The morning air was sharp against Evelyn's cheeks as she stepped outside. Even with layers of clothing, the chill seemed to creep under her skin, curling around her bones. The whispers had been quieter the night before, but the memory of Edgar's name lingered like a splinter lodged too deep to remove.
She tried to shake it off, forcing her mind onto mundane tasks—making breakfast, checking her emails, scribbling a few abstract sketches for her art class. But each movement, each thought, seemed haunted by an invisible presence.
✦ ✦ ✦
At university, the day was louder than usual. Students chattered, doors slammed, and papers rustled with a ferocity that made Evelyn flinch. She clutched her bag straps like a lifeline, trying to navigate the corridors without letting herself be noticed. Her lectures were a blur of sound and shapes, the professors' voices sometimes blending with the faint hum of knives that cut through her mind at random intervals.
During lunch, Amara found her sitting alone under the elm tree, sketchbook open but untouched.
"You okay?" she asked, voice low, curious. "You look… tense."
Evelyn forced a smile. "I'm fine," she said, though her fingers itched to draw the jagged edges of her anxiety into the paper. "Just tired."
Amara tilted her head. "You know, you don't have to carry it all alone. Sometimes letting someone see… it helps."
Evelyn wanted to believe her. She wanted it so badly. But even saying that thought aloud felt like exposing a wound. "I… I don't know," she muttered.
Amara nodded, understanding, and didn't press further. She just stayed nearby, a quiet anchor in the chaos of Evelyn's mind.
✦ ✦ ✦
The afternoon dragged. Evelyn found herself wandering the quieter halls, sketchbook clutched to her chest. The knives were quieter now, but the tension remained, a taut string ready to snap. Her thoughts kept returning to Silas—the way he had looked at her the night before, the way his hazel eyes had softened, revealing that his own mind was as haunted as hers.
By the time she returned home, the sun had dipped behind the trees, leaving long shadows across the street. Her house felt different now—less safe, less ordinary. She opened the door cautiously, her pulse quickening when the familiar chill of the hallway met her.
✦ ✦ ✦
The basement door loomed at the back of the kitchen. Evelyn froze, breath catching. Chop. Chop. Chop.
Her stomach dropped. The sound was closer, sharper, deliberate. She pressed her hand to the door, her knuckles white, feeling the cold seep through.
"You again," she whispered, barely audible. Her voice trembled, more from fear than anything else.
The chopping stopped. Silence fell heavy, almost tangible. Then—a whisper, faint but clear: Evelyn.
Her body went rigid. The knives in her mind sharpened, twisting, slicing at her focus. She stumbled back, clutching the counter. The whispers weren't just voices anymore—they were demands. Threats. Echoes of something dark lurking just beyond perception.
✦ ✦ ✦
A sudden crash from the basement made her jump violently. A shadow flickered against the doorway—a movement too fast to be human, too deliberate to be an accident. She froze, eyes wide.
Her first thought was to run, but the stairs behind her seemed impossibly far. Her hands were trembling, heart hammering, and for a split second, she considered calling Silas. But something in her gut told her she had to face this.
With shallow breaths, she grabbed a kitchen knife from the counter—hardly a weapon, but it was all she had. The metal was cold against her palm, heavy with promise and fear.
"Show yourself," she demanded, voice stronger than she felt.
✦ ✦ ✦
Silence answered for a moment. Then, the shadow moved again, faster, sharper, almost slicing through the air. The knives in her head screamed. She swung her small knife blindly, hitting… nothing. The air was empty.
And then she heard it—a laugh. Low, chilling, unmistakably human. A sound that made her stomach twist and her knees buckle.
Edgar.
The name rattled through the room, and the knives in her mind seemed to leap in response, stabbing, cutting, slicing through her sanity in little, jagged bursts. She stumbled back, hitting the wall, the knife clattering to the floor.
Her breath came in short gasps. Sweat dripped down her temple. She wanted to scream, to run, to disappear—but the voice persisted, whispering her name, mocking her fear.
✦ ✦ ✦
Then, a movement at the window caught her eye. Silas. He was there, hands gripping the sill, eyes wide, body tense. Without a word, he rushed inside, boots thudding against the floor, and positioned himself between her and the basement.
"Stay back!" he barked, voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
Evelyn's pulse raced. "It's him—Edgar!" she cried.
He nodded grimly, eyes scanning the room, sharp and alert. "I know. He's close."
The basement door groaned, a long, deliberate creak, as if acknowledging their fear. The chopping started again, louder, faster. Evelyn pressed her hands over her ears, but the knives in her head were relentless, piercing.
Silas grabbed her arm. "We need to get out, now!"
Together, they ran to the front door. Evelyn's small body pressed against his, the adrenaline surging through her veins. She could still hear the whispers, the knives, Edgar's presence—a shadow trailing them, lurking in the corners of the house, waiting.
✦ ✦ ✦
Outside, the cold air hit her like a wall. Her lungs burned, legs shaky, but she didn't stop running. Silas kept pace beside her, silent except for his steady breathing. They didn't speak; words would have been wasted on fear.
For the first time, Evelyn realized how dangerous it really was. Edgar wasn't just a name. He was a presence. A predator. The knives were his whispers, his echoes, his signature of terror.
They reached the street, still in sight of her house, and slowed, crouching behind a hedge. Evelyn's hands shook uncontrollably, tears streaking her face. The knife from the kitchen was still in her grip, useless but symbolic—a small defiance against the darkness that haunted them.
✦ ✦ ✦
Silas knelt beside her. His hand brushed her shoulder, grounding her, steadying her trembling. "He wants fear," he said softly. "Not just pain. Fear."
Evelyn's voice trembled. "Why us? Why our minds?"
He didn't answer immediately. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing toward her house. "I don't know. But he's been here before. And he'll come again."
The thought made her stomach churn. This was just the beginning. Edgar wasn't finished—not by a long shot. And now, Evelyn understood that the knives weren't just voices. They were warnings. He was testing them, pushing, shaping them, breaking them piece by piece.
✦ ✦ ✦
Night fell fully, and Evelyn and Silas stayed crouched behind the hedge, watching the house. The quiet between them was tense but necessary a shared understanding without words. The knives in her head had quieted slightly, but the echo of Edgar lingered, a pulse of dread that would follow her into sleep if she let it.
"You'll have to be ready," Silas said finally, voice low, almost a whisper. "He's coming for both of us. And he won't stop."
Evelyn nodded, clutching the small knife like a talisman. She didn't fully understand what awaited them but for the first time, she realized she wouldn't face it alone.
And the shadow of Edgar's name loomed over both of them, sharp and inevitable, like a blade poised to strike.