**Reverberations of the Damned**
The town of Brackenwood was tranquil and serene by day, yet around evening time, it was an alternate story. As far back as anybody could recall, bizarre sounds reverberated from the bluffs sitting above the town. Individuals said they were the calls of the doomed, caught in the obscurity beneath. Nobody thought for even a second to go close to the precipices after nightfall. The rare sorts of people who did stayed away forever.
One night, a young fellow named Thomas concluded he had heard enough of the old stories. He didn't have confidence in apparitions or reviles not set in stone to demonstrate that the reverberations were only the breeze, that's it. His companions cautioned him, yet he wouldn't tune in. "I'll be back before sun-up," he said, with a grin that didn't arrive at his eyes.
With just a light and his fortitude, Thomas advanced up the precarious way to the precipices. The higher he climbed, the colder the air became. The breeze wailed, and the trees appeared to twist toward him, their branches ripping at the sky. In any case, Thomas went ahead, his brain set on revealing reality.
As he arrived at the highest point of the bluffs, he heard it — the weak, chilling cries that appeared to come from profound inside the earth. Briefly, his heart beat in his chest, yet he shook it off. "Simply the breeze," he mumbled to himself.
However at that point, the cries became stronger, and they didn't seem like the breeze by any means. They were voices — frantic, melancholy, and brimming with torment. Thomas felt a virus shudder run down his spine. He ventured nearer to the edge of the precipice, looking down into the dull chasm underneath. The voices appeared to whirl around him, swirling into the atmosphere with their distress.
Out of nowhere, the ground underneath him moved, and he staggered, scarcely getting himself before he fell. An enormous break had showed up in the stone, and from it, a thick, dark fog started to rise. The voices became stronger, more clear, and presently Thomas could hear words — asking, arguing for discharge.
"Help us... free us from the murkiness," they cried.
Panicked, Thomas moved in an opposite direction from the edge, however the fog followed him. It twisted around his feet, downright frigid, and the voices reverberated to him, pulling him nearer to the break. He could see shapes moving inside the fog — shadowy figures with empty eyes and bent faces. These were the spirits of the cursed, caught underneath the precipices for a really long time.
Thomas attempted to run, however his legs wouldn't move. The fog folded over him more tight, and the voices became stronger, muffling his considerations. "You should help us," they murmured. "Or on the other hand go along with us."
Energetically, Thomas ventured into his pocket and took out the little, silver cross his mom had given him. He held it up, trusting it would safeguard him. The fog withdrew, murmuring and contracting back toward the break in the earth.
The voices shouted in rage, their reverberations filling the evening, however they started to blur as the fog vanished into the haziness beneath. The ground quit shaking, and the air developed still. Thomas fell to his knees, shaking with dread yet alive.
As the principal light of sunrise contacted the sky, Thomas advanced back to the town. He didn't discuss what he had seen, yet the spooky thoroughly search in his eyes let everybody know that the reverberations of the accursed were not simply stories. The precipices stayed quiet after that evening, however the residents knew not to think the risk was no more. For the spirits caught in the haziness could never really rest, and their reverberations would one day return.
Nobody at any point went close to the precipices once more. Not even Thomas.