Andes Mountains, Chile.
It was a trek meant to be peaceful, a moment of serenity away from the clamor of modern life. Hiking through the rugged Andes, beneath snow-capped peaks and sprawling skies, there was nothing to disturb the silence but the crunch of boots on the frozen earth.
At least, that's how it was supposed to be.
---
Lucas Rojas, a seasoned mountain guide, had led many expeditions into these hills. The Andes, with its jagged cliffs and treacherous slopes, was as much a part of him as his own breath. He knew its rhythms, its moods. And he had seen strange things before.
But this time was different.
It started as a whisper. A voice, faint yet clear, carried on the wind. It was a language Lucas didn't recognize — ancient, guttural, as though it came from deep within the mountain itself.
The rest of the group was oblivious, distracted by the stunning views and the promise of adventure. But Lucas couldn't shake the sensation that something was watching them.
As they continued up the path, the air grew colder, the silence more oppressive. Lucas stopped at the edge of a cliff, scanning the area below. That was when he saw it — a shadow moving through the snow, too large to be human, too fast to be any animal.
A figure, tall and hunched, with long limbs that stretched unnaturally, its head craning towards the hikers as if drawn by some unseen force.
---
He tried to call out, but his voice caught in his throat. When he turned to warn the others, the shadow was gone, swallowed by the snowstorm that seemed to have risen out of nowhere.
The group was eager to press on, but Lucas felt an unease gnaw at him. This wasn't right. He could feel it in his bones. The mountain wasn't just a silent observer — it was alive.
By nightfall, they set up camp in a small hollow between two ridges, the snow falling in thick sheets. But sleep came hard. The wind howled outside, and the whispering voice returned, this time louder, more insistent.
The others, too tired to argue, ignored the strange sounds. But Lucas lay wide awake, his eyes darting over the shadows of the mountainside, convinced something was coming.
He wasn't wrong.
At midnight, one of the hikers screamed.
By the time Lucas reached the source of the noise, it was too late. The hiker had disappeared, his tracks leading off into the swirling snow, vanishing as if erased by some unseen force.
The group was frantic, but Lucas knew this was no ordinary storm. The mountain had claimed its first victim.
---
The next day, they tried to retrace their steps. But something was different. The path was gone. The landscape had shifted overnight, as if the mountain itself had reshaped itself to erase their presence.
Panic set in. Lucas tried to remain calm, but every direction they tried to go seemed wrong. The whispers had turned into voices, hundreds of them, all speaking at once, in that same ancient tongue.
As they climbed higher, the whispers became commands.
"Come closer."
"You belong to us."
"The peaks are waiting."
By the time the group reached the summit, only half remained. And those who did had lost something in their eyes, something hollow, something terrified.
At the peak, Lucas saw it — the thing that had been stalking them, standing on the very edge of the mountain, watching them as they approached.
Its shape was human, but its eyes were too large, its limbs too long, its mouth too wide. The skin that stretched across its body seemed to ripple with something dark beneath it.
It was the mountain itself, Lucas realized too late.
The last thing he heard before the world went black was the voice, now clear and undeniable.
"You will join us now."
And then, there was nothing.
---
The search party never found the hikers. Only their abandoned gear remained, scattered across the mountain, as if they had simply vanished into thin air.
The winds of the Andes still whisper their names.
And sometimes, if you listen closely, you can hear the voices calling to you.