Chapter 10: The Speaker's Mark

I didn't leave the house for three days.

I couldn't.

Something in me had shifted—some threshold crossed, some part of myself locked behind a door I could no longer see. My body still moved, still breathed, still ate. But I wasn't sure it was me anymore doing those things.

Because the voice didn't whisper now.

It directed.

It told me when to sleep.

When to wake.

When to speak.

And more importantly—when to stay silent.

I wasn't just carrying Walter Griggs' memories anymore. I was carrying his mission.

That terrified me more than anything.

I thought, maybe if I left the house long enough, I could weaken whatever grip it had on me. But every time I approached the door, my chest tightened, vision blurred, and a low pressure built in my ears, like being underwater.

I'd learned to listen to that pressure.

The first time I ignored it, I blacked out on the porch. Woke up with dirt in my mouth again, and a nail in my hand.

Not one from the floor.

A new one.

Clean.

Shiny.

Sharp.

That night, I took the mirror off the wall. I couldn't stand to look at myself. Not because of the changes—but because I wasn't alone behind my eyes anymore.

There was something watching from within.

Walter. Or what remained of him.

He didn't always make himself known. But sometimes, when I was brushing my teeth or passing a dark window, I'd see it—a flicker, a tilt of the head I didn't make. A blink I didn't feel.

A second self, rising.

That morning, I found something etched into the kitchen table.

I didn't put it there.

"Three must hear. Then three must answer."

I ran my fingers over the carving. The grooves were fresh. Splinters curled from the letters. And in the space between the words, three tally marks had been scratched—long, deliberate strokes.

Three.

I had no idea what it meant.

Not then.

But I would.

Soon.

---

That evening, my phone rang.

I hadn't heard it ring in days. The sound startled me, like a scream in a silent church.

It was Liam—my friend from college. We hadn't talked in months.

I almost didn't answer.

But the voice nudged me.

"This is one."

I picked up.

"Dude," Liam said, chuckling, "you fall off the grid or what? I thought you moved to the woods to become a monk."

"I… had to get away," I said. My voice sounded strange to me. Hollow. Too steady.

"Yeah, I get that," he replied. "Honestly, I've been meaning to call. I've had these weird dreams lately. Don't laugh, but… they feel real. Like I wake up tasting dirt."

My blood froze.

"What did you say?"

"Dirt. Like, in my mouth. And this voice, man—it's always saying the same thing. 'Let me speak.' I know, I know—it sounds like bad sleep, but…"

He trailed off.

"You felt it too," I whispered.

Dead silence on the other end.

Then: "What did you say?"

"Liam," I said slowly, "I need you to come here."

"Where is here?"

"My house. I'll send the address."

Another pause. Then: "Yeah. Okay. You sound… different. I'll come by tomorrow."

He hung up.

I stared at the phone for a long time.

"This is one," the voice repeated.

And then the second tally mark carved itself into the table—on its own.

---

That night, the dreams returned.

But they weren't dreams.

They were memories.

Not mine.

I was standing in the woods behind the house, barefoot, shivering. My hands were caked in soil. Before me, a group of people surrounded a freshly dug hole. Their faces were shadowed, but I knew who they were—neighbors. Townsfolk.

Judge, jury, and executioners.

In the center of the circle was Walter.

Mouth bleeding.

Lips nailed shut.

He knelt, gasping through his nose, eyes wild with grief and rage. One man held a hammer. Another held a bible.

"This ain't murder," the one with the bible said. "It's peace."

The hammer swung.

Walter didn't scream.

He couldn't.

They lowered him into the hole alive.

Covered him slowly, muting his body inch by inch with dirt and prayers and fear.

And all the while, Walter's eyes stared directly into mine—like he knew I'd be watching from the other side of time.

---

I woke up screaming.

The sheets were soaked with sweat. My mouth was dry. My ears rang with silence—but beneath it, I heard the hum again. That deep, impossible hum that lived in the walls now.

The house was waking up.

Preparing.

I walked to the table.

Now there were two tally marks.

Soon, there would be three.

---

The next morning, Liam arrived.

I barely recognized him. He looked… sick. Pale, tired, like something had been feeding on his sleep.

He stepped inside and immediately froze.

"Dude… it feels thick in here."

"Yeah," I said. "That's the house."

He gave me a look, unsure if I was joking.

We sat in the living room. I didn't offer coffee. I didn't even pretend.

Instead, I handed him the box of nails.

The one I found in the kitchen.

He opened it.

Stared.

Didn't ask a single question.

He just nodded, slowly, like some part of him had always known this moment was coming.

I told him everything.

Walter. The voices. The buried past. The tongue. The ritual. The marks.

By the time I finished, Liam's eyes were glassy.

He whispered: "I dreamed this."

"I know," I said.

The house creaked. The lights dimmed.

And the third tally carved itself into the table.

Three.

Three had heard.

Now, three had to answer.

---

That night, the kitchen floor groaned again.

The seams cracked.

The boards shifted.

And beneath our feet, the voice no longer whispered.

It spoke.

Clear. Cold. Commanding.

"Now bring the others."

"It's time to open the house."