Whispers of terror linger from "summary" of A Book of Horrors by Stephen Jones
The chilling sensation creeps up your spine, a bone-deep shiver that refuses to dissipate. In the silence of the night, when all seems calm and still, there is a presence that lingers, unseen yet unmistakably felt. Whispers of terror dance on the edge of your consciousness, elusive and haunting. They are the echoes of nightmares, the remnants of fear that refuse to be silenced.
As you lie awake in the darkness, the whispers grow louder, more insistent. They weave a tapestry of dread, each thread a reminder of the horrors that lurk just beyond the edge of perception. Shadows flicker at the corners of your vision, shapes that defy explanation yet stir a primal sense of unease. The air itself seems to pulse with malevolence, a tangible weight that presses down upon you.
In those moments, reason falters and instinct takes over. Your heart pounds in your chest, a relentless drumbeat of terror that drowns out all other sound. Every nerve is on edge, every sense heightened to a razor's edge. You are acutely aware of the fragility of your existence, the thin veil that separates you from the abyss.
And still, the whispers persist. They are a reminder of the fragility of the human mind, the depths of darkness that lie within us all. They are a testament to the power of fear, the primal force that drives us to the brink of madness. In their echoes, we find a reflection of our own mortality, a stark reminder of the fragility of life itself.
So we lie there, in the darkness, listening to the whispers of terror that linger. And in that moment, we are truly alone, surrounded by the shadows of our own making. We are adrift in a sea of fear, clinging to the fragile raft of our sanity. And still, the whispers continue, a ceaseless chorus of dread that refuses to be ignored.
