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- Herausgeber: epubli
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
Decades ago, the small village of Mistrens Hollow vanished without a trace—shrouded in thick fog, accompanied by eerie whispers and mysterious lights. No one knows what happened, and the few accounts that remain are mere shadows of a long-forgotten truth. Historian Eleanor Whitcombe stumbles upon a cryptic book that refuses to let her go. The clues hidden within seem intricately tied to the disappearance of Mistrens Hollow. Driven by relentless curiosity, she embarks on a journey to uncover the truth—only to find herself drawn into a dark world of danger and chilling encounters. The fog thickens, the shadows grow restless, and Eleanor soon realizes the book holds not only answers but a will of its own. The closer she gets to solving the mystery, the more blurred the line between reality and nightmare becomes. Mistrens Hollow – Whispers in the Fog is a gripping mystery novel steeped in dark atmosphere and compelling suspense. A story of curiosity's power, the allure of the unknown, and the price one must pay to confront the shadows.
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Seitenzahl: 114
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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Fiona Seabrink
Mistrens Hollow
Whispers in the Fog
Imprint
Text: © Copyright by Fiona Seabrink
Cover Art: © Copyright by Fiona Seabrink
Publisher:
Fiona Seabrink
c/o AutorenServices.de
Birkenallee 24
36037 Fulda
Herstellung: epubli - ein Service der neopubli GmbH, Köpenicker Straße 154a, 10997 Berlin
Kontaktadresse nach EU-Produktsicherheitsverordnung: [email protected]
1.
Eleanor Whitcombe tightened her scarf around her shoulders as she breathed in the cool, damp air of the archive cellar. The walls, made of rough, unplastered stone, seemed to have absorbed the years within them—a suffocating stillness, laced with the faint scent of dust and damp paper. She was used to working in such places. In fact, she found a strange comfort in the solitude they offered, as if time and her worries stood still.
The old rectory was like a relic from another era. Above her, the wooden floorboards of the ground floor creaked, where the current residents—a frail vicar and his wife—still lived. They had reluctantly granted Eleanor access to the archive, but only after she promised not to remove any documents from the cellar. “The archive belongs to the parish,” the woman had insisted, her gnarled hands planted firmly on her hips. “No looting, young lady.”
Eleanor had nodded, retreating with a polite smile into the cool cellar. The only light came from a flickering bulb dangling from a simple cord on the ceiling. The shadows of the shelves danced on the walls as she slowly made her way between rows of books and papers. It was silent—too silent. Apart from the creaking of the floorboards above, there was no sound—no scurrying mice, no rustling. Only her own footsteps echoed on the uneven stone floor.
“So, here you are,” she murmured softly to herself as she stopped in front of a particularly dusty shelf. “Local History and Chronicles,” a small sign read. Exactly what she was looking for.
Her fingers brushed over the spines of the books, most of which had suffered from the damp. Some titles were illegible, while others seemed to belong to another era—The Annals of Greywick, The Mystery of the Black Bell, Observations of a Forgotten Priest. Eleanor pulled one book after another from the shelf, leafing through crumbling pages as dust hung in the air like a veil. Yet none of them warranted a second glance.
Just as she was beginning to lose hope, she noticed a slim, leather-bound volume nearly hidden between two larger tomes. The spine was blank—no title, no clue as to its contents. Curiosity seized her, and she carefully slid it free. It felt unexpectedly heavy in her hands, as though it held more than mere words.
She settled into a rickety wooden chair and placed the book on the table. Opening it to the first pages, she saw they were blank. Page after page—just smooth, yellowed paper. But then, near the middle, she found words.
The handwriting was delicate and flowing, as though penned by a practiced hand. But what she read sent a chill through her veins:
„Where the boundary falls, the unknown begins. Those who proceed should not hope to return.“
Eleanor frowned. It didn’t read like a chronicle or a record, but rather… a warning. She turned more pages, and gradually the words seemed to shift before her eyes. She couldn’t quite explain how, but the letters felt alive, almost as if they were moving with each breath she took.
A faint humming reached her ears, barely audible, as if coming from a great distance—or perhaps from the very walls. Eleanor paused, her fingers resting on the page, and listened. “Just an old cellar,” she murmured with a nervous chuckle, trying to reassure herself. But the humming persisted.
With trembling hands, she continued turning the pages. The script seemed to grow darker and denser with each page, pressing itself onto the reader. Then she came across a drawing: a map, rough and imprecise, yet strangely familiar. A circle was marked, surrounded by curved lines that resembled forests. Beneath the circle, a single word was written:
“Mistrens Hollow.”
Eleanor drew in a sharp breath. The name was not unfamiliar to her. She had heard of Mistrens Hollow—a deserted village said to have vanished overnight decades ago. No one knew what had happened there, and the few accounts that existed were contradictory.
Her heart began to race. This was no coincidence. This book, this place—there was some connection between them. But before she could think further, the light above her flickered, and a cold draft swept through the cellar. She thought the air above her shimmered, like heat rising from an invisible source.
“Hello?” Her voice echoed off the stone walls, sounding hollow in the silence. No one answered.
Eleanor closed the book, clutching it tightly in her hands. There was something different about this place. She didn’t know what it was, but one thing was certain: this book had found her, not the other way around.
She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. The cold draft had brushed her neck like an invisible hand, and the flickering bulb made her thoughts spin in a peculiar way. But she wasn’t the kind to be intimidated by dark cellars and old books. She’d studied enough ancient legends and mysterious stories to know there was always a rational explanation—or so she told herself.
She reopened the book. To her astonishment, the once-blank pages at the beginning were now filled with black, flowing script, as though it had appeared by some ghostly hand during her brief pause. Eleanor frowned. She flipped back and forth, staring at the words. It was impossible that she had missed this—the pages had been unquestionably blank.
She leaned closer to the book, her forehead nearly touching the pages. The writing was dense, arranged like verses that read as if they were a poem. But the language was utterly unfamiliar to her.
“Nykr’shak Voth?” she whispered, speaking the words aloud. They felt strange, angular—like fragments of a sound never meant for human throats. A slight shiver ran down her spine, and she traced the lines with her fingertip.
The longer she read, the more alien the words felt. It wasn’t a language she had ever encountered in her studies—neither Latin nor Greek, nor any of the ancient Germanic or Celtic dialects she knew. The letters seemed almost familiar, yet they danced before her eyes as she tried to decipher them.
“Nykr’shak voth, zhra’vel tok sha,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper. “What on earth is this…?”
The humming returned, soft and barely perceptible, but this time it wasn’t alone. Another sound seemed to mingle with it—a deep, throbbing rumble that she felt before she heard it. Her fingers froze on the page, and she held her breath. The shadows on the walls seemed to grow longer, darker.
Eleanor gathered herself and forced herself to keep reading. The words seemed to hold more than just meaning, as though they were not merely to be read but felt. The poem’s verses flowed before her, and she had the uncanny sense that, in some inexplicable way, she understood them, even though she didn’t know the language.
The final stanza repeated itself, almost like a refrain:
„Oh, Thon’koth vorn, waar thren’zoth,
Vel’yn zhor vak, tal voth’rath voth.
Druv’shor kruz, vek zru’voth kah,
Nykr’shak voth vrath’nor shaah.“
Eleanor abruptly closed the book, her knuckles white from the tension with which she gripped the cover. The humming and rumbling stopped, as if the book had reacted to being shut. Yet the air in the cellar remained heavy and oppressive, like a weight pressing down on her shoulders.
What kind of language was this? And why did she feel as though she had spoken something aloud that should have remained unsaid? Her thoughts raced. She knew she couldn’t stop now, even though every instinct screamed at her to leave this place. The book had found her, and the verses… the verses felt as though they had been waiting for a reader to speak them aloud.
She stood, hesitating for a moment, and then took the book with her. That was when she heard it. Soft, barely more than a breath—a voice drifting from the shadows of the shelves, whispering in an alien cadence:
„Nykr’shak voth...“
Eleanor whirled around, clutching the book tightly to her chest. But there was no one there. Only the shelves and the cold, stone cellar. And yet… she was certain she wasn’t alone.
She struggled with herself. She didn’t want to open the book again, but the urge to decipher the words was overwhelming. The verses had awakened something in her—a curiosity she couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard she tried. Slowly, she sat back down, her fingers brushing over the book’s aged leather as if she were touching a living thing. Then, cautiously, she opened it again.
Before she could read the first lines, a loud knock nearly sent her tumbling from her chair.
“Miss Whitcombe! Are you still down there?” The voice of the vicar’s wife echoed through the cellar, followed by the sharp, deliberate sound of footsteps descending the stone stairs.
Eleanor gasped, her heart pounding. She hurriedly shut the book and slid it under the pile of other documents on the table. As she turned, the vicar’s wife was already in the doorway, her gnarled hands firmly planted on her hips. Her stern gaze bore into Eleanor.
“How long do you plan on staying down here?” the woman demanded, her voice sharp but tinged with concern. “It’s already dark outside, and I have the impression you’ve been down here for hours. I told you, this cellar air isn’t good for you!”
“Dark?” Eleanor blinked, glancing at the flickering bulb above her. Had she really been down here for so long? It seemed impossible that hours could have passed. It felt as though she had only opened the book moments ago.
“I… I completely lost track of time.” Her voice sounded uncertain, almost unfamiliar to her own ears. Trying to mask her embarrassment, she quickly reached for her bag. “Thank you for reminding me.”
The woman snorted and shook her head. “I thought as much. These old books can pull you right in. But you really should be careful about spending too much time down here. Some stories are best left alone.”
Eleanor froze, replaying that last sentence in her mind. She couldn’t tell if it was meant as a casual remark or a subtle warning. A shiver ran down her spine.
“Of course, you’re right.” She forced a smile. “I’ll be on my way now.”
The vicar’s wife nodded but continued to watch her skeptically before finally turning and climbing back up the stairs. The sound of her footsteps faded, but Eleanor remained still until she was certain the woman was gone. Then she turned back to the table.
The book lay there, seemingly harmless among the other papers, but Eleanor’s chest tightened. She knew she couldn’t leave it behind. It wasn’t just a book—it was a key to something she had to understand.
Her hand trembled slightly as she picked it up and slipped it into her bag. “Just for research,” she murmured to herself, though she knew it was more than that. She wasn’t even sure she believed her own words.
With one last look at the deserted cellar and the dim, flickering light bulb, she made her way upstairs. Deep down, she knew the book wasn’t just her secret. It had chosen her as much as she had chosen it.
2.
The county’s newspaper archive was just as bleak as Eleanor had expected. A cool, grey morning hung over the town, and the old building, with its crumbling façade and narrow windows, stood like a bastion against time. The musty smell of paper and ink enveloped her as she stepped inside, and the thick, heavy binders lining the shelves seemed to hold the collected memories of centuries.
An elderly woman seated behind a tall counter glanced up from her newspaper, eyeing Eleanor with a mix of curiosity and scepticism. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, please.” Eleanor tightened her scarf and stepped closer. “I’m looking for information about a village called Mistrens Hollow. I believe it was abandoned several decades ago.”
The woman frowned and adjusted her glasses. “Mistrens Hollow? That’s an odd name.” She flipped through a thick ledger and then shook her head. “I don’t recall ever reading anything about it. But if it was mentioned in one of our old editions, you might find it in the archives.”
“Thank you.” Eleanor forced a polite smile and made her way to the shelves where bound volumes of the local newspaper were lined up. The books were thick and heavy, some so old their leather covers had become brittle. She started with the issues from the 1920s, working her way forward slowly, page by page, searching for any trace of the village.
Time slipped by as Eleanor sifted through the old reports. Articles about harvest festivals, local scandals, and extreme weather came and went, but none seemed to have any connection to Mistrens Hollow. Just as her patience began to wane, her eyes caught a headline from 1937:
“Strange Lights Seen Over Mistrens Hollow”
Eleanor pulled the volume closer, her fingers trembling slightly. The article was short, almost casual:
