet leaves and something older.
He paused.
There at the base of a gnarled tree was a stone. Half buried, bone coloured. Not shaped by nature. Carved. Faint, but deliberate.
Callum crouched. A breeze touched his neck, oddly warm.
“Someone put this here.”
He brushed aside the moss. A symbol. A swirl or a horn. Beside it a feather. White. Slightly scorched at the edge. When he reached out to touch it.
The air twisted.
Like the world held its breath.
He blinked. Once.
The trees around him… changed.
Taller. Closer. Ancient.
No wrappers underfoot. No footprints. No signal bars. The forest felt closer, like it was listening.
Then came the whisper.
Not from behind him.
Not from the side.
From below.
“He’s returned…”
The voice wasn’t human but it wasn’t wind either. It filled his ears like rising water. Callum staggered back, instinct flaring.
The stone was gone.
The trail behind him, vanished.
Even the smell was different no exhaust, no cordite, just wood smoke and something sharp: iron? sweat? blood?
“No. No, no what is this?”
He turned toward where the training grounds should’ve been.
Nothing.
Just trees.
And silence.
And the whispering louder now. Familiar. Calling him by name without speaking it.
And then… a howl.
Low. Echoing.
Not quite wolf. Not quite human.
Callum’s breath caught. He gripped the feather tight in his palm.
To be continued…
© written and created by ELHewitt
Further Reading
The Penda Stormfire Archives 
Leave a comment