Winged Whispers

The wind howled around Eleanor’s small cottage, its icy fingers rattling the windows and making the wooden beams creak. She sat huddled by the fireplace, staring at the flames as they danced and crackled, casting flickering shadows against the stone walls. Outside, the storm was reaching its peak. Heavy, dark clouds had rolled in just after dusk, bringing with them a bitter chill and the promise of an unforgiving night.

Eleanor pulled her woolen blanket tighter around her shoulders. The isolation of living on the edge of the village, at the foot of the cliffs, had never bothered her before. In fact, she had sought it out—an escape from the noise of town, from the suffocating expectations of those who knew too much about her past. But tonight, the loneliness felt oppressive, the storm amplifying her unease.

She wasn’t sure when it had started, but lately, there had been whispers—soft, fluttering sounds, like distant voices carried on the wind. At first, she had thought it was just her imagination, the product of long nights spent in solitude. But over time, the whispers grew more frequent, and stranger still, they seemed to follow her, whether she was outside tending to her garden, walking along the cliffs, or here, in the supposed safety of her home.

And they always came when the wind picked up.

Eleanor closed her eyes, listening to the storm outside. For a while, there was nothing but the steady roar of the wind and the occasional crash of waves against the rocks below. Then, just as she was starting to relax, she heard it again—a soft, delicate sound, like the beating of wings. It was faint at first, barely noticeable above the storm, but it grew louder, more insistent.

Whispers echoed around her.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she sat up straighter, eyes darting to the window. Nothing but the blackness of the storm, the wind-driven rain streaming down the glass. She told herself it was just the storm playing tricks on her ears, just the creaking of old wood or the rustle of leaves caught in the wind.

But deep down, she knew it was something else.

The whispers were real.

She had tried to ignore them for weeks, brushing them off as nothing more than a curious quirk of living near the cliffs, where the winds could carry strange sounds. But they had grown more distinct, and sometimes, if she strained to listen, she could almost make out words, though in a language she didn’t recognize.

Tonight, though, they felt closer than ever before. Too close.

Eleanor stood and walked slowly to the window, her bare feet padding softly across the cold wooden floor. She peered outside, wiping a hand across the fogged-up glass, but the storm made it impossible to see more than a few feet beyond the edge of her porch. The wind howled, but beneath it, she could hear the whispers again—soft, lilting, like the murmurs of a dozen voices just beyond the reach of understanding.

And then, a shadow passed by the window.

Eleanor gasped and stumbled back, heart racing. She wasn’t alone.

The shadow had been quick, a brief blur in the storm, but it was unmistakable—something large had moved just outside her cottage. She stood frozen, her back pressed against the wall, listening intently. The whispers came again, clearer this time, like wings brushing against her ears, followed by a faint thud on the roof above her.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Something was on the roof.

The sound of wings—soft but heavy, like those of a bird far larger than anything that should exist in these parts—flapped above her. The whispers were louder now, swirling around her head, filling the room. They came from every corner, from the cracks in the walls, from the darkness itself.

Eleanor clutched at her blanket, holding it to her chest like a shield. She wanted to scream, to run, but where could she go? The storm had made escape impossible, and whatever was outside—or above—wasn’t something she could outrun.

The thudding sound moved from the roof to the porch, followed by the unmistakable creak of wood under a heavy weight. Eleanor's hands shook, her heart pounding in her chest as she realized whatever it was… was coming closer.

And then, through the storm, she heard it—a knock on the door.

Not a knock like the familiar tap of a neighbor or a friend, but something slow and deliberate, heavy and unnatural. It was almost as if it were imitating human behavior, mimicking a gesture it didn’t fully understand. Eleanor stood paralyzed, staring at the door as the knocking continued, slow and rhythmic.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The whispers grew louder, pressing against her mind, urging her to open the door. They were no longer faint; they were commanding, almost pleading.

“Let us in.”

Her pulse quickened, fear clawing at her chest. She backed away from the door, every instinct telling her not to open it, not to let whatever was outside inside. But the whispers persisted, and she could feel their presence pushing against her will.

“Let us in, Eleanor.”

They knew her name.

Her stomach dropped. She hadn’t told anyone about the whispers. She hadn’t told anyone about the strange sounds on the wind, the eerie fluttering of wings that followed her at night. How could they know her name?

“Eleanor, open the door.”

The voice was clearer now, cutting through the cacophony of whispers like a knife. It was no longer a suggestion; it was a demand.

Summoning every ounce of strength she had, Eleanor forced herself to move, her legs trembling as she crept closer to the door. Her hand hovered over the doorknob, shaking uncontrollably. She wanted to stop, to pull away, but something—some invisible force—compelled her to keep going.

She turned the knob.

The door creaked open, just a crack, enough to let the wind rush in, cold and biting. Eleanor squinted into the darkness, her heart thundering in her ears.

And then she saw it.

A figure, standing in the rain, cloaked in shadows. Its form was humanoid, but its proportions were wrong—too tall, too thin, its limbs elongated and angular. Behind it, wings—large and tattered—stretched out, flapping weakly in the wind.

The whispers surrounded her now, drowning out her thoughts. The creature stepped closer, its face obscured by the shadows of the night, but its eyes glowed faintly—two pinpoints of light in the darkness, watching her.

"Eleanor," the voice whispered again, this time from the creature itself. "We have come for you."

She stumbled back, her mind screaming at her to shut the door, to lock it, to run. But the whispers wouldn’t let her. They pressed into her thoughts, into her soul, weaving through her consciousness like tendrils of smoke, binding her to the spot.

“We have been watching, Eleanor,” the voice said, closer now, its breath cold against her skin. “We have been waiting.”

Her back hit the wall, her body trembling as the creature loomed in the doorway, its wings rustling softly in the storm. The whispers were everywhere now, filling the room, filling her mind, drowning out everything else.

“What do you want?” she managed to choke out, her voice barely audible over the storm.

The creature smiled—if it could be called a smile—and stepped into the house, its wings folding in behind it as it moved toward her. Its presence filled the room, making the air thick and heavy.

“We want you,” it said simply, its voice soft, almost kind.

Eleanor shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. “No. No, I don’t—”

But the creature raised a hand, and the whispers grew deafening, blotting out her words, her thoughts. The room spun, the firelight flickering wildly as the storm raged outside.

And then, in the midst of the chaos, Eleanor felt it—the pull. The same pull she had felt for weeks, drawing her toward the cliffs, toward the edge, toward the unknown. She had resisted it for so long, but now… now she understood.

The wings. The whispers. They had always been for her.

She felt herself give in, the fear slipping away as the creature’s presence enveloped her, its wings brushing against her skin like a lover’s touch. The whispers no longer frightened her. They soothed her, guided her.

“We will take you home,” the creature said, its voice a soft hum in the darkness.

And with that, Eleanor let go.

The storm outside raged on, but inside, there was only silence.

The cottage stood still, empty, save for the soft rustle of wings as they disappeared into the night.

And the whispers… they faded, carried away on the wind, leaving nothing behind but the echo of their promise.

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No one in the village below ever saw Eleanor again. To this day, the question of what happened to her is whispered and wondered over.