SARAH

The night was cold and moonless, the kind of night that sent shivers down your spine even before anything unsettling happened. Sarah had always been a skeptic when it came to the supernatural, but that night would test her skepticism in ways she could never have imagined.

Sarah had recently moved to a small, isolated cabin deep within the woods. She sought solace in nature, away from the hustle and bustle of city life. The cabin had a rustic charm, but it also had a history—one that locals whispered about in hushed tones.

One evening, as Sarah sat by the fireplace, she heard a faint, eerie sound that sent a chill down her spine. It was a low, mournful wail, almost like a lost soul crying out in despair. She dismissed it as the wind playing tricks on her, but the sound persisted, growing louder and more sinister.

The walls of the cabin seemed to close in on her, and the flickering flames of the fire provided little comfort. Sarah decided to investigate. Armed with nothing but a flashlight, she ventured into the inky darkness outside.

As she stepped onto the porch, the wailing grew more intense. It was as if the very forest itself was in anguish. She followed the sound, the beam of her flashlight cutting through the thick fog that had settled in. The path she walked on was overgrown with thorny bushes, and each step felt like a struggle against unseen forces.

The wailing led her deeper into the woods, until Sarah came upon an old, dilapidated cemetery. The tombstones were weathered and cracked, and the inscription on each one had long faded away. She had never seen this graveyard before, despite having explored the woods extensively. It was as if it had appeared out of nowhere.

The source of the wailing became apparent as she reached the center of the graveyard. In the dim light of her flashlight, she saw a figure, draped in tattered, white robes, kneeling beside a grave. The figure's back was hunched, and its bony shoulders heaved with each mournful cry.

Sarah approached cautiously, her heart pounding in her chest. "Who are you?" she called out, her voice trembling. The figure did not respond, but its cries grew louder and more anguished.

As she drew nearer, Sarah noticed that the grave the figure was kneeling beside was freshly dug. A shiver ran down her spine, and she read the inscription on the tombstone: "Here Lies Sarah, 1990-2023." It was her own name and her own birth year, and the year 2023 was the present year.

Panic surged through her as she realized the implications. Was this some sort of twisted omen? Had she stumbled upon her own grave? She turned to flee, but as she did, the figure rose slowly, its hollow eyes meeting hers.

Sarah screamed, her flashlight flickering and casting eerie shadows on the tombstones. The figure extended a skeletal hand toward her, its voice now a chilling whisper. "You should not have come here, Sarah," it hissed.

Sarah stumbled backward, crashing through the thorny bushes and tearing her clothes. She ran back to her cabin, slammed the door shut, and locked it. The wailing continued outside, growing fainter with each passing moment until it eventually faded away.

Sarah never ventured into the woods at night again. She couldn't explain what had happened that night, but she knew one thing for certain: there were forces in the woods beyond her understanding, forces that could make the most rational of skeptics question their beliefs in the face of true horror.