I Think My Grandmother’s Village Is Hiding a Cult...

I’m writing this from my grandmother’s house in a tiny village called Lisogory. I’m here because she’s in the hospital, and someone needed to feed the chickens, air out the rooms, all the usual countryside stuff. I thought it would be quiet. Peaceful. A break from my city job. But something’s wrong here. And after tonight, I don’t know if I’ll make it out.

Night 1

The first weird thing I noticed was how early the entire village goes to sleep. I mean early. By 9 PM sharp every light is off. The streets turn completely dead. Even the dogs stop barking, which honestly creeped me out more than anything. I tried to ignore it, but that night I heard something under the floorboards. Not footsteps — more like whispering. Low, rhythmic, almost like someone was reciting something in unison, but muffled, as if it came from deep underground. I told myself it was the wind. I barely slept.

Night 2

I asked my neighbor, Maria, if the houses here have weird acoustics or something. She just stared at me and said: “Don’t stay up late. This place sleeps early.” Then she shut her door. That night, the whispering wasn’t vague anymore. I couldn’t make out the words, but I could hear the patterns. Repeated phrases. A slow, steady cadence like… chanting. But here’s the part that keeps replaying in my head: It wasn’t coming from outside. It was coming from beneath the house.

Night 3

This is where things escalated. Around 10 PM, I saw lights outside. Flickering ones. I peeked out the window and saw people walking through the street — silhouettes holding candles. Moving quietly, not talking, not even acknowledging each other. Just heading in the same direction. Toward the old mine at the edge of the village. The one that supposedly collapsed twenty years ago. Something in me snapped — curiosity, fear, maybe both — and I followed them, keeping my distance. They walked straight into the gated area like it was nothing. The gate wasn’t locked. I guess no one bothers to secure a place where no one’s supposed to go. What I saw inside didn’t make sense. The villagers stood in a loose circle around the entrance to a tunnel. No one spoke, but the whispering — the same cadence I heard under the house — was echoing up from the shaft. Not from the people. From below them. I know how that sounds. I know. But here’s the part I wish I imagined: Maria was there. And she wasn’t chanting. She was listening. Smiling. Like someone hearing a lullaby. Then she turned her head, looked directly at me in the darkness, and said — loud enough for me to hear: “New people always hear it first.”

Now

I’m back in the house, typing this. Every muscle in my body wants to run, but I don’t know the roads well, and the forest is pitch black. I don’t trust the locals. I sure as hell don’t trust the mine. The whispering just started again under the floor. It’s louder now And I swear I heard my name. If anyone reads this — if I stop posting — please screenshot this. Share it. Whatever is happening in this village, they’ve kept it quiet for decades. I think they’re planning to keep me quiet too.