Echoes of the Unknown

(I thought they were my friends… but the devil has no friends.)

(I thought I was dead… but even death fears me.)

The night hummed with an unnatural stillness, thick and oppressive. The air carried a lingering chill, seeping through the narrow crack of an open window. A single figure sat hunched over a desk, bathed in the dim glow of a computer screen.

Elliot Crown's fingers hovered over the keyboard, his mind calculating the next move in his strategy game. Victory was inevitable yet something gnawed at him. A whisper at the back of his skull, a phantom unease that refused to fade.

Then 

"Elliot! Dinner's ready!"

His mother's voice rang from downstairs, slicing through the quiet.

He exhaled sharply, pulling off his headphones. "Coming, Mom."

The stairs creaked beneath his weight as he descended. The kitchen was warm, the air thick with the scent of spices. His mother stood by the stove, humming softly as she scrubbed a pan.

Elliot sat at the table, pushing food around his plate absentmindedly. Then 

(I hope he eats quickly. I want to finish the dishes before my show starts.)

His fork froze mid-air.

The voice had been clear, precise. As if someone had whispered directly into his skull.

His gaze snapped to his mother. She was still at the sink, oblivious.

"Mom?" His voice was careful.

She turned, drying her hands on a towel. "Hmm?"

"Did you… just say something?"

A slight frown. "No, honey. Just thinking about my show."

(He looks nervous. Did he get into trouble at school?)

Elliot's pulse hammered against his ribs.

The chair screeched against the floor as he pushed back, standing abruptly. "I'm full. Going back to my room."

His mother barely glanced at him as he rushed upstairs, slamming the door behind him. He pressed his back against the wood, breath ragged.

This isn't possible.

And yet it had happened. He had heard her thoughts.

The next day, he tested it.

Mark met him at his locker, eyes flickering with concern. "Hey, you okay? You look like you saw a ghost."

Elliot forced a chuckle. "Yeah, just tired." A pause. Then, carefully, "Mark… how old are you?"

Mark blinked. "Sixteen. Why?"

(God, I hope he doesn't ask about the math homework… I forgot to do it.)

A chill coiled around Elliot's spine.

"You didn't do the math homework, did you?"

Mark's expression shifted from casual to something sharper. "What the hell, dude? How'd you know that?"

Elliot shrugged, forcing a grin. "Just a lucky guess."

But he knew better.

He had a name. He had an age. And now, their minds were open to him.

That night, the whispers wouldn't stop.

Endless streams of voices some hushed, some screaming. Words colliding, thoughts unraveling, merging into a chaotic storm inside his skull. He curled under the sheets, pressing his hands against his ears, but it was no use.

By morning, his head throbbed, his vision blurred at the edges.

He needed control.

So he experimented.

Teachers. Strangers. Peeling back layers of their minds, exposing secrets they never intended to share. Some were mundane desires, regrets, anxieties. Others were darker.

And then, he heard it.

Sitting in the back of the library, he honed in on a familiar student a quiet boy who always sat alone. Just another test subject.

(I'll do it today. No one suspects me. They'll all see what happens when you push someone too far.)

A breath hitched in Elliot's throat.

His gaze snapped to Ryan Miller. Hands shaking. Eyes dull, distant.

Elliot's pulse quickened.

(Do what?)

A flash—Ryan's locker, a dark shape tucked inside, the cold glint of metal.

No.

Elliot staggered back, gripping the edge of the desk. His stomach churned.

No. No. No.

The voices swarmed, growing louder, suffocating him. His mind wasn't just listening anymore it was drowning.

By nightfall, the whispers dulled to a low hum, but Elliot's paranoia didn't fade.

He sat in a small café near campus, fingers wrapped around a coffee cup, knuckles white.

The voices were quieter here. Most of the patrons were strangers. Their thoughts were locked away, safe behind a wall he couldn't breach.

Then 

"Hey there! What can I get you?"

He looked up. A waitress. Lina, her nametag read.

"Black coffee."

(He looks too young for coffee… but he's kinda cute.)

Elliot smirked despite himself. The moment she spoke her age, the whispers would—

"By the way… how old are you?"

Lina gave him a playful look. "Twenty. Why?"

And just like that, her mind unraveled before him.

(The manager's making me work late again. Ugh… and that guy in the corner keeps staring at me.)

Elliot followed her thought trail.

A man.

Baseball cap. Sunglasses. Alone.

Something about him felt... off.

A weight settled in Elliot's chest. He stood, crossing the room.

"Hey there," he greeted, forcing a casual tone. "What's your name?"

The man didn't move. Didn't even acknowledge him at first. Then, slowly, he lifted his head.

"Who's asking?"

"Just curious." Elliot smiled. "Your name?"

A pause. Then 

"Jack."

Elliot's stomach twisted. "And how old are you?"

Jack hesitated. Then—

"Thirty-five."

Elliot braced himself for the onslaught of thoughts. The familiar flood of whispers.

But—nothing.

His breath hitched.

Nothing. No voices. No thoughts. Just silence.

His throat tightened. "I… I can't hear you."

Jack's lips curled into something cold, predatory.

"So," he murmured, leaning forward. "You're one of them."

Then, before Elliot could react 

A sharp, searing pain shot through his skull. His vision wavered, static crawling at the edges.

For the first time, the voice inside his head wasn't his own.

(Run. Now.)

Elliot's breath came short and ragged.

Jack stood, adjusting his cap. "We've been watching you for a while," he said. "And now? It's your turn."

Then, with a casual stride, he slipped out the door and into the night.

Elliot remained frozen, fingers digging into the table, heart hammering.

One of them?

Who's we?

For the first time since discovering his power…

He was afraid.