Tales of the Unseen

By Brinda Phokeerdass

Tales of the Unseen

They are the shadows in the forest, the echoes in the hollows, the whispers just beyond the veil…

From the mist-choked woods of Havenwood to the haunted swamps of Louisiana, Tales of the Unseen is a chilling collection of dark folklore and modern myth. Each story follows a young protagonist drawn into encounters with ancient, otherworldly forces—creatures that mimic voices, steal memories, and feed on fear.

But these are not just tales of monsters. They are stories of resilience. Of standing firm when the world turns unknowable. Of facing the darkness—and making it flinch.

Brinda Phokeerdass weaves together psychological horror and lyrical prose in this unsettling anthology that explores the thin line between myth and reality. For those who dare to listen, the unseen is always watching.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Keshav Kumar Phokeerdass
• Release date: May 27, 2025
• ISBN: 9798231203352

Brinda Phokeerdass

Brinda is a writer with a deep fascination for the mysteries of the natural world, the unexplored realms of science, and the untold stories hidden beneath the surface. With a background in engineering and pedagogy, she spent years studying the intersection of science and the human spirit. This passion is reflected in her work, which often explores themes of discovery, the unknown, and humanity's relationship with the natural world. When not writing, Brinda can often be found sitting by the sea contemplating the beauty of Mauritian relief, always searching for new inspiration to fuel the next adventure. The Silent Guardians is her third novel, blending the scientific with the soulful, and taking readers on an unforgettable journey into the depths of both the ocean and the human heart.  

Book preview

The Whispering Woods

The town of Havenwood clung to the edge of the Blackwood Forest like a forgotten scab, a cluster of weathered houses and fading dreams perpetually shrouded in the shadow of ancient, gnarled trees. It was a place where secrets festered and the silence was often louder than any sound. Elara knew this better than anyone. She’d lived in Havenwood all seventeen years of her life, and every one of those years had been marked by the oppressive presence of the woods.

Her own secret, a raw, gaping wound, was the disappearance of her younger brother, Finn. Two years ago, he’d wandered into the Blackwood, chasing a stray kite, and never returned. The search parties had combed every inch, the police had questioned everyone, but Finn had simply vanished. The town whispered about accidents, about wild animals, but Elara knew. She felt it in her bones, in the way the wind sighed through the pines, in the unnatural stillness that sometimes fell over the forest. Something else had taken him. Something that wasn't an animal.

It was late October, and the air already carried the bite of winter. The leaves, brittle and brown, scuttled across the cracked pavement like tiny, desperate claws. Elara sat hunched over her desk, the faint glow of her laptop illuminating the worn pages of a local history book. She was supposed to be studying for a chemistry test, but her eyes kept drifting to the faded photographs of Havenwood’s founders, their faces grim and unsmiling, their eyes fixed on something beyond the camera’s lens, something in the trees.

She’d started researching local folklore after Finn disappeared. The police had given up, her parents had retreated into their grief, but Elara couldn’t. She needed answers. The internet had yielded little beyond vague mentions of the old ways and things that dwell beyond the light. But the dusty books in the town’s tiny, neglected library, the ones no one ever checked out, those were different. They spoke of the Blackwood with a reverence bordering on fear, hinting at a presence that predated the town itself.

A sudden scratching sound against her window made her jump, her heart leaping into her throat. She spun around, her hand instinctively reaching for the heavy paperweight on her desk. It was just a branch, swaying in the wind, its skeletal fingers raking against the glass. She let out a shaky breath, her adrenaline slowly receding. Two years of living on edge had turned her into a bundle of nerves.

She glanced at the clock. Past midnight. Her parents were long asleep, their bedroom door a silent barrier against the world. She was alone in the quiet house, surrounded by the encroaching darkness.

She turned back to the book, her finger tracing a passage about the Whispering Man, a local legend dismissed as a cautionary tale for unruly children. The legend spoke of a tall, gaunt figure, pale as bone, with eyes that saw into the deepest fears of your heart. It was said to lure people into the woods with soft, seductive whispers, promising them their greatest desires, only to leave them lost and terrified, their minds shattered.

Elara scoffed. A fairy tale. But a chill ran down her spine nonetheless. The description, while exaggerated, resonated with a feeling she’d had about Finn’s disappearance. It wasn't a monster that chased you; it was something that drew you in.

The next morning, the news spread through Havenwood like wildfire. Mrs. Gable, the elderly woman who lived two streets over, had reported her dog missing. A small terrier, known for its yappy bark and unwavering loyalty. Mrs. Gable was distraught, blaming coyotes, but Elara felt a familiar knot of dread tighten in her stomach. Coyotes didn’t just make a dog vanish without a trace.

Later that day, at school, the whispers began. Not about Mrs. Gable’s dog, but about something else. Something stranger. Liam, a lanky kid with perpetually nervous eyes, cornered Elara by her locker.

Did you hear about the tracks? he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Elara raised an eyebrow. What tracks?

Down by the old logging trail, he said, glancing around as if afraid someone would overhear. My dad went out hunting this morning. Said he saw... something. Not a deer, not a bear. Too long. Too... human-like.

Elara’s breath hitched. The old logging trail bordered the deepest part of the Blackwood, the part where Finn had disappeared. Did he take a picture?

Liam shook his head, his eyes wide. He said it made his skin crawl. Said he just wanted to get out of there. He’s been quiet all day.

A cold dread began to seep into Elara’s bones. This wasn’t just a missing dog. This was something else. Something that was stirring.

That evening, a thick fog rolled in from the Blackwood, swallowing the town whole. It clung to the houses, diffused the streetlights into hazy halos, and muffled every sound. Elara stood at her bedroom window, staring out into the swirling grey. The fog felt alive, like a living, breathing entity, pressing in on her, suffocating her.

She heard it then. A faint, almost imperceptible sound, carried on the damp air. It was a whisper, but not a human one. It was a rustling, a sighing, a sound that seemed to weave itself into the very fabric of the fog. It was coming from the Blackwood.

She grabbed her old, battered flashlight and slipped out of the house. She knew it was stupid, reckless even. But the whisper was a siren song, a chilling echo of the unanswered questions that plagued her. She had to know.

The air in the forest was heavy, damp earth and decaying leaves underfoot. The fog was even thicker here, reducing visibility to mere feet. Trees loomed out of the mist like skeletal giants, their branches clawing at the sky. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves, made her heart pound.

The whisper grew louder, more distinct. It wasn’t words, not exactly. It was more like a suggestion, a subtle invitation, a promise of something just beyond reach. It was seductive, drawing her deeper into the woods, past the familiar paths, into the uncharted territory where the trees grew denser and the light never truly penetrated.

She stopped, her flashlight beam cutting a shaky circle through the gloom. The whisper was all around her now, a chorus of unseen voices, swirling and intertwining. It was coming from everywhere and nowhere.

Then she saw it.

At first, she thought it was a trick of the light, a twisted branch, a pale rock. But as her eyes adjusted, a shape began to coalesce in the fog. It was impossibly tall, unnaturally slender, its limbs elongated and jointed at strange angles. Its skin was a sickly, translucent white, almost glowing in the oppressive gloom. It stood perfectly still, blending seamlessly with the mist-shrouded trees, a silent sentinel of the forest.

It had no discernible features, no face, no eyes, just a smooth, featureless expanse where a head should be. But Elara felt its gaze, a cold, piercing awareness that burrowed into her very soul. It was the absence of features that was the most terrifying, the blank canvas that allowed her mind to project its deepest fears onto it.

A wave of nausea washed over her. This was it. This was what took Finn. This was the thing the old books warned about. The Whispering Man.

The whispers intensified, no longer a gentle invitation, but a cacophony of distorted sounds, each one a different voice, a different fear. She heard her mother’s sobbing, her father’s desperate calls for Finn, her own silent screams of grief. It was a symphony of despair, playing out in her mind, amplified by the creature’s presence.

She stumbled backward, her breath catching in her throat. The creature remained motionless, a silent, terrifying statue. But the whispers grew louder, more insistent, trying to pull her deeper into the forest, into its embrace.

Finn, a voice whispered, her brother’s voice, clear as a bell, full of childlike innocence. Elara, help me.

Tears streamed down her face. It was a trick, she knew it. A cruel, manipulative illusion. But the desperation in his voice was so real, so heartbreaking.

She turned and ran, blindly crashing through the undergrowth, the whispers chasing her, echoing Finn’s name, her parents’ grief, her own deepest fears. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to get away.

She burst out of the tree line, gasping for breath, her lungs burning, her legs aching. She was on the old logging trail, the one Liam had mentioned. The fog was still thick, but the oppressive presence of the creature seemed to lessen the further she got from the deep woods.

She didn’t stop until she reached the familiar glow of the streetlights, her house a beacon in the swirling mist. She stumbled inside, locking the door behind her, leaning against it, trembling, tears still streaming down her face.

She had seen it. And it had seen her.

The next few days were a blur of restless nights and anxious days. Elara tried to tell her parents, but they dismissed it as a nightmare, a manifestation of her grief. They urged her to see a therapist, to move on. But how could she move on when the very thing that took her brother was still out there, lurking in the shadows?

She confided in Liam. He listened, his nervous eyes widening with every word. He didn’t dismiss her. He believed her. His father’s encounter with the tracks had shaken him too.

My dad said it felt... wrong, Liam said, his voice hushed. Like it wasn’t supposed to be there. Like it was from somewhere else.

It was pale, Elara whispered, remembering the sickly white skin. And it had no face. Just... smooth.

Liam shivered. The Whispering Man. My grandma used to tell stories. Said it steals your thoughts, your memories, twists them against you.

It tried to lure me, Elara said, her voice raw. It used Finn’s voice.

A heavy silence fell between them. They were two teenagers, alone against something ancient and terrifying.

Elara knew she couldn’t just sit back and wait. She had to do something. She had to find out more. The old library books were her only lead.

She spent every spare moment there, poring over dusty tomes, her fingers stained with ancient ink. She found more references to the Whispering Man, or variations of it. Some called it the Pale Stalker, others the Mind Weaver. All the stories shared common threads: its gaunt appearance, its ability to manipulate thoughts and fears, its connection to the deepest parts of the Blackwood.

One evening, she found a journal, tucked away in a forgotten corner, its leather cover cracked and brittle. It belonged to Elias Thorne, one of Havenwood’s original settlers, dated 1888. His handwriting was spidery and faded, but readable.

The journal entries began innocently enough, detailing the struggles of establishing a new settlement. But then, the tone shifted. Thorne began to describe strange occurrences: livestock disappearing, unsettling sounds from the woods, a pervasive sense of dread.

October 14th, 1888. The whispers begin again. Soft at first, like the wind through the pines, but growing. They speak of desires, of what we crave most. They are a siren song, drawing the weak-willed into the darkness.

October 20th, 1888. Young Thomas went into the woods today, chasing his dog. He did not return. The whispers were strong this morning. They spoke of a reunion, of solace. We searched, but found no trace. Only a lingering chill in the air.

Elara’s heart pounded. This was it. This was what happened to Finn.

Thorne’s entries became more desperate, more terrified. He described seeing glimpses of the creature, a pale shadow moving through the trees. He wrote of its ability to unravel the mind, to make people see and hear things that weren’t there.

November 1st, 1888. It feeds on fear, on despair. It grows stronger with each soul it claims. It is not of this world, yet it is bound to these woods. A sentinel, a predator, a weaver of nightmares.

November 10th, 1888. We tried to fight it. A group of us, armed with torches and axes. We followed the whispers, deeper into the forest, to a clearing where the trees grow unnaturally close, forming a dark maw. It was there. Tall, silent, its presence a suffocating weight. It did not move, but the whispers became a roar in our minds, twisting our courage into terror. We fled, scattering like frightened sheep. Two men did not return. They are lost to it now, their minds consumed.

Elara closed the journal, her hands shaking. This wasn’t just a legend. It was a recurring horror. The creature wasn’t just taking people; it was preying on their minds, their emotions.

She had to warn someone. But who would believe her? The town had forgotten its own history, buried it under layers of denial and modern skepticism.

She called Liam. I found something, she said, her voice tight with urgency. Something important. Meet me at the old abandoned mill, after dark.

The old mill was a crumbling relic of Havenwood’s industrial past, a skeletal structure of rusted metal and decaying wood, swallowed by weeds and creeping vines. It stood on the very edge of the Blackwood, a desolate monument to forgotten times. It was the perfect place to talk, away from prying eyes and skeptical adults.

Liam arrived, his breath misting in the cold air, his face pale in the faint moonlight filtering through the clouds. Elara handed him the journal. He read it, his eyes scanning the faded script, his expression growing increasingly grim.

This is... insane, he whispered, looking up at her, his usual nervousness replaced by a chilling realization. It’s been here for centuries.

It’s not just taking people, Elara said, her voice low. It’s feeding on them. On their fear, their despair. It’s a psychic predator.

So, what do we do? Liam asked, his voice trembling slightly. We can’t fight something like that.

Thorne wrote about a clearing, Elara said, pointing to an entry in the journal. Where the trees grow unnaturally close. He said it was its lair. Maybe... maybe there’s a way to stop it, or at least drive it back.

Liam hesitated. Elara, this is crazy. We should tell someone. The police, the adults—

They won’t believe us, Liam! Elara snapped, her voice rising. "They’ll think we’re crazy, just like they think I’m crazy about Finn! This thing, it’s been here for generations, and no one has ever stopped it because no one has ever believed it was real. We have to do something."

Liam looked at the dark expanse of the Blackwood, then back at Elara, seeing the fierce determination in her eyes, the raw grief that fueled her courage. He knew she wouldn’t give up. And a part of him, the part that had seen his own father shaken by unseen tracks, knew she was right.

Okay, he said, his voice barely a whisper. What’s the plan?

They spent the next few days preparing. Elara meticulously studied Thorne’s journal, cross-referencing it with old maps of the Blackwood she found in the library’s archives. She pinpointed the likely location of the clearing Thorne described – a place marked on the oldest maps as The Whispering Hollow. It was deep, deep within the forest, far from any established trails.

Their arsenal was meager: two powerful flashlights, a compass, a first-aid kit, and a small, rusty hunting knife Liam had borrowed from his dad’s shed. Elara also packed a small, worn photograph of Finn, a silent reminder of her purpose.

They decided to go at dawn, when the light was strongest and the creature was supposedly less active. But as the sun began to rise on the appointed day, a heavy fog once again descended upon Havenwood, thicker and more pervasive than before. It was a chilling reminder of the creature’s presence, a silent challenge.

Maybe it knows, Liam whispered, his eyes wide as he looked out at the swirling grey.

Then we have to be faster, Elara said, her voice firm, though her stomach churned with dread.

They met at the edge of the Blackwood, the fog swallowing them the moment they stepped beneath the canopy. The forest was eerily silent, the usual sounds of birds and rustling leaves replaced by a suffocating stillness. The air was cold, damp, and smelled of wet earth and something else, something faintly metallic and unsettling.

Elara led the way, relying on the compass and the faint, almost imperceptible shifts in the terrain that matched Thorne’s descriptions. Every few minutes, she’d stop, listening, her flashlight beam cutting through the fog, revealing only the endless, skeletal trees.

The whispers began subtly, a faint rustling in the periphery of their hearing, like dry leaves skittering across the forest floor. Then, they grew, weaving in and out of their thoughts, insidious and manipulative.

You are lost, a voice hissed, soft and seductive, yet utterly chilling. Give up. There is no escape.

Finn is waiting, another whispered, taking on her brother’s voice, full of a heartbreaking longing. Just a little deeper. He misses you.

Elara squeezed her eyes shut, fighting against the powerful illusion. It’s not real, Liam, she muttered, more to herself than to him. It’s trying to trick us.

Liam stumbled, his face pale. I hear them, Elara. My mom... she’s crying. She’s calling for me.

Focus! Elara snapped, grabbing his arm. It’s not real! It’s a lie!

They pressed on, their minds battling the relentless assault of the whispers. The forest seemed to twist and turn around them, the trees blurring into an indistinguishable maze. Doubt began to creep in, a cold, insidious dread that threatened to overwhelm them.

Then, the whispers shifted. They became angry, frustrated, a cacophony of distorted screams and guttural snarls. The air grew heavy, charged with a palpable malevolence.

We’re close, Elara breathed, her voice tight. It doesn’t want us here.

The trees ahead began to change. They grew taller, their branches intertwining, forming a dark, impenetrable wall. The ground became uneven, littered with strange, smooth stones that seemed to hum with an unseen energy. The fog here was almost solid, a thick, suffocating blanket that pressed down on them.

They had found it. The Whispering Hollow.

The clearing was not a clearing at all, but a circular space where the trees formed a natural, unholy cathedral. The fog swirled within it, thick and impenetrable, illuminated by an eerie, pulsating glow that seemed to eman emanate from the very air. In the center, a single, ancient oak stood, its branches twisted and gnarled, its bark scarred with what looked like claw marks.

And standing beneath it, impossibly tall, impossibly slender, was the creature.

It was more terrifying up close. Its skin was not just pale, but translucent, revealing faint, dark veins beneath the surface. Its limbs were unnaturally long, ending in razor-sharp claws that scraped against the ground with a faint, chilling sound. Its head was still featureless, but now, in the pulsating glow, Elara could almost discern a faint indentation, a suggestion of where eyes might be, a mouth, a nose. It was like looking at a distorted reflection, a horrifying parody of a human form.

The whispers here were a roar, a deafening assault on their minds. Every fear, every regret, every sorrow they had ever known was amplified, thrown back at them. Elara saw Finn, small and terrified, disappearing into the mist. She heard her parents’ heartbroken sobs. She felt the crushing weight of her own guilt.

Liam screamed, clutching his head, his eyes wide with terror. Make it stop! Make it stop!

The creature took a step forward, its movements fluid and disturbing, like a puppet whose strings were being pulled by an unseen, malevolent hand. It raised one of its long, clawed hands, pointing it at Elara.

The whispers focused on her, a single, piercing voice, taking on Finn’s innocent tone. Why didn’t you save me, Elara? Why did you let me go?

Elara fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face, her body wracked with sobs. The guilt, the grief, the fear – it was too much. It was consuming her.

But then, a flicker of defiance ignited within her. This wasn’t Finn. This was the thing that took him. This was the thing that had haunted her for two years. It was trying to break her, to feed on her despair.

She looked up, her eyes blazing with a newfound resolve. You’re not Finn! she screamed, her voice raw, cutting through the cacophony of whispers. You’re a lie!

The creature paused, its strange, featureless head tilting slightly. The whispers faltered for a moment, a ripple of surprise in their relentless assault.

You took him! Elara roared, scrambling to her feet, clutching the rusty hunting knife. It was pathetic, useless against such a creature, but it was all she had. You feed on our pain! But you won’t get mine!

She lunged forward, a desperate, suicidal charge. Liam, shocked out of his terror by her sudden outburst, grabbed her arm. Elara, no! You can’t!

But she pulled free, driven by a primal rage. She swung the knife, a wild, untrained blow, aiming for the creature’s pale, translucent skin.

The creature moved with impossible speed, a blur of white against the swirling fog. It dodged her attack effortlessly, its clawed hand lashing out, not to strike her, but to grab the knife. The metal screeched as its claws raked across the blade, leaving deep gouges.

Then, it twisted the knife from her grasp, its grip surprisingly strong. It held the small blade in its hand, examining it with what seemed like a strange, detached curiosity. The whispers quieted, replaced by a low, guttural hum that vibrated in the air.

Elara stood frozen, her heart pounding, expecting the killing blow. But it didn’t come.

Instead, the creature slowly, deliberately, brought the tip of the knife to its own pale skin. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer rippled across its surface. And then, with a soft, tearing sound, it pierced its own translucent flesh.

A thin, black liquid, like crude oil, oozed from the wound, spreading across its pale skin. The creature didn’t react, didn’t flinch. It merely observed the black liquid, then looked at Elara.

The whispers returned, but this time, they were different. They were not manipulative, not terrifying. They were... curious. Pain... fear... what is this... courage?

It dropped the knife, letting it clatter to the ground. The black liquid continued to seep from the small wound, a stark contrast against its pale form.

Then, slowly, the creature began to recede. It didn't turn and walk away; it simply seemed to dissolve, its form blurring, becoming one with the swirling fog. The pulsating glow in the clearing faded, and the oppressive malevolence began to lift.

The whispers died down, replaced by the faint, familiar sounds of the forest – the rustle of leaves, the distant hoot of an owl. The fog remained, but it no longer felt suffocating.

Elara and Liam stood there, trembling, staring at the empty space where the creature had been. The small, rusty knife lay