The Whispering Gold

Original Story by LaMont Klepper

The Superstition Mountains had always been a place of mystery, but for Tom Greaves, they were a challenge. A seasoned treasure hunter, he had spent years searching for the fabled Lost Dutchman’s Gold Mine. Rumors claimed that those who sought it never returned—or worse, came back changed.

One crisp autumn morning, Tom ventured deep into the rugged canyons, his boots crunching against the dry earth. The towering cliffs loomed like silent sentinels, their jagged peaks cutting into the sky. He followed an old map he had found in a dusty antique shop, its edges curled and yellowed with age.

As the sun dipped behind the cliffs, casting long shadows, Tom found something—an entrance to a cave, half-hidden behind a tangle of brush. The air inside was thick and stale, carrying a scent of something long decayed. He flicked on his flashlight, revealing a narrow passageway that widened into a cavern. And there, glinting in the dim light, were veins of gold running through the rock.

His heart pounded. He had done it. He had found the Lost Dutchman’s treasure.

But then, the whispering began.

At first, it was a faint rustling, like wind through dry leaves. Then, voices—soft, urgent murmurs, circling around him, though he was alone. The words were indistinct, but the tone was unmistakable: warning.

Tom turned, his flashlight beam shaking. The entrance to the cave had disappeared. In its place stood a figure—a gaunt man with hollow eyes, his skin the color of sun-bleached bone. The apparition raised a skeletal hand and whispered, "Leave. The gold is cursed. You are marked now."

Panic surged through Tom as the walls of the cave seemed to pulse, the whispers swelling into a chorus of tormented wails. He stumbled back, clawing at the air, desperate to escape. Then, darkness.

Days later, a search party found Tom’s camp abandoned. His footprints led into the mountains but never came back out. Some say the spirits of the Lost Dutchman’s victims had claimed him. Others whisper that on certain nights, if you listen closely near the Superstition Mountains, you can still hear Tom’s voice—desperate, pleading—lost forever in the whispers of the gold.