Adem Özçelik's Blog: the writer

In the kingdom of Aeloria lay a forest no map dared ink: the Shadowgrove. Tavern talk shrank to whispers at its name. Those who returned from its depths came back altered—hollow-eyed, unmoored—or they didn’t return at all. Some called it a curse. Others said it was a sanctuary for wronged spirits, old as the first thunder. For most, it was a mystery politely avoided.

Then a stranger crossed Aeloria’s gates.

Elara was no ordinary traveler. Sigils of warding stitched silver along her dark cloak; the steadiness in her gaze spoke of the old ways learned well. She had come on purpose, not by accident, and her purpose had teeth: enter the Shadowgrove and prise its secrets loose.

At the forest’s hem the trees stood like watchmen, their boughs knitted tight enough to smother the sky. The air pressed close, damp and mineral, and a fine chill ran the length of Elara’s spine. The magic here was palpable—aged and wild, the way a river is wild beneath winter ice. It hissed at her to turn back. She stepped in anyway, and the head of her staff answered with a low, protective glow.

The deeper she went, the less the woods behaved as woods. Trunks seemed to swivel when she glanced away; roots shifted underfoot with the slow patience of snakes. Shadows fretted at the edges of her vision, too tall and too still to be only wind. When she turned to meet them, there was only the stale breath of leaves. The forest was not merely alive—it was attentive.

Night found her in a sparse clearing where the moon pushed its way down in thin ribbons. She coaxed a small fire to life and kept her back to a mossy stone. Sleep would not come quickly here; she did not invite it. The grove’s sounds layered and unlayered—the soft skitter of beetles, something distant that might have been a fox or might have been grief learning a voice.

The voice arrived like cold breath on glass.

“Turn back, mage. The Shadowgrove is not for you.”

Elara’s eyes snapped open. Her hand tightened around the staff. The fire guttered low, and the dark leaned closer, hemming her in. She stood. Her pulse drummed in her throat, but her voice went out steady.

“Show yourself.”

Leaves answered first—a hush, a shift—and then the shadows conspired into a figure: tall, cloaked, not quite touching the ground. Its eyes burned a muted, unnatural green. When it spoke again, the sound rode the branches like wind.

“You seek the grove’s truth. It is not yours to carry. Leave while leaving is still a choice.”

“I can’t.” Elara lifted the staff a fraction. “I came for answers. I won’t leave empty-handed.”

The figure held her in a long, silent regard, as if testing the grain of her resolve.

“The truth has a cost,” it said at last, voice gone almost tender with sorrow. “The Shadowgrove gives by the same measure that it takes. Will you be weighed?”

Elara hesitated—long enough to remember the tavern warnings, too short to heed them. She nodded.

“I will.”

The figure raised a hand and the grove responded like a struck bell. The ground gave a small, sick tremor. Darkness cinched in, banding around her limbs, her ribs, the soft place behind her eyes. Cold flooded her bones. For an instant so brief it felt endless, visions flared: a war beneath these very trees, banners drowned in rain, steel turned to splinters; spirits bound to roots and stone by vows never meant to last this long; grief and rage knotted into a power that could not dissipate and would not forgive. The forest had become a vessel for memory too heavy to carry.

Then it let her go.

Elara found herself on her knees, breath rasping ragged, the world tilting and then righting. The clearing stood empty; the fire regained a cautious, ordinary crackle. But the ordinary had gone sideways. Something else was with her now—a new weight in the mind, like a stone dropped into a still pool. Knowledge, yes. And the shadow of the price attached to it.

She rose unsteadily. The staff’s glow dimmed to an ember. She had what she had come for, and she knew now that “having” was the wrong verb; the grove had not yielded its truth so much as altered her to fit around it. When she turned to leave, the shadows thinned to make a path, and the whispers gentled at her passing—not welcoming, but acknowledging. She had looked into the grove’s oldest wound and not looked away. The mark of that lingered like a second heartbeat.

At the treeline, daylight met her with a shock of openness. Waiting there, drawn by rumor and fear, were the people of Aeloria. They took her in with widened eyes: the mage who had gone where no one went, returning with something unreadable riding behind her gaze.

Elara met them without triumph. Whatever truth she carried would not be turned into campfire tales or coin. It would sit with her, as persistent as a remembered name on the tongue, and tilt her life by degrees. The grove was not a riddle solved but a pact entered.

She moved past the onlookers. Some stepped back, some bowed, none spoke. Over her shoulder, from the green gloom, a last breath of sound followed—a whisper knotted with leaf and wind, the forest’s own refrain:

“The price is never paid in full.”

The day Samuel Prescott arrived in Shadow Hollow, the sky was a washed-out shade of gray, as though the town itself had sucked the color from it. Samuel, a historian by trade, had been hired to catalog the town archives—a job that seemed straightforward enough. But as he drove down the single winding road into town, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Shadow Hollow had secrets best left undisturbed. There was something almost too still about it, the kind of stillness that came from waiting.
The townspeople greeted Samuel with polite but guarded smiles, their eyes skimming over him, never quite meeting his gaze. They spoke in hushed voices, careful to avoid certain topics, as though afraid that the very air might betray them. Even the innkeeper, a middle-aged woman named Edith, seemed wary. When she handed him the keys to his room, she paused, her hand hovering above his for a moment too long. “You’re here for the archives?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“That’s right,” Samuel nodded, trying to meet her eyes, but she glanced away. “Is there something I should know?”
Edith hesitated, then shook her head quickly. “Just… be careful in the old library,” she murmured before turning away. Her words were cryptic, but Samuel shrugged them off. He’d dealt with old buildings before—dusty, filled with creaking shelves and fading pages, but harmless. Still, her warning echoed in his mind as he unpacked his things.
The next day, Samuel began his work in the town’s ancient library. It was a towering structure of stone, the kind of building that seemed to belong to another era entirely. The archives were housed in a basement level, accessible only by a narrow staircase that spiraled downward into darkness. The air grew colder the farther he descended, and Samuel found himself flicking on his flashlight despite the dim overhead lights.
The basement was filled with rows of shelves, each packed with crumbling ledgers, faded maps, and brittle papers. Dust clung to everything, thick enough that it coated his fingertips when he touched the volumes. Samuel set up a small desk in the center of the room and began to work, carefully cataloging the documents.
Hours passed, and Samuel became so engrossed in his work that he almost didn’t hear the faint rustling behind him. He turned, expecting to see a mouse or perhaps a breeze shifting the pages of an old book, but there was nothing. The air felt suddenly colder, and Samuel frowned. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.
He tried to ignore it, chalking it up to nerves or fatigue, but the sensation grew stronger as the hours passed. The shadows between the shelves seemed to lengthen, stretching out towards him, and the rustling continued—soft, almost like whispers. Samuel rubbed his eyes and decided to call it a day. He’d return tomorrow, hopefully feeling less on edge.
That night, as he lay in bed at the inn, Samuel dreamed of the library. He was standing at his desk, surrounded by books and papers, but the room was dark. The shadows between the shelves moved, shifting like liquid, and from within them, he could hear a voice. It was faint, almost too faint to understand, but it seemed to be calling his name. He strained to listen, but the darkness swallowed the words, and he woke with a start, drenched in sweat.
The next day, Samuel returned to the library, determined to finish his work. The atmosphere seemed heavier, the air colder, but he forced himself to focus. He was cataloging a particularly old ledger when he found something strange. It was a page, tucked between two others, yellowed and brittle, with writing that seemed different from the rest. The ink was darker, fresher, and the handwriting—it wasn’t from the same era as the rest of the book.
Samuel read the words carefully: Beware the Watcher in the Shadows. He sees all, knows all. The price of secrets is too high.
A chill ran down his spine. He glanced around, half-expecting to see someone standing behind him, but the room was empty. He folded the page carefully, slipping it into his pocket. The whispers had started again, louder now, and Samuel felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. He decided to leave early, the ledger left unfinished on the desk.
That night, Edith knocked on his door. Her face was pale, her eyes wide. “You found something, didn’t you?” she asked, her voice trembling.
Samuel hesitated, then nodded. He pulled the folded page from his pocket, showing her the warning. Edith’s face went even paler, and she stepped back, crossing herself. “You shouldn’t have touched it,” she whispered. “The Watcher… he’s always listening. He’ll come for you now.”
Samuel tried to laugh it off, but the fear in her eyes was unmistakable. That night, the dream returned, more vivid than before. He was in the library, the shadows thick around him, and the voice was louder now, calling his name, repeating the words he’d read on the page. The price of secrets is too high.
Samuel woke with a start, his heart pounding. He knew he couldn’t stay in Shadow Hollow any longer. He packed his things in haste, the sense of dread growing with each passing moment. As he left the inn, Edith watched him from the doorway, her eyes filled with pity. “You can’t run from him,” she said softly. “The Watcher is part of this town. He’s part of you now.”
Samuel didn’t look back. He drove away from Shadow Hollow as fast as he could, the town disappearing in his rearview mirror. But even as the miles stretched between him and that strange place, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t alone. The shadows in the corners of his vision seemed darker, deeper, and in the silence of his car, he could almost hear a whisper.
The price of secrets is too high.

Last night, I woke to a strange sensation—a prickling cold crawling across my skin. The room was quiet, but the shadows seemed darker, pooling at the edges of my vision. As my eyes adjusted, I realized that something was standing at the foot of my bed. A figure, dark and formless, with an intensity that rooted me in place. I couldn’t make out a face, or even a distinct body—it was like the darkness had risen from the corners of my room and decided to take shape. I tried to scream, but the air caught in my throat, frozen in fear. All I could do was stare back, my heart pounding so loudly I thought it might burst.
I must have blinked—just once—and it was gone. My eyes darted around the room, scanning the space for movement, but the shadow had vanished into the night. Trembling, I pulled the covers up to my chin, trying to convince myself it was just a dream. But the unease wouldn't leave me. The chill of the presence stayed with me, pressing on my chest until, eventually, exhaustion overpowered fear and pulled me under.
Morning arrived in a muted haze, sunlight seeping through the curtains. The events of the night felt distant but still unsettling. I rubbed my eyes, trying to shake the strange heaviness that hung over me. As I stumbled out of bed and into the kitchen, my phone rang, the screen flashing my mother’s name. I answered, still half-asleep.
“Hello?” I mumbled.
“Why were you standing in my room last night?” Her voice was sharp, a note of irritation laced with something else—fear. My breath caught, and I felt my pulse quicken again.
“What? Mom, what are you talking about?” I managed, trying to process her words.
“Don’t play games with me,” she snapped, but her voice wavered. “I woke up and saw you standing there. You didn’t say anything. You just stood at the foot of my bed, staring at me. I called your name, but you didn’t move. Then you were just… gone.”
A chill ran through me, colder than the one I’d felt in the night. I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter to steady myself. My mother’s words painted an image that matched my own nightmare perfectly—too perfectly. The same figure, the same silent presence, watching without moving.
“Mom, I swear, I wasn’t there,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “It must’ve been a dream.”
Silence settled between us, heavy and uneasy. I could hear her breathing, the hesitation before she spoke again. “Maybe. But it felt real.”
We ended the call, but the unease lingered, gnawing at the edges of my mind. I couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever had visited me last night had somehow reached across the distance to my mother as well. I tried to push the thought away, convincing myself it was just a coincidence, but a growing sense of dread refused to be silenced.
That night, I hesitated before going to bed. I left the lights on, the door open, and tried to ignore the gnawing fear that something was waiting for me. I drifted into a restless sleep, my dreams thick with shadows and whispers, but nothing came to visit—at least, not that I could remember.
The next morning, my mother called again. Her voice was trembling. “It happened again,” she said, and I could hear the fear cracking through her words. “I saw you. You were just standing there, staring at me.”
A chill settled in my bones, colder than anything I’d ever felt before. “Mom, it’s not me,” I said, my voice shaking. “Whatever it is… it’s not me.”
We both knew, deep down, that this was something beyond either of us—something that wasn’t going to leave just because we ignored it. That night, I stayed on the phone with my mother until she fell asleep, listening to her breathing, trying to convince myself that I could protect her, even from miles away. But when the cold crept back into my room and I felt the weight of eyes on me once more, I knew that whatever it was, it wasn’t finished with us yet.
The darkness stood at the foot of my bed again, and this time, I could almost make out a face—almost see my own eyes staring back at me, empty and unblinking.

Every story begins with a question, and for me, it was this: What would it feel like to be stranded on an isolated island, not just with nature’s challenges, but with something that grows bigger—and potentially more dangerous?

That question lingered in my mind, nudging me to imagine the possibilities. The idea of being completely cut off, surrounded by untamed wilderness, and forging a bond with something wild—like lion cubs—captivated me. What starts as survival evolves into a delicate balance of trust and fear, and the choices we make in such situations define who we become.

Writing "The Wild Calls" was my way of exploring those themes—resilience, vulnerability, and the unexpected ways we connect with the world around us. I hope readers feel the same sense of wonder and tension that I did while bringing this story to life.

What would you do if faced with a challenge that grows stronger every day? That’s the question I hope resonates as you turn the pages.