Story 1060: Banshee Protocol

The emergency broadcast began at 3:33 a.m.

No sirens. No evacuation orders. Just a mechanical voice, genderless, distorted by static:

“Initiating Banshee Protocol. Remain indoors. Seal all mirrors. Do not answer the door. If you hear her scream—pray she doesn’t see you.”

Then silence.

Then a hum.

Then we began to forget.

It started small. Names slipped. Birthdays vanished. Survivors we’d been traveling with for weeks were suddenly strangers to us. Someone would walk into a room, and we’d swear we had no idea who they were—until the fog cleared, and we remembered.

But it wouldn’t last.

The fog always came back.

Carmen was the first to hear it.

A sound like shattered glass screaming. Piercing. Unnatural. Not in the ears—in the bones.

She collapsed, blood pouring from her nose and ears. She shook, convulsed, eyes rolled back as if something inside her was trying to claw its way out through her skull.

We couldn’t help her.