The Corpse's Unseen March

In the quiet town of Willow's End, the legend of the Corpse's Unseen March had been whispered for generations. Few dared to speak of it, but many had seen its shadowy figures on moonless nights. It was said that the departed walked the streets, unseen but ever-present, as a silent parade to their final resting place.

Eliza, a young woman of 28, lived a life that mirrored the tranquility of her surroundings. She worked at the local library, a place she cherished for its quiet solitude. It was there that she found solace from the strange occurrences that seemed to follow her since childhood. Yet, as the years passed, the events grew more intense.

One evening, as Eliza walked home from the library, the wind seemed to whisper secrets that had long been buried. She felt a cold chill run down her spine, but she dismissed it as an overactive imagination. The street lights flickered, casting eerie shadows on the cobblestone path.

As she reached the corner of Maple Street, Eliza felt a presence behind her. She turned, but saw nothing but the dark alleyway. She shook off the feeling, attributing it to her overactive senses. Yet, the next moment, she heard footsteps—distinct and deliberate, like a marching band of unseen soldiers.

Her heart raced as she quickened her pace, but the footsteps followed. She turned onto a side street, her breaths coming in short, gasping bursts. The footsteps grew louder, more insistent, as if the parade was gaining on her.

Eliza's mind raced. She had heard of the Corpse's Unseen March, but never believed it true. Now, she was caught in its relentless march. She turned a corner and stumbled upon an old, abandoned house at the end of the block. Her instinct told her to run, but she felt trapped, cornered by the silent procession.

As she pushed open the creaking gate, the house loomed over her, a silent sentinel. The footsteps stopped, and the silence was deafening. She stepped inside, the air thick with dust and decay. The walls seemed to close in on her, the shadows reaching out to touch her.

In the dim light, she saw the figures. They were everywhere, in the corners, behind the old furniture, even in the broken windows. They were the departed, their faces twisted in silent cries for justice or perhaps simply a need for recognition. Eliza realized then that this was more than a parade; it was a protest, a silent plea from the souls who had never found peace.

She walked deeper into the house, her heart pounding like a drum. In the center of the room, she found an old, dusty photograph. It was a group of young soldiers, smiling, their faces full of hope. She knew then that she was in the wrong place; this was their silent parade, their last march.

Eliza knelt to examine the photograph. It was then she heard a voice, clear and piercing, like the sound of a single note played over and over. "Find us," it whispered. "Remember us."

Eliza looked around, searching for the source of the voice. She saw a faint glow in the corner, a small, flickering flame. As she approached, the flame grew brighter, revealing a small, hand-crafted box. Inside was a letter, addressed to her.

She opened it and read:

"Dear Eliza,

You have lived your life in shadow, never truly seeing the world around you. The Corpse's Unseen March is real, and I am one of its participants. We walk this earth, unseen but never forgotten. Find us, and remember us.

In life, we were not heard. Now, we ask that you speak for us."

Eliza felt tears well up in her eyes as she realized the weight of the words. She had to find a way to honor these souls, to give them a voice. She knew that the march was not over; it had only just begun.

She returned to the library, the box in hand. She spent nights and days researching, uncovering the stories of the soldiers, the forgotten heroes of Willow's End. She wrote their tales, shared their voices, and in doing so, she became their advocate.

As Eliza's voice spread across the town, the Corpse's Unseen March seemed to fade away. The soldiers were no longer unseen, their stories lived on in the hearts of those who remembered. And Eliza, though she never saw their parade again, knew that she had made a difference.

She looked into the mirror, her reflection calm and resolute. "From now on, you are me," she whispered to herself. She was Eliza, the keeper of stories, the voice of the departed, the one who had given them life once more.

The Corpse's Unseen March had ended, but Eliza's journey was just beginning. She would continue to remember, to honor, and to speak for those who had been silenced for too long.