Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

The village of Greystone Cove had been silent for seventy-three years. Not quiet—silent. No birdsong, no ocean breeze, no whispers from the wind. Just stillness, thick and unnatural, like sound itself had been drowned.

They said the silence was her doing.

The Siren.

Back then, Greystone had been a whaling village. Brutal, greedy, loud. They hunted the great sea beasts with iron and fire, their harpoons staining the waters crimson. One night, the men hauled in a creature they could not name. It had the body of a drowned maiden and the maw of a deep-sea god—eyes like moonlight, voice like thunder turned sweet.

They caged her.

Mocked her.

Dismembered her.

And when she sang—begged—they sewed her mouth shut with rusted hooks.

The next morning, sound vanished from the world.

The sea stood still. The villagers' lips moved, but no voice came out. Bells wouldn't ring. Fires wouldn't crackle. Even the thunder refused to rumble.

One by one, they began to go mad—haunted by whispers that didn't exist, screaming in silence until their throats bled.

And the Siren, they say, still walks the shoreline at dusk. Not singing. Just waiting for someone to listen.

Now, in the year 2093, scavenger crews searching the Silent Zones stumbled upon Greystone again. A young sound-tech named Lena Mire joined the expedition. She'd grown up deaf, but she had a gift—the ability to "feel" sound in vibration, through bone and instinct. The silence didn't scare her.

What scared her was what lived inside it.

On the third day, Lena wandered too close to the old docks.

The mist rolled in. The salt air grew sweet and foul. Her equipment registered nothing—not even wind pressure. Then she felt it—

A hum.

Low. Ancient. Familiar.

It vibrated through her teeth.

Through her soul.

Through the silence.

Then she saw her.

The Siren.

Mouth still stitched.

Eyes burning silver.

She didn't sing. She listened.

And in that moment, Lena heard everything. Not with ears, but with memory. The screams of the mutilated creature. The crash of harpoons. The laughter of cruel men. The snapping of vocal cords. And the final curse whispered not in words—but in pure, eternal grief.

The Siren reached out.

Touched Lena's forehead.

And gave her a choice.

Lena returned to the crew—with sound.

She could speak now.

But the world behind her remained silent, untouched, cursed.

She never explained what happened. Only that the Siren had spared her.

And that, maybe, the silence was a kindness.

Today, Greystone remains uninhabited.

But if you go there at sunset, and stand barefoot on the old docks, you may feel a tremor through the planks—like a song, trapped beneath the sea, still trying to escape.

But beware…

If you try to listen too hard…

You might never hear anything again.