The Voiceless Haunt The Silent Pines

20260109

Written for Luna Asli Kolcu’s “Myths of Winter - Week 6” event.

The path through Silent Pines is only ever taken by the desperate. Far better to spend a month traversing frozen mountain paths than risk a week on that straight, sandy road. And, in the depths of winter, when the mountains are death to traverse, it’s best simply to put all business in that direction on hold.
But, if you are in such a driving rush… the road is easy to find. Where it turns off the highway is plastered with warning signs in every language spoken on the trade route. Unlike most crossroads it has no inn or waystation. Nothing to encourage people to take it.
Those who disregard the warnings and take the turn regardless find another set of signs. Telling them once more that the area ahead is cursed, and to turn back.
Most do. After reading the descriptions of what will happen if they fail to remain perfectly silent for the entire journey, it’s rare for someone to feel their business is indeed so urgent.
Past that is a final sign, with a simple instruction: “Do not let your voice be heard”.
Just beyond the woods begin. Towering featureless trees whose thick canopy of needles blot out the sky and whisper in the slightest breeze. The only voice allowed here.
The gloom beneath sports sparse underbrush. In summer you might hear insects, for their buzzing isn’t spoken, so is ignored by the prowling Voiceless.
You will never hear the Voiceless. If you do, it’s too late. They’ve already found what they’re looking for, and now you are trapped beneath these whispering pines, seeking a voice to replace what you lost.
Nobody knows how the cycle started, though everyone agrees it must surely have been started by something. Such tormented grasping shades are entirely unnatural beings.
A popular tale describes a mighty wizard cursing the woods to stop an advancing army. Many take it as fact despite nobody ever finding traces of magic here. Admittedly, those who left the path to search were never heard from again.
And it is true that everyone who’s lost a companion to the Voiceless reported the body suddenly standing, its collapsed deflated chest pulsing, and striding off towards the east. There must be something out there. Something hungry.
At least the road is easy to traverse. A smooth unwavering line of packed sandy soil. It’s never disturbed by roots, and rain doesn’t reach it.
If you didn’t know better you’d find it inviting.
No paving, but it can support a handcart. And there’s no point bringing anything larger, for animals cannot understand that the slightest neigh or low - or whimper - will doom them. And likely you, for once your supplies have been dragged off by the flesh puppet which was your beast of burden you must contend with the elements.
Winter down here is milder than the mountains. But without shelter you’ll still die before morning.
However, if you came prepared, you might make it through. At a standard pace you will be camping under the pines for seven days. The record is three days. One person took ten days to make the crossing, and never uttered a sound for the rest of their life.
It’s the first day which poses the greatest risk. You must remember to stay silent. And a hush like this, pressing for miles around you, begs to be broken.
Do not sing. Don’t even hum. Don’t mutter or grumble. If you have companions - which is recommended, for then you can take spells keeping watch and make sure nobody invites doom by talking in their sleep - be sure to set up a way of communicating before you pass the final sign.
If you are amongst the few who make it through the first day, you will likely find the second and third easier. The silence becomes habit.
Day four is when the pressure begins to mount. When wind stirs the needles far above their meaningless whispers are wont to lull you into a trance where you may forget not to speak. Whereas when the air lies still the utter lack of sound chafes painfully against your mind, filling you with the primal urge to shout, to scream, to exert existence against this terrible lifeless lull.
Knowing that you are only halfway there makes it all the harder to bear.
If you have never been known to talk in your sleep, this is where you’ll likely start. The aching need to hear and be heard springs from far deeper than the knowledge of consequences can reach. Whoever is keeping watch must be vigilant. Must not linger for even a moment to savour the sounds of another person, for that might be a moment too late.
This deep in the forest, the Voiceless are always close.
Waking on the fifth day is an achievement in itself. Hopefully you will not be satisfied with that, and will remain vigilant.
Don’t count your steps. Too easy to slip into doing it out loud. Simply trust that, though the view never seems to change, you are making progress.
Losing hope is the easiest way to fail in the final stretch. Some instead lose their minds. The endless vacuum of the silence can dredge dreadful things which were better left buried, or can wear your sense of self down to nothing, like wood which has been sanded until you can see through it.
Days six and seven tend to blur together. Until the moment where you see a glow on the horizon. Daylight, out beyond the reach of the trees!
Do. No. Celebrate. This temptation is one of the most dangerous moments of the trip. Try not to even sigh, for your relief might doom you.
Even after escaping the pines it’s best to stay silent until you reach the first sign, the last for those coming the other direction, warning them not to let their voices be heard. But I’d hold my tongue until back on the main road. Just in case.

Prompt was “A group of travelers agrees: no one speaks until they reach safety. Silence is protection here. Words attract things in the winter dark. The journey takes seven days. By day four, the silence is louder than screaming.”