Evelyn didn't remember falling asleep.
When she woke, her head rested against the cold glass of her bedroom window, the blanket tangled around her legs. Her neck ached from the angle, and her mouth was dry, her tongue thick as though she hadn't spoken in years.
For a moment she thought it was still night. The shadows clung too tightly to the corners, her room washed in a dim bluish gray. But then a bird trilled outside, sharp and ordinary, and she realized it was morning.
She pushed herself upright, her body heavy.
The memory of last night came in flashes—Chop. Chop. Chop. The whispers curling like smoke. Her name breathed into her bones.
She shuddered and pressed her palms over her ears again, as if that could block out the memory.
It didn't work.
The house was quiet now, but the silence didn't comfort her. It pressed too close, thick and suffocating.
She shuffled to the kitchen, her feet dragging on the worn wooden floorboards. The kettle screeched when it boiled, startling her so much she almost dropped it. Her hands shook as she poured the water over the coffee grounds.
She hated how fragile she felt—like one wrong noise could shatter her completely.
The butter knife clinked against the plate as she spread it across toast. She forced herself to chew slowly, to taste the salt, the crispness. Small details kept her anchored. If she let her mind wander too far, it would slip back to the basement, to the door, to the whispers.
When she finished, she cleaned the plate immediately, drying it with the frayed dish towel. Routine. Control. Anything to keep her steady.
But her gaze still snagged on the basement door.
The paint chipped near the knob. The metal gleamed faintly in the dim light. Just a door. Just wood and hinges. Yet her body recoiled every time she looked at it.
She whispered to herself, "Not today."
With a deep breath, she grabbed her coat and left the house.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
The grocery store was small, tucked between a laundromat and a café with chipped tables out front. A little bell chimed when she pushed the door open. The smell of detergent and coffee beans drifted faintly through the thin walls.
Evelyn clutched her list like a lifeline. Bread. Milk. Eggs. Soap.
She wandered the narrow aisles, forcing herself to focus on labels and prices. Other shoppers moved around her, carts squeaking, shoes scuffing against the linoleum. Ordinary sounds. Comforting, in their own way.
She reached for a carton of milk and nearly dropped it when she heard a voice.
"Evelyn."
Her chest seized. She spun around.
But it wasn't the whisper from last night. It was Silas.
He stood a few feet away, a basket dangling from one hand. He wore a dark jacket, his hair falling into his eyes the same way it had on the street. He looked… tired. Not the kind of tired that came from a bad night's sleep, but the kind that lived in a person's bones.
Her heart thudded against her ribs. "H–hi."
The word felt clumsy in her mouth.
His gaze flicked over her items before returning to her face. "Didn't think I'd see you here."
She forced a laugh that sounded too sharp. "I can't live off pizza forever."
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth, so fleeting she wondered if she imagined it.
They stood there a beat too long, surrounded by humming refrigerators and the muffled sound of a child asking for candy in the next aisle.
Evelyn clutched the carton tighter. "About yesterday…" Her voice faltered. She wanted to say I heard something, I think I'm losing it again, do you hear it too? But fear clamped her throat shut.
Silas's expression shifted—barely. A shadow passed over his face. He tilted his head, studying her like he could read the words she didn't say.
Finally, he said softly, "The house isn't quiet, is it?"
Her breath caught. The carton nearly slipped from her hands. "You—" She stopped. Too loud. Someone might hear.
He didn't look surprised by her reaction. If anything, he looked resigned. Like he'd been expecting it.
"I should go," he said instead, adjusting his basket. "See you around."
And just like that, he walked past her, the space he left behind colder than before.
Evelyn stood frozen in the aisle, her heart racing.
He knew. He had to know.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
Back home, the silence pressed heavier than ever.
She put the groceries away, lined them neatly in the fridge and cupboard, but her hands trembled the whole time. Every sound seemed amplified—the snap of the refrigerator door, the rustle of plastic bags.
She sat at the table and opened her laptop, more out of desperation than interest. The confirmation email from the university blinked at her. She clicked it open, rereading the words until they blurred.
Your application has been received.
Just that. Simple. Ordinary. But to her, it was a tether. Proof that part of her still believed in a future beyond this house.
She pictured herself on a campus lawn, sketchbook in hand, surrounded by voices that weren't knives. For a heartbeat, the image steadied her.
Then—
Chop. Chop. Chop.
Her blood went cold.
The sound echoed up through the floorboards, sharp and deliberate.
She slammed the laptop shut, the sound reverberating through the kitchen. Her chest tightened as she looked toward the basement door.
This time, she swore she saw the knob twitch. Just the smallest movement, like someone brushing against it from the other side.
Her pulse roared in her ears.
She staggered back, knocking into the table.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
And underneath it, the whispers rose again.
Not just her name this time.
Evelyn. Don't leave.
Her knees buckled. She clutched the counter, her vision swimming.
She wanted to scream, to run, to claw her way out of the house and never come back. But her body refused to move.
The chopping stopped.
Silence fell—thick, heavy, waiting.
And in that silence, she swore she heard something even worse.
A breath.
Drawn slow and deliberate, just on the other side of the door.