The town of Havenwood was so small its name was practically a joke. Population: 512, and decreasing steadily as the young left for cities and the old quietly faded into the rich, dark soil. The most significant thing about Havenwood was its silence. Not the kind of silence of a peaceful night, but a thick, heavy, expectant kind of quiet, as if the air itself was holding its breath.Elias had inherited his grandmother's house, a squat, solid thing with a porch that overlooked the town's single street. He was an outsider, a city boy hoping to find peace and quiet, a place where the noise of his old life couldn't reach. The silence, he thought, was perfect.Until he realized it wasn't silent at all.It was just… un-vocalized.The whispers began first, a faint, rustling sound that came with the breeze. Not words, just the idea of them.
Like the sound of dry leaves skittering across pavement, but inside his head. He'd swat at his ears, convinced it was an inner ear issue, a tinnitus brought on by stress. He was a sensible man. He did not believe in ghosts.The whispers grew more distinct, a constant, low-level murmur, as if a thousand people were gossiping just beyond the reach of his hearing. And then, the imitation started.He was making coffee one morning when he heard it: the unmistakable sound of his own breathing, amplified and distorted, coming from behind him. It was a wet, rattling sound, like his lungs were full of gravel. He spun around, but the kitchen was empty. He was alone. But the breathing continued, a sickening parody of his own. He'd be in the garden, and hear the sound of his own footfalls crunching on the gravel path, but ten feet behind him, in perfect sync with his own steps. He'd hum a tune while doing dishes, and a moment later, he'd hear his own hum, but slightly off-key and with a guttural, wet edge to it, like a strangled dog.The mimicry became more malicious, more personal.
He came home one day to find the house filled with the sound of his grandmother's favorite rocking chair, creaking in a slow, steady rhythm, though the chair was still. The sound was so perfect, so heartbreakingly real, it sent a wave of grief through him.Then it changed again.He woke up one night to the sound of his own voice, coming from the foot of his bed. "Elias," it whispered, a perfect replication of his tone, his accent, the cadence of his speech. "Don't you ever feel alone?"He sat up, his heart hammering against his ribs. The darkness held nothing but the faint moonlight filtering through the blinds. He didn't answer. He couldn't."I can tell you all the things they say about you," the voice, his voice, continued. "The people of Havenwood. They think you're foolish. Coming here. This is our town.""Who's there?" he finally croaked, his voice a pathetic, trembling thing.The reply was instantaneous and chillingly familiar. His own voice, mocking him, "Who's there? Who's there?"The sound of his voice came from every corner of the room, a cacophony of questions, insults, and forgotten memories, all spoken in his own voice, in his own tone. Elias ran. He ran out of the house and down the silent, moonlit street, the sound of his own screaming echoing behind him, a perfect, awful duplicate.He didn't stop until he reached the town line, a rusty sign that read, "WELCOME TO HAVENWOOD." He sank to his knees, gasping, but the air was still holding its breath. And from behind him, he heard it again.
His own footsteps, his own gasping breaths.Then came the new sound, the one that made his blood turn to ice. The distinct, wet sound of a whisper, but not his own. The sound of his grandmother's voice, a slow, gentle hum, the lullaby she used to sing him as a child.Except, this time, the hum was followed by a wet, gravelly whisper, her words now twisted into a monstrous, unrecognizable parody."He's running, little one," the whisper cooed. "But we'll catch him. We always do."Elias looked back. The town was silent again. But the air was no longer still. It was full of whispers, a thousand voices, the voices of the town's dead, and they all sounded exactly like his. They were a legion of echoes, and they were all coming for him.