3 – Whispers in the Dark

Whispers in the Dark

The fluorescent hum of Raven Hollow High buzzed overhead as Sofia slipped into third-period English, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. Her ponytail was frayed, her eyes shadowed from a night of no sleep—just the lullaby looping in her skull, soft and wrong, like a lullaby sung through gritted teeth. She dropped into her seat near the back, avoiding the stares of her classmates. Normally, she'd be the one cracking jokes, rallying the room with that fierce optimism everyone leaned on. Today, she felt hollow, like the fog outside had seeped into her bones.

Mr. Hargrove droned on about The Crucible, his chalk scratching the board with names like Proctor and Abigail. Sofia's pen hovered over her notebook, but her mind was back in Noah's garage—those claw marks, Liam's gritted resolve. They were going back to Blackwood tomorrow night. The thought made her stomach lurch, but sitting still felt worse. She started doodling the sigil from the manor, its jagged lines bleeding into the margins.

A faint hum broke her focus. That lullaby again, threading through the classroom's chatter. Her head snapped up, scanning for the source. No one else reacted—Hargrove kept lecturing, kids kept whispering. It grew louder, insistent, curling around her like a noose. She gripped her desk, knuckles white.

"Miss Ortiz?" Hargrove's voice cut through. He stood at the front, peering over his glasses. "Something to add?"

The humming stopped. Sofia blinked, heat creeping up her neck. "Uh, no. Sorry."

He nodded, turning back to the board. She exhaled, shaky, and glanced at her notebook. The sigil stared back, but now it was smeared—like someone had dragged a wet finger through it. She hadn't touched it. Her pulse kicked up, and she shoved the notebook into her bag.

That's when she heard it—a low, guttural whisper: "Sofiaaa…" It came from behind her, close enough to brush her ear. She whipped around, but the seat was empty. The kid next to her, Jake, frowned.

"You okay?" he asked, chewing gum.

"Did you hear that?" she hissed.

"Hear what?"

The whisper came again, sharper: "You're mine." Her chair scraped as she stood, drawing eyes. Hargrove paused, chalk in hand.

"Problem, Miss Ortiz?"

"I—I need the bathroom," she stammered, bolting before he could argue. The hall was empty, lockers lining it like silent sentinels. She leaned against one, breathing hard, when the lights flickered. A shadow darted at the corridor's end—tall, thin, gone in a blink. Her hands shook as she texted the group: It's here. At school.

Liam found her by the gym after fourth period, her arms crossed tight, staring at the fog pressing against the windows. He'd ditched algebra, his coach's voice still ringing in his head from a missed practice. Sofia's text had hit like a punch—he'd felt it too, that itch of being watched, ever since the diner.

"You sure it wasn't just—" he started, but her glare cut him off.

"I'm not imagining it, Liam. It knew my name."

He shifted, uneasy. "Okay. What'd it sound like?"

"Like… gravel. Not human." She rubbed her arms. "And the humming—it's the same as the manor."

Before he could respond, a scream echoed from the gym. They ran toward it, bursting through the double doors. The basketball team was mid-drill, but Coach Reynolds stood frozen, whistle dangling, staring at the bleachers. Liam followed his gaze and felt his blood turn to ice.

His dad sat there—or something wearing his dad's face. Broad shoulders, flannel shirt, that easy grin from the fridge photo. But the eyes were wrong—too bright, glinting like coins. The figure raised a hand, waving slow and deliberate. Liam's knees buckled.

"Dad?" he croaked.

Coach barked, "Who the hell's that?" The team turned, confused, but the bleachers were empty now. Liam stumbled forward, scanning the seats. Nothing. Just the echo of that wave burned into his mind.

Sofia grabbed his arm. "You saw it too?"

"Yeah," he rasped. "That wasn't him."

They bolted from the gym, the air outside thick with fog. Liam's phone buzzed—Ethan: Meet at my place. Found something big.

Ethan's basement was a mess of cables and screens, a tech nerd's paradise. He sat cross-legged on a beanbag, laptop glowing, as the group crowded around. Maya clutched her sketchbook, Noah flipped through Legends of Raven Hollow, and Sofia perched on a crate, still rattled. Liam paced, the image of his dad looping in his head.

"Town records," Ethan said, tapping keys. "Hacked into the archives. Check this."

The screen showed a scanned ledger from 1953—names, dates, "Missing" stamped in red. Five teens, vanished during a lunar eclipse. Ethan scrolled to 1998: another five, same pattern. Liam's breath hitched. His dad's name wasn't there, but the date—October 17, 1998—was the day he'd died. Crash on Route 12, they'd said. No explanation for why he'd been out so late.

"There's more," Ethan said. "Buried police report from '53. Witnesses saw 'shadows' near Blackwood before the kids disappeared. No bodies, just… gone."

"Like us," Maya whispered. She flipped open her sketchbook, revealing a drawing of the manor's figure—tall, eyeless, limbs too long. "I keep seeing it."

Noah adjusted his glasses, voice steady despite the shake in his hands. "The cycle's real. Every few decades, something takes people. We triggered it."

Liam stopped pacing. "Then why's it messing with us now? Why not just—" He couldn't finish. Take us.

"Because it's playing," Sofia said, her voice small. "It likes the fear."

A thud upstairs made them jump. Ethan's mom was at work—house should've been empty. Footsteps creaked, slow and heavy, descending the basement stairs. Liam grabbed a bat from a corner, nodding at Ethan, who snatched a screwdriver. The door creaked open, and a shadow stretched across the wall—tall, thin, familiar.

"Get back!" Liam shouted, swinging. The bat hit air. The shadow vanished, but a low laugh rumbled, shaking the room. Lights flickered, and Ethan's laptop sparked, screen frying to static.

"Out!" Noah yelled. They scrambled up the stairs, piling into Ethan's beat-up Civic. He floored it, tires screeching, as fog swallowed the house. No one spoke until they hit Main Street, hearts hammering.

"It's not waiting," Maya said, clutching her sketchbook. "It's already started."

Liam stared out the window, the bat still in his lap. His dad's face flashed again—those wrong eyes. He clenched his jaw, a fire sparking through the fear. "Tomorrow night. We end it."

Sofia nodded, fierce again. "No more running."

Back home, Sofia locked her bedroom door, her dog Luna whining at the window. The fog pressed thick outside, but the humming was louder now, inside her head. She grabbed her phone, recording a voice memo: "If we don't make it, someone needs to know. Blackwood's alive. It's watching."

She paused, then hummed the lullaby into the mic—slow, shaky, matching the tune. Luna growled, hackles up, staring at the mirror. Sofia turned, and her breath stopped. A face stared back—not hers. Pale, eyeless, smiling. The glass fogged, a handprint smearing across it.

She screamed, dropping the phone. The lights died, plunging her into dark….