My Grandfather used to tell me stories about the land we live on. People come here every year, to hike, ski, and explore the vast, snow covered mountains, and every year a few of those people are claimed by this land. Grandfather told me that when people die in these mountains, they don’t stay dead. Their bodies are never found, just reported dead after they’ve been missing long enough for the cold to get them. The reason for that, according to the stories, is the Wind Whisperers. Anyone who dies on this mountain turns into a Wind Whisperer, an empty shell walking the land looking for some unfortunate soul to claim in hopes that it brings their soul back.
Today I was sorting my old things when a small note with a newspaper cut fell out from the heap of old papers and documents. I immediately recognized it. Now I’m sitting in my dark attic and can’t figure out what really happened back then. Maybe you can help me? But at first, I have to tell you about all this mess which happened ten years ago.