The Ghost in the Wind: A Terrifying Discovery

The wind howled through the empty road as Daniel trudged forward, his jacket pulled tight.

Then, he saw it—a pale figure drifting just ahead, barely visible in the swirling mist.

His breath hitched.

Was it a trick of the light?

The figure moved without sound, its form flickering like a dying candle.

Every instinct told him to turn back, but something about it pulled him forward.

He had to know what it was.

He had to see.

Daniel quickened his pace, heart pounding.

The figure never turned, never acknowledged him—just floated forward, vanishing and reappearing between gusts of wind.

He called out, but the words were swallowed by the storm.

Then, suddenly, it stopped.

Right at the edge of an old, forgotten graveyard.

The air grew colder.

The figure turned, revealing hollow, black eyes.

Daniel stumbled back, his breath frozen in his throat.

This was no ordinary apparition.

It was waiting for him.

The wind died, leaving an eerie silence.

Daniel’s pulse thundered in his ears.

The figure raised a hand, pointing toward a crumbling headstone.

His legs felt like lead, but he stepped forward.

The name on the stone sent ice through his veins—his own.

His knees buckled.

This had to be a mistake.

He wasn’t dead.

He was alive.

But the figure only stared, its expression unreadable.

Then, in a voice like rustling leaves, it whispered, 'Not yet.' Daniel scrambled back, his breath ragged.

The figure remained still, watching.

Then, the ground beneath him shifted.

A deep, hollow sound echoed as the earth cracked open.

He tried to run, but his legs wouldn’t move.

Shadows coiled around his feet, pulling him toward the grave.

Panic surged through him.

He clawed at the ground, desperate.

The figure leaned in, whispering, 'Time is running out.' Then, with a final gust of wind, everything went

black.

Daniel gasped awake, drenched in sweat.

He was in his bed, the wind howling outside.

A dream?

His heart pounded as he sat up.

Then, his blood ran cold.

Dirt clung to his hands, his fingernails packed with soil.

His shoes, by the door, were caked in mud.

Trembling, he turned to the window.

There, in the swirling mist, the figure stood once more—watching, waiting.

And this time, it raised a hand, beckoning him forward.