Evelyn stayed outside long after Silas disappeared into his house, her arms wrapped around herself, the cold biting through her coat. His words clung to her, heavier than the frost in the air: Don't let it in.
She whispered the phrase under her breath, trying to shape it into protection. But even as she repeated it, she couldn't escape the feeling that the basement door in her kitchen was still breathing. Still waiting.
✦ ✦ ✦
The next morning came cruelly fast. Evelyn's alarm buzzed at six-thirty, its sharp chime cutting into a half-dream where the whispers had been circling her bed. Her body felt stiff, her eyelids like lead, but she forced herself upright.
Today mattered.
She had promised herself she wouldn't let the house—or the knives in her head—steal this from her. She had filled out the application, written her essays, gotten accepted. For years, university had been the idea she clung to when everything else fell apart. It wasn't just school. It was escape.
And so she moved like a ghost through her morning routine: shower, clothes, hair tied back, minimal makeup to hide the restless night. Her breakfast was rushed—coffee, lukewarm and bitter, and half a banana she barely tasted. The basement door loomed at her back, but she didn't look at it. She refused.
Her bag was already packed with notebooks and pens, and she slipped outside before she could lose her nerve.
The street was quiet, lined with bare trees that looked skeletal against the pale morning sky. Silas's curtains were drawn tight. A small part of her wished they weren't—that he might see her leaving, might give her one look of acknowledgment. Just enough to remind her she wasn't entirely alone.
But his house stayed silent.
She drove to campus with her hands clenched on the steering wheel, her mind a churn of knives and half-formed thoughts.
✦ ✦ ✦
University wasn't what she expected.
It was too loud. Too alive. The campus buzzed with voices and footsteps, students weaving between buildings in groups, laughter echoing off brick walls. Evelyn walked among them, small and invisible, clutching her schedule like a lifeline.
Her first class was Introduction to Painting, tucked inside a long hall that smelled faintly of turpentine. Rows of easels stood ready, canvases blank, jars of brushes lined up neatly on a shelf. The professor was a middle-aged woman with kind eyes who talked about color theory and composition as if they were matters of the soul.
Evelyn took notes, though her handwriting shook. She wanted to absorb every word, to ground herself in the certainty of pigments and canvas. But even here, in this room full of art students, she felt the knives at the edges of her hearing. Not loud. Not insistent. Just waiting.
At the end of class, as students packed up, a girl with curly hair and paint on her jeans smiled at Evelyn. "Hey—are you new here? I haven't seen you before."
Evelyn froze. She wanted to smile back, wanted to say something normal. Her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth.
"Uh—yeah," she managed finally, her voice so soft the girl leaned closer to hear.
"That's awesome. I'm Amara. If you ever need help finding studios or whatever, just let me know."
Evelyn nodded quickly, her hands twisting the strap of her bag. "Thanks."
The girl gave her a friendly wave before disappearing into the hallway crowd.
Evelyn stayed rooted for a second longer, her heart pounding. It had been such a simple interaction, so ordinary. But it left her trembling, her throat tight. She hadn't realized how badly she'd forgotten the rhythm of conversation.
✦ ✦ ✦
The day blurred in fragments: cafeteria noise, a literature lecture where she barely heard the professor over the echo in her skull, a walk across campus where the winter wind clawed at her skin.
By the time she returned home, her head ached, her chest heavy with the effort of holding herself together. She dropped her bag by the door, peeled off her coat, and leaned against the wall.
For a moment she let herself breathe. Just breathe.
And then, from the kitchen—
Chop....
Her eyes flew open.
Chop....
The sound sliced through the silence, deliberate, steady.
Her gaze snapped to the basement door.
It felt closer this time. Louder.
She backed away, hands shaking. "Not real," she whispered. "Not real."
But her skin prickled. Her lungs tightened.
A knock at the front door startled her so hard she yelped.
Her heart hammered as she turned. She hesitated before opening it, half-expecting the whispers to have followed her to the porch.
But it was Silas.
He stood with his shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. His hazel eyes flicked past her, into the house, before settling on her face.
"You look pale," he said flatly.
She swallowed. "You heard it too."
It wasn't a question.
He nodded once, almost reluctant.
Relief and terror twisted together in her chest. "I thought—I thought maybe I was imagining it again. But it's louder, Silas. It's closer."
His gaze hardened. "That's why you can't go near it."
She gripped the doorframe to steady herself. "Do you… know what it is?"
Silas's jaw tightened. He looked over his shoulder, as though making sure no one else was around, then stepped closer. "Not yet."
There was a raw honesty in his voice, but also a wall, a refusal to say more. Evelyn wanted to push, to demand answers, but she bit the words back.
Instead, she asked softly, "Will it stop?"
His silence was answer enough.
✦ ✦ ✦
That night, Evelyn sat across from Silas on his porch. Neither of them had spoken much. The air between them was filled with the hum of cicadas and the occasional bark of a dog in the distance.
She sipped from the mug of tea he'd handed her earlier, hands curled tight around the warmth. It was strange, being here. Stranger still that he had invited her without words, just a glance and a small nod toward his porch when she lingered outside.
"You go to the university," he said suddenly, his voice breaking the quiet.
Evelyn stiffened. "How did you—"
"I saw you go there" He shrugged slightly. "I used to go there."
Her eyebrows lifted. "You did?"
"Didn't finish," he muttered. His eyes didn't quite meet hers.
Evelyn hesitated before saying, "I almost didn't go either. Thought maybe it would be a mistake. That I'd just… fail." She gave a bitter laugh. "First day, and I already feel like I don't belong."
Silas glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "You stayed. That's more than most."
She stared into her tea, the steam fogging her glasses. His words shouldn't have mattered so much, but something in his tone—low, steady, almost grudgingly kind—lodged deep in her chest.
They sat in silence again, but it felt different now. Less like isolation, more like two people carrying the same unbearable weight.
Finally, Evelyn asked, "Do you ever think… maybe it's not in our heads? That it's something real?"
Silas's hand tightened around his mug. He didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was soft. "I don't think. I know."
Her heart stumbled. "How?"
He shook his head. "Not tonight."
She wanted to scream at him for holding back, for leaving her drowning in questions. But instead she whispered, "Please. Just… don't shut me out. I can't—" Her voice broke. "I can't do this alone."
For the first time, his expression softened. He looked at her, really looked, and she saw the cracks in his armor.
"You're not alone," he said quietly.
The words settled over her like a fragile shield. Thin, breakable, but real.
✦ ✦ ✦
That night, back in her own bed, Evelyn lay awake long after midnight. The whispers came again, curling around her in the dark.
They didn't just hiss this time.
They called her name.
Her pulse raced, her body rigid beneath the blankets.
But she clung to Silas's words like a mantra, repeating them over and over until exhaustion finally dragged her into sleep:
You're not alone. You're not alone.
✦ ✦ ✦