Chapter Three – They Know Your Name
The silence said enough.
It settled thick in the room, crawling over the floor and into the corners like smoke. Clara's breathing slowed, her instincts sharpening. She didn't dare speak above a whisper — as if the very walls were listening.
Maya stood by the cracked mirror, arms crossed tight like a shield. She looked worn, not just tired — like the dorm had scraped something out of her soul piece by piece.
Clara sat on the edge of the bed, her voice low. "Maya… what happened last night?"
Maya didn't turn. "I told you. That wasn't my sister."
"But… she sounded like her," Clara murmured.
"She always does."
Clara blinked. "She?"
Maya's voice wavered, then settled into steel. "Three years ago, my sister Leila lived here. Room 213. This room. She disappeared halfway through second semester. No goodbye. No clue. Just gone. The police said she ran away. But I know my sister — she would never leave without telling me."
"What happened after?"
Maya finally turned, her face pale. "Two months later… someone knocked on my door. Late at night. It sounded like her. Same voice. Same laugh. She said my name and begged me to let her in."
Clara's skin chilled. "What did you do?"
"I asked her something only Leila would know. My middle name." Maya's voice cracked. "She paused. Then kept knocking. That's when I knew. It wasn't her."
The room fell into uneasy stillness.
And then —
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
They froze.
The knocks were slow, heavy, and deliberate. Echoing through the wood like something breathing behind it.
Then came the voice.
"Clara?" It was soft — almost kind. "It's cold. Can you open the door?"
Clara's heart dropped. The voice was hers.
Maya's expression didn't change. "It's starting."
Clara looked at her. "That's… that's my voice."
"Yeah." Maya moved toward her drawer. "I figured it would know you by now."
The doorknob twitched.
Clara stood. "Why is it pretending to be me?"
Maya pulled out a small pouch. "Because it's learning you. And once it knows how you sound… it starts trying to get in."
"What is that?" Clara asked, pointing to the pouch.
"Salt. It might slow it down." Maya moved to the door and carefully poured a line across the threshold. "Stay quiet. Don't speak. Don't answer it."
Outside, her voice called again — more impatient this time. "Clara. The window's open. I just want to come in."
Clara trembled. "What does it want?"
"To get close," Maya whispered. "Close enough to copy everything. Once it sounds like you, it becomes you."
The knocking returned — louder now.
"Let me in!" her voice snarled. "I know you're in there!"
Clara backed away, shaking. "It's angry."
"It will be," Maya muttered. "It knows we're not playing along."
Then — silence.
A stillness so deep it made Clara's ears ring.
And then — a whisper through the crack at the bottom of the door:
"You can't hide from yourself, Clara."
Clara gasped, stumbling backward.
The floor creaked — not under their feet, but inside the walls.
Maya's eyes sharpened. "It's in the walls now."
"What?"
"It travels through sound. That's how it moves. That's why we whisper. That's why we never raise our voices. The louder it gets, the stronger it becomes."
Something scraped behind the dresser.
Another thump near the closet.
A faint echo of a laugh — her laugh — beneath the floorboards.
Maya grabbed Clara's wrist. "We're not staying here."
They ran.
The hallway outside was dim, even though morning light should've been streaming through the windows. The air smelled like iron and dust. Lights above them flickered as they moved.
"Where are we going?" Clara whispered.
"To someone who knows what this thing is."
Two floors down, they reached a locked maintenance door. Maya pulled out a key — old, rusty, and worn smooth at the edges — and opened it. Inside, a narrow stairwell led downward into darkness.
Clara hesitated only for a second before following.
At the bottom was a cramped room lit by a single dangling bulb. Books, photos, and torn maps covered a table. A corkboard on the wall was littered with clippings and strings — articles about disappearances, obituaries, faded school rosters.
In the center sat a woman — maybe in her 60s, her silver hair tied back tight. Her eyes were sharp, alert. She looked like someone who hadn't slept well in years.
She didn't seem surprised to see them.
"I told you not to come back," she said, her voice gravelly.
"I had no choice," Maya replied. "It's happening again."
The woman's gaze shifted to Clara. She studied her like someone examining a wound.
"The dorm's marked her," she said flatly.
Clara stepped back. "What does that mean?"
"You heard your own voice, didn't you?"
Clara nodded slowly.
The woman exhaled. "Then it's chosen you."
"Chosen me for what?"
She walked over to a box on the shelf, pulled out a faded photograph, and handed it to Clara.
A girl stood in the photo — her build, her hair, her face eerily similar to Clara. But something about the girl felt… off. The eyes were hollow. The smile wrong.
"That's Delilah," the woman said. "She lived in Dorm 6A ten years ago. Room 213. She vanished after she heard her voice outside the door."
Maya stepped closer. "Look at her other hand."
Clara looked.
Delilah was pointing — not at the camera.
At a door.
The same one Clara had just escaped.