The spirits of the mound

The Spirits of the Mound

I don’t believe in ghosts. Never have. The world is full of logical explanations for everything—at least, that’s what I told myself. But after what happened in Moundsville, West Virginia, I’m not so sure anymore.

It started as a weekend getaway, just me and my wife, Lila. She loved exploring old places, the kind that had history etched into their walls. I didn’t mind tagging along—it made her happy, and that was enough for me.

But this trip was different.

Lila had been fixated on the Adena burial mound ever since she’d read about it online. The ancient structure was one of the largest conical burial mounds in the country, built by a civilization long gone. I thought it was an interesting piece of history, nothing more. Lila, though, seemed almost… obsessed.

“They say it’s haunted,” she told me as we pulled into town. Her voice was light, but there was a spark in her eyes.

I smirked. “You know I don’t buy into that stuff.”

She smiled back. “Maybe you will after this weekend.”

Our first evening in Moundsville, we walked to the mound just before sunset. It was massive, a green hill rising out of the earth like a monument to something long forgotten.

As we stood there, Lila tilted her head, like she was listening to something.

“Do you hear that?” she asked.

“Hear what?”

“The whispers.”

I frowned. “It’s probably the wind.”

“It’s not the wind,” she said, her voice firm. “They’re voices. They’re trying to tell me something.”

I sighed, brushing it off as her overactive imagination. She’d always been sensitive, the kind of person who saw beauty—and meaning—where others saw nothing. But this was different. She seemed… troubled.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. She sat by the window, staring at the mound in the distance.

“They’re angry,” she whispered when I asked her what was wrong. “They don’t want us here.”

“You’re stressed, that’s all,” I said, trying to reassure her. “Let’s get some rest, and tomorrow we’ll do something fun.”

But I couldn’t shake the unease I felt as I lay awake, listening to her soft murmurs in the dark.

The next day, Lila insisted we go back to the mound.

“I need to understand what they’re saying,” she told me.

“Lila, there’s nothing to understand. It’s a burial site, not a séance.”

But she wouldn’t let it go, so I went with her.

As we walked around the base of the mound, I noticed how quiet it was. No birds, no insects, just an oppressive stillness that seemed to press down on us.

Lila stopped suddenly, her gaze fixed on a shadow at the edge of the mound.

“There,” she whispered.

I squinted, but saw nothing.

“You’re scaring yourself,” I said, though my voice sounded less certain than I’d intended.

She didn’t respond. She just started taking pictures with her phone, her hands trembling.

That night, as she scrolled through the photos, she gasped.

“What is it?” I asked, leaning over her shoulder.

She zoomed in on one of the images. At first, it looked like a normal photo of the mound. But as she adjusted the brightness, shapes began to appear. Faces. Dozens of them, barely visible but undeniably there.

“It’s a trick of the light,” I said, though my stomach twisted into knots.

Lila shook her head. “You know it’s not.”

By the third night, Lila was unraveling. She barely ate, barely spoke, her eyes fixed on the mound as if it held all the answers.

“They want something from me,” she said as we lay in bed.

“No,” I said firmly. “You’re not doing this. You’re not going to let some stupid ghost story take over your mind.”

She looked at me, her expression sad. “You still don’t believe me, do you?”

“I believe you believe it,” I said carefully.

She turned away, her shoulders slumping. “I don’t think you’ll believe me until it’s too late.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

The next evening, Lila insisted on going back to the mound. I tried to stop her, but she was determined.

“They’re not going to let us leave until I give them what they want,” she said.

“And what do they want?” I demanded.

“Me.”

“No.” I grabbed her arm, desperate to pull her back to reality. “We’re leaving. Right now. You need help, Lila.”

She pulled away, her expression calm and resolute. “They’ll never stop, Eric. You don’t understand because you don’t hear them. But I do.”

She kissed me softly, then turned and walked toward the mound.

“Lila!” I shouted, running after her.

But as she approached the base, the air grew impossibly heavy. A low hum filled my ears, and the shadows around the mound began to shift and move. Figures emerged—dark, indistinct shapes that surrounded her.

I tried to reach her, but my legs felt like they were wading through molasses.

“Lila!”

She looked back at me one last time, tears streaming down her face. “I love you,” she whispered.

And then the shadows consumed her.

I don’t know how long I sat there, staring at the spot where she’d disappeared. When I finally stumbled back to the hotel, her phone was on the bed, the screen still open to the photo of the mound. The faces were clearer now, their expressions twisted in anger and grief.

I’ve tried to leave Moundsville, but every road seems to loop back to the mound. The whispers follow me wherever I go, growing louder and more insistent.

I used to think ghosts weren’t real.

Now I know better.

And I know they’re coming for me.