| Category: | Ghost Stories |
|---|
I had always been one to scoff at local legends. The tales passed around by the older generation of Lewisville Lifers—about L.L. Woods Park and the things that supposedly stirred beneath its pleasant façade—struck me as just that: stories meant to keep children from wandering too far after dark. That was until the night I ventured into the park myself, seeking solitude, only to discover a truth that has since driven me to the brink of madness.
It began as an ordinary evening. The air was crisp, carrying the familiar scent of pine and earth, and a faint breeze rustled the leaves in a way that soothed my restless mind. I walked the familiar trails as twilight descended, remembering summer afternoons filled with laughter, families gathering, and the distant crack of baseballs connecting with bats. The day, as ever, had been alive with innocent energy. But the setting sun cast long, cold shadows, and with it came a creeping silence that had no place in this beloved park.
I had chosen a bench by the pavilion to rest, watching the sky darken and the stars emerge one by one. It was then, as night settled over the park, that I began to notice something strange—a peculiar whisper, faint at first, carried on the wind. It was unlike the sound of rustling leaves or distant animals; this was a distinctly human sound, soft yet pervasive. It seemed to come from every direction at once, a susurrus of voices murmuring just beyond the edge of comprehension.
At first, I dismissed it as a trick of the mind, a product of the stillness and my own imagination. But as I sat, listening intently, the whispers grew louder, more insistent. I could almost make out words, though their meaning eluded me. And then, in the distance, I saw it—a figure moving along the shadowed paths, small and indistinct, as if it were a child. I called out, but there was no reply. The figure vanished behind a grove of trees.
I stood and hesitated, some primal instinct urging me to leave. But curiosity, ever my downfall, pushed me to follow. I made my way toward the trees, the whispers growing louder with each step. As I crossed into the denser part of the park, I felt the temperature drop, unnaturally cold for a Texas autumn. My breath came in shallow gasps, misting in the night air.
The trees loomed over me like skeletal sentinels, and the path beneath my feet seemed to twist and turn in ways that defied logic. I knew L.L. Woods well—I had walked its trails countless times—but now, in the dark, it felt like an entirely different place, a maze designed to disorient and confound. The whispers grew clearer, and I began to pick out phrases among them, snippets of desperate pleas and ghostly laughter.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it again—the childlike figure darting between the trees. But as I approached, it became clear that what I had seen was no child at all. The thing standing before me, half-obscured by shadow, was grotesque. Its form was small and hunched, its limbs twisted at unnatural angles, and its eyes—those eyes—glowed faintly in the darkness, reflecting some otherworldly light. It grinned at me, its mouth far too wide, revealing rows of sharp, needle-like teeth.
I stumbled backward, heart racing, but my feet seemed rooted to the ground. The creature moved toward me with a shuffling gait, and as it did, the whispers became a cacophony, voices overlapping in a discordant chorus. They were pleading, warning, begging me to leave, yet I could not tear my gaze away from the horror before me.
And then I saw the others—dozens of them—emerging from the shadows, their shapes shifting and indistinct. Some resembled the lost children of the town's legends, their faces pale and eyes hollow, but others were far worse, their forms twisted and wrong, like something half-remembered from a fever dream. They moved silently, their eyes fixed on me, their presence a tangible weight pressing down on my chest.
I tried to scream, but no sound escaped my lips. The whispers were deafening now, surrounding me, suffocating me. And then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the creatures were gone, vanishing into the night as if they had never been there at all. The park was silent once more, the only sound the distant rustle of leaves in the breeze.
I ran, blindly, through the twisted paths, not stopping until I reached the safety of the streetlights at the park's edge. I collapsed there, gasping for breath, my mind reeling from what I had seen. I knew then that the stories were true—there was something wrong with L.L. Woods, something ancient and malevolent that lingered just beneath the surface of its idyllic charm.
Now, as I sit here in the pale light of dawn, I can still hear the whispers, faint but persistent, echoing in the back of my mind. They call to me, beckoning me back to the park, to the shadows where the lost ones wait. But I will not return—not ever. For I know now that the darkness in L.L. Woods is not just a tale for children. It is real, and it is hungry.