I didn't sleep after the dream.
Not really.
I just lay there, heart pounding, staring into the ceiling like it might open up and drop the truth down on me. My mouth was dry. My arms trembled. I could still feel the grit of dirt on my tongue from the vision—or whatever the hell that nightmare was—of someone buried alive and whispering to me through earth and time.
By morning, I hadn't moved an inch. My body had gone stiff, like rigor mortis had started early.
I finally forced myself up, dragging my legs like they were bound in invisible chains. The air felt colder than usual. Still. Too still.
The floor creaked with every step I took, but something was different now. It didn't creak randomly anymore. No. The wood groaned like it was… responding.
As if it knew I was listening now.
I headed to the bathroom. My face in the mirror looked like it belonged to someone else—a stranger who'd forgotten how to blink. My skin was pale, eyes ringed with black shadows, lips cracked.
I cupped water in my hands and splashed it on my face, again and again. I didn't want to look up, didn't want to see something standing behind me in the mirror, but I had to know. I had to check.
I lifted my head.
There was nothing there.
But as I reached for the towel, I noticed something.
A small line of dirt across my bottom lip.
My stomach twisted.
I leaned forward, inspecting it. It wasn't food or dried blood or anything else I could explain away.
It was soil.
Like I'd been eating dirt in my sleep.
My breath caught in my throat. My knees nearly gave out. I staggered back and bumped the wall behind me, gasping.
What the hell was happening to me?
I tore through the house, trying to shake the feeling. Maybe it was all in my head. Maybe I needed to stop obsessing over sounds and shadows. Maybe it was sleepwalking. Stress. Something logical.
But logic was a dying language in this house.
In the kitchen, I brewed coffee just to have something warm, something normal to hold on to.
That's when I noticed the box.
A small, square tin sitting on the edge of the counter. I hadn't seen it before. It was dented at the corners, covered in a film of dust.
I don't know why I opened it. Curiosity? Instinct? Some whisper in my head urging me forward?
Inside were nails.
Old, rusty, blackened nails. Dozens of them. Each one thick and crude, not the kind you'd use for carpentry these days. These looked handmade. Ancient.
And under the nails was something worse.
A torn photo—faded, water-damaged. It showed a man's face. His eyes were hollowed out like someone had burned through them with a cigarette. On the back, in spidery handwriting, were three words:
"Shut. The. Mouth."
I dropped the box.
It hit the floor and burst open, nails spilling everywhere, clattering like sharp teeth on wood.
And in that moment, I heard it again.
The whisper.
Not from the floor this time.
From the walls.
Soft at first, like the sound of breath dragging over brick. Then louder, more insistent. A word formed.
"You heard me…"
I backed away slowly. My legs nearly tangled in the spilled nails. One jabbed into my heel and I hissed in pain, limping toward the door, not even bothering with shoes. I just needed out. Needed air. Sunlight. People.
I fled down the porch and into the yard, blinking against the morning glare.
The old woman was there again.
Same spot. Same crooked posture. She stared at me over the fence, like she'd been waiting.
"You found the mouth, didn't you?" she asked.
I froze.
She smiled. It was the kind of smile you see in a nightmare—thin and full of rotting secrets.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied.
She didn't flinch. Just said, "Don't lie to the dead. They don't forgive like the living do."
I took a shaky breath. "What's under my floor?"
"You should ask what was under your floor," she said. "Because now it's awake."
I shook my head. "You knew. You knew about this place. About the voices."
Her eyes glistened, and I saw something shift in them—regret, maybe. Or fear.
"They buried him alive. Right there in your kitchen. Hammered nails through his lips so he couldn't scream. Called it mercy."
"Why?!"
"Because the dead man knew things," she whispered. "Things he shouldn't have. Secrets meant to stay buried. And now that you've heard him, now that you've listened…"
She leaned in closer, voice almost a hiss.
"…he'll start using your mouth."
I stumbled back from the fence. She didn't follow. Didn't blink. Just stood there, fading into the silence like a figure in a painting.
Back inside, I bandaged my foot and swept up the nails, but it didn't matter. The box was back on the counter within an hour. Like it never fell.
Like it wanted to be found again.
That night, I tried to block my ears. I stuffed cotton into them, wrapped a pillow over my head, even played static on my phone just to drown it out.
But nothing helped.
Because now the voice didn't need the floor.
It spoke inside my skull.
Right behind my eyes.
"Tell them," it whispered. "Tell them all. Tell them what they did."
And then came the worst part—the part that chilled me to the bone.
My lips moved on their own.
Repeating the words, syllable by syllable.
Like I was no longer just the listener.
I was becoming the speaker.