The Weeping Wind Shaina Tranquilino October 8, 2024
In the small coastal town of Harrowâs Bay, the wind had always been strange. It whispered through the crooked streets, sighed between the creaking wooden houses, and moaned as it swept across the sea. To the townsfolk, this was just part of life. They called it "the weeping wind" and spoke of it in low voices, never lingering on the topic for long. Children learned early not to pay attention to the sounds it carried, and even visitors quickly learned to close their shutters tightly at night.
But for Thomas Harker, the wind was a fascination he couldnât ignore.
Thomas had moved to Harrowâs Bay six months ago, a broken man looking for solitude. He had lost his wife, Cadence, in a car accident the year before, and the grief still sat heavy on him, an invisible weight pressing down on his soul. The quiet town by the sea seemed like the perfect place to escape the noise of the world and his memories.
Yet, from the first night he arrived, the wind seemed different.
It wasnât just the usual gusts rattling the windows or the occasional high-pitched howl; the wind here carried voices. Soft, murmuring at first, as though speaking in a language he didnât understand, but the longer he listened, the more they seemed to make sense. At first, he brushed it off as fatigue or the remnants of his grief playing tricks on him, but the whispers persisted. They beckoned him, always at the edge of hearing, tugging at his curiosity like a distant echo calling him closer.
One cold autumn night, Thomas sat by his window, listening to the wind as it battered the house. He could hear the faintest trace of voices again, almost melodic in their rhythm. This time, though, he strained to listen harder. Beneath the layers of howling gusts, he swore he could make out wordsâfragments of sentences.
âThe sea⌠the sea is hungryâŚâ
âBlood in the waterâŚâ
âA mother weepsâŚâ
His pulse quickened. He wasnât imagining it. He grabbed a notebook and began to scribble down the phrases, each more cryptic than the last. He stayed up all night, chasing the voices through the wind, trying to decipher their meaning.
The next morning, Harrowâs Bay woke to tragedy. A fishing boat had capsized, all hands lost to the cold depths of the ocean. The locals said it was a freak accident, a sudden storm no one had predicted. But Thomas felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. The whispersâthose voicesâthey had warned him.
Over the next few days, the windâs whispers grew louder, more urgent. Thomas began spending more time listening by the window, waiting for the voices to return. They always did, bringing with them warnings of death and disaster.
âSheâll fall⌠break⌠gone foreverâŚâ
That same evening, a child playing by the cliffs slipped and fell to her death. The townsfolk were devastated, but Thomas had known. He had heard the voices speak of it, yet he had done nothing.
The guilt gnawed at him, but so did the curiosity. What was this strange force in the wind? Was it truly a warning or just a curse? He started listening more intently, writing down everything he heard, hoping to stop the next tragedy. But with each new warning, he became more obsessed. He no longer ventured into town; he barely ate, barely slept, consumed by the voices that filled his nights.
âFire⌠flames⌠ashesâŚâ
Two days later, a house on the edge of town burned to the ground, killing an elderly couple trapped inside. Thomas had heard the warning but couldnât bring himself to speak of it. He was losing his grip on reality. If he told anyone, would they even believe him?
One stormy night, when the wind seemed to wail louder than ever, Thomas sat by the window again, the notebook trembling in his hands. The voices were clearer now, sharper, as if the wind itself had grown impatient.
âThe one who listens⌠must payâŚâ
He froze. The words felt directed at him.
âA debt is owed⌠your name⌠your bloodâŚâ
The wind battered the house, howling with a fury that rattled the walls. Thomas stood up, heart racing. He tried to shut the window, but it wouldnât budge. The voices grew louder, more insistent.
âYour time⌠has comeâŚâ
Suddenly, a cold gust burst through the room, knocking him to the floor. The wind swirled around him, and in the chaos, he could hear themâhundreds of voices now, overlapping, shrieking, whispering, weeping. He clamped his hands over his ears, but it was no use. They filled his mind, clawing at his sanity.
And then, as quickly as it started, the wind died. The room was deathly still.
Thomas shakily got to his feet, heart pounding in his chest. The notebook lay open on the floor, pages fluttering. He reached down to pick it up, but something caught his eye. Written across the page, in a jagged, hurried script that wasnât his own, were the words:
âYou listened too long.â
A sudden knock at the door made him jump. He stumbled toward it, pulling it open to reveal a figure standing in the rain, cloaked in shadow. Before he could react, the figure stepped forward, its face pale and hollow, eyes sunken and dark.
It was Cadence.
Her lips moved, but the words didnât come from her. They came from the wind.
âYou listened too long,â she repeated, her voice empty, a hollow echo of the woman he had once loved.
Thomas stumbled back, his mind reeling. He tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. The figure stepped closer, the wind picking up again, howling through the open door. The voices returned, louder, deafening.
âNow you belong to usâŚâ
The wind surged into the house, pulling at him, dragging him toward the open door and the dark, stormy night beyond. He screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the storm. The last thing he saw was Cadence's face, cold and unrecognizable, before the wind took him.
By morning, Thomas Harker was gone, his house empty, the windows open, and the wind once again weeping through the streets of Harrowâs Bay.
The townsfolk would speak of him only in whispers, their voices low, just like the wind.
