In the Whitaker house where the paint peeled like aged skin and the floors groaned under the weight of silence, Evelyn lay motionless in her bed. The moonlight cast a stark glow across her room carving light into the darkness where shadows swelled.
It began as always, with the faintest of whispers a hiss that slithered through the cracks in the walls circling Evelyn's bed. The doctors called it sleep paralysis a trick of the mind trapping the body in a state of a waking nightmare, but Evelyn knew better. The whispers carried names, dates, places and secrets no one else could know.
The figures emerged from the corners, grotesque distortions of human form, eyes burning with a hellish intensity. They were not the fantastical demons of folklore they were far too real, their presence a malignant certainty. They spoke of things to come, of threads in the fabric of the world coming undone. They spoke of her part in it all.
Evelyn had long stopped sharing these encounters with others, the last time she did, they filled her room with pills and sympathy. Now she suffered the visitations in silence, a silent pact with whatever semblance of sanity remained.
The next morning Evelyn's room was just as she had left it, save for the faintest mark on her wrist, an imprint that resembled the touch of a hand not quite human. The chill of it stayed with her a cold reminder of the night's reality.
Days passed and the marks increased, bruises blossomed on her skin like morbid flowers. Her eyes, once vibrant, dulled under the weight of sleepless truths and as the boundary between her nightmares and waking life blurred, the town around her began to change. People whispered about shadows moving in broad daylight of a creeping dread that settled over the village like fog.
The night it happened the storm was sudden. Lightning seared the sky, and the wind screamed like the chorus of the damned. When it was over the Whitaker house stood empty, gutted by an inexplicable fire that left everything but Evelyn's room charred. They found her diary by her bed, its pages filled with ramblings of other worlds bleeding into ours, of her lineage cursed to be the gatekeepers of this cosmic fault line.
Evelyn was never found but some nights when the storm winds howl just right, a figure is seen walking the edge of town, her form indistinct but her path deliberate. And in the cold after the storm, those brave enough to walk the ashen footprint of the Whitaker house claim to feel a watchfulness, as if the veil between here and there, now and then, is perilously thin.
The villagers don't speak of the Whitaker girl, not anymore. Fear has a way of turning words into reality and some truths are too raw, too plausible to risk a breath, but in their silence, the acknowledgment lives, the terrifying possibility that the world is not as we know it and that some nightmares are real enough to change everything.
December 14th, 2023
Viewed 823 Times - Last Visitor from Dearborn, MI on 03/03/2024 at 11:58 PM