Evelyn didn't sleep that night.
Even after the chopping stopped, after the whispering fell away, the memory of the breath outside the basement door clung to her. She sat upright in bed until dawn, blanket clutched around her shoulders, staring at the pale rectangle of her window as if the light itself might protect her.
When the sun finally spilled over the horizon, her body ached like she'd been running all night. Her eyes burned, her throat raw from keeping her screams locked inside.
She stumbled into the kitchen, every muscle heavy, and forced herself through the motions—coffee, toast, the scrape of the butter knife. But her gaze kept flicking to the basement door. Always back to the door.
She whispered aloud, just to break the silence, "Don't look at it. Just don't."
But ignoring it felt impossible. The house was alive with quiet pressure, as though the basement's very presence reached up through the floorboards and coiled around her ankles.
She couldn't stay inside.
Throwing on her coat, she stepped out into the cold air. The morning sky was pale blue, the kind of color that made her think of empty pages. She filled her lungs with the crispness, letting it sting her throat, letting it remind her she was still here, still alive.
Across the street, Silas was there.
He leaned against the fence, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. He didn't move when she appeared, but she knew he saw her—his posture stiffened almost imperceptibly.
Evelyn hesitated at the end of her porch. Her chest tightened, a hundred reasons screaming at her to turn back inside. But something stronger pushed her forward.
Her feet carried her down the steps, across the cracked pavement, until she stood on the edge of his yard.
Silas finally lifted his gaze. His hazel eyes caught the morning light, but there was no warmth in them. Only caution.
They stared at each other, the silence stretching until it felt like a third presence between them.
Evelyn's voice broke first. Fragile, trembling. "I heard something."
His jaw tightened. "From the basement."
The words weren't a question.
Her stomach dropped. "You—" She stopped, the rest caught in her throat.
Silas looked away, his gaze fixed on a patch of grass at his feet. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The sounds of the town drifted faintly—somewhere far off, a dog barked, a car rumbled past—but between them was a cocoon of charged quiet.
Evelyn clutched her arms, nails digging into her sleeves. "I thought I was losing it again. That it was just… me."
His eyes flicked back to her, sharp, almost pained. "It's not just you."
The relief hit her so hard she nearly swayed. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. Someone else knew. Someone else heard it too.
But with the relief came a new kind of fear. If he heard it too, then it wasn't only in her mind. It was real.
Her voice trembled. "The voices… they say my name."
Silas flinched. It was subtle, but she caught it—the slightest recoil, like she'd touched something raw.
"They don't say your name?" she pressed.
His throat worked. He didn't answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough. "They don't stop."
Evelyn's breath caught.
He turned away, his hand curling against the fence. "At first, I thought it was the house. But it doesn't matter where I go. They follow. Always whispering. Always cutting."
Her chest ached at his words. "Knives."
His head snapped toward her. For the first time, his guarded expression cracked. "You hear them like knives too?"
She nodded, her hands trembling. "Sharp. Endless. Like they're carving pieces out of me."
A long silence stretched between them. Their eyes locked, and for the first time Evelyn didn't feel entirely alone in her skin.
Silas's voice softened, almost breaking. "I thought I was the only one."
Her lips parted, a thousand things she wanted to say pressing at the edge of her tongue. But all that came out was, "You're not."
They stood there, two people bound by the same unseen wound, the same unbearable noise.
Finally, Silas shook his head, retreating behind his walls again. "You should be careful."
"I am," Evelyn whispered, though it sounded unconvincing even to herself.
He looked past her, at her house. His jaw tightened. "No. More careful than that."
Her skin prickled. She wanted to ask what he meant, what he knew, but he was already turning away, heading back toward his door.
"Silas—" she called, but the name caught in the air between them.
He paused on his porch, his back still to her. For a second she thought he might turn around. Instead, he said quietly, "Don't let it in."
Then he vanished inside, the door closing with a muted thud.
--- ✦ ---
Evelyn stood there long after he was gone, the cold biting her fingers. His words repeated in her head like an echo:"Don't let it in."
What did that mean?
She forced herself back inside her own house, though every nerve screamed against it. She closed the door, locked it, and leaned her back against it as if her weight could hold something out.
Her laptop still sat on the kitchen table. The confirmation email blinked on the screen, the one bright, ordinary thing in her life. She sat, staring at it, willing herself to focus.
She tried sketching too, dragging a pencil across her notebook. But the lines came out jagged, frantic. Every curve turned into something sharp—blades, shadows, doors.
The basement pressed at the edge of her awareness, heavy and insistent. She tried to drown it with music, with cleaning, with noise. Nothing worked.
By evening, she curled on the couch, blanket pulled up to her chin. Her eyes drifted to the window across the street. Silas's curtains were drawn tight, no sign of him.
The house groaned as it settled. A sound she should have been able to dismiss. But she couldn't.
Then—
Chop. Chop. Chop.
Her blood ran cold.
She squeezed her eyes shut, hands pressed over her ears. But the knives always cut through.
And underneath the chopping, the voices rose again.
This time, she thought she heard two of them. Layered. One whispering her name. The other whispering Silas's.
Her breath came ragged.
They weren't just bound by coincidence.
Whatever haunted them—whatever echoed inside their skulls—it knew them both.