Ethan had always loved hiking alone. The solitude of the mountains, the crisp air, and the sense of freedom kept him coming back. But something about Black Hollow Peak felt… off. The villagers at the base had warned him. They spoke of the wind that whispers names and the vanishing hikers. Ethan had laughed it off. Superstition, he thought.
By the time he reached the tree line, the sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of red and purple. He set up camp on a narrow ledge, with the valley stretching out below. As he unpacked his gear, the wind picked up—cold, sharp, almost whispering.
Then he heard it.
"Ethan..."
His blood ran cold. It had to be the wind. The rational part of his brain told him that. But deep inside, something primal screamed at him to run.
He stepped away from his tent, scanning the darkness. The trees below swayed violently, though the air around him was eerily still. Then, movement—a shadow darting between the trees.
Heart pounding, he grabbed his flashlight and pointed it downward. Nothing. Just the wind. He exhaled, shaking his head at his own paranoia.
Then, right behind him—a whisper, too close to be the wind.
"Ethan..."
He spun around, but there was no one there. Just the jagged rocks and his tent. He stumbled back, nearly losing his footing at the ledge’s edge. His breath came in ragged gasps.
He wasn’t alone.
The whispers continued, growing more insistent, until they weren’t whispers at all. They were screams.
The last thing Ethan saw before the darkness swallowed him was a figure—a tall, gaunt thing, its face stretched into an unnatural grin, its hollow eyes filled with hunger.
The next morning, rescuers found his tent, untouched. No signs of struggle, no footprints.
But Ethan was gone.
And the wind still whispered his name.
