The dawn was gray, streaked with faint lines of gold that did little to warm the air. Evelyn woke with a start, her sheets tangled around her legs, heart still hammering from nightmares she couldn't fully remember. The memory of the previous night clung to her—the basement door, the chopping, and the whispered name: Edgar. Even now, the word echoed faintly in her skull, like a tremor that refused to fade.
Her hands were cold, trembling slightly as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Every movement felt heavy, weighted with a fear that wasn't entirely her own. The knives were quiet for now, resting just beneath the surface of thought, but she knew they were waiting—like predators.
✦ ✦ ✦
Breakfast was a muted affair. She burned her toast again, more out of distraction than clumsiness, and drank her tea in shallow sips. Her sketchbook sat on the table, pages open but untouched. She wanted to draw, to make sense of the chaos in her head, but even putting pen to paper felt dangerous. Every time she tried to focus, the faintest whisper brushed against her mind, and she flinched.
By mid-morning, Evelyn decided she couldn't stay inside any longer. She needed movement, something ordinary to distract herself from the knives. University awaited, with its noisy halls and banal assignments, but that noise—unlike the whispers—was predictable.
The walk to campus was brisk, each step measured. Her eyes darted to the street, half-expecting to see Silas watching from his porch. But he wasn't there. The thought stung slightly. She realized that after the encounter last night, she wanted him near more than ever. Not because she needed protection—though she did—but because in him, she glimpsed understanding.
✦ ✦ ✦
Classes were a blur of color, sound, and instruction. Evelyn moved mechanically, taking notes, sketching small, jagged shapes in the margins. Sometimes the shapes resembled letters, almost forming words she couldn't read. At times, she caught herself drawing spirals that reminded her of knives. The whispers had returned by mid-morning, quiet at first, then more insistent.
Evelyn…
Her head snapped up. A student shifted in the row ahead, notebook open. She was alone. It wasn't real—or it was, but not the way she thought. Her hands shook as she gripped her pen.
"Evelyn?"
The voice came from Amara, leaning over her desk with a concerned frown. "Are you okay? You look… pale."
Evelyn forced a smile, though it felt brittle. "I'm fine," she said, voice tight. "Just… tired."
Amara's expression softened. "Want to take a walk after class? Just for a bit? Fresh air?"
Evelyn hesitated. She had always been wary of letting anyone get too close. But the idea of moving, of stepping outside away from the whispered knives, was tempting. "Yeah… okay," she murmured.
✦ ✦ ✦
The afternoon was torturous. Every time she tried to focus on lectures or her assignments, the whispers intruded. Chop. Chop. Chop. They were quieter than the night before, but deliberate, almost taunting. Sometimes she thought she saw shadows moving along the edges of her vision. She wanted to scream, to run, but her hands gripped her bag straps tightly. If she moved too suddenly, the whispers would sharpen, cutting deeper.
When the final class ended, Amara was waiting near the building exit. Evelyn nearly collapsed against the cool air as they walked together through the courtyard. Leaves swirled in small eddies, and Evelyn's chest still ached from last night's adrenaline.
"You okay?" Amara asked gently, hand brushing against hers briefly.
Evelyn nodded. "I'll be fine… I just… need to breathe."
Amara didn't ask questions. She never asked questions she didn't have to. Evelyn had learned quickly that ordinary kindness wasn't always demanding.
✦ ✦ ✦
Later that evening, Evelyn found herself standing across from Silas again. He was leaning on the porch railing, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable. She swallowed nervously.
"Silas…" she began, her voice barely audible. "Last night… it was real. He's… he's here. He's—"
He cut her off, placing a finger to his lips. "Quiet. Don't let him know we're aware yet. Not fully."
Evelyn's stomach twisted. "Aware? What do you mean?"
He shook his head. "I mean… he's aware of us, too. Of both of us. You're not imagining him. And the knives—he's tied to them. They're his way in."
Evelyn's hand went to her chest, where her heart felt like it had turned to ice. "Tied… to him?"
"Yes. But we can't panic. Fear is what he wants. He's patient. Methodical. Smart."
She swallowed hard. "And he knows our names."
He nodded grimly. "And he'll use them, like he used the knives to carve pieces out of our minds. But we can fight him, together."
✦ ✦ ✦
Back at her house, Evelyn couldn't stop thinking. She drew feverishly in her sketchbook, trying to map the whispers, the sounds, the shadows. Chop. Chop. Chop. She traced the pattern over and over, sketching lines that twisted, collided, and formed shapes she couldn't name.
She felt the urge to do more, to investigate. The knives weren't just voices. They were a language, a pattern, a warning. And if she could decipher it, maybe she could predict him.
A sudden creak upstairs made her freeze. The floorboards outside her room shifted as though someone—or something—was pacing. She gripped the edge of the table. Her pulse quickened.
Then a shadow fell across the wall, fast, angular. Evelyn's breath caught. She grabbed the nearest object—a small kitchen knife—and held it out, trembling.
"Who's there?" she demanded, voice shaking.
Silence answered for a long moment. Then a low, chilling laugh, human yet distorted, reverberated through the room.
"Evelyn…" the voice whispered, and the knives inside her head screamed in recognition.
Her hands shook violently. She pressed the knife to her chest, taking shallow, desperate breaths. The air seemed to thicken, heavy with anticipation and threat. This was more than a warning. This was a first strike.
✦ ✦ ✦
Silas appeared suddenly in the doorway, boots thudding softly. His eyes were sharp, vigilant. "Back up," he instructed.
Evelyn obeyed, her heart hammering. "It's him," she gasped. "He's in the house—he—"
The knives sharpened, slicing through her focus. Chop. Chop. Chop. They weren't coming from the basement this time—they were inside, inside her mind and the house, threaded together like a living thing.
Silas's hand rested briefly on her shoulder. "We stay calm. You follow me. He wants fear, but we don't give it to him."
Together, they moved through the house, silent and cautious, every step measured. Evelyn's pulse raced, but she mirrored Silas's steadiness, finding courage in his presence.
✦ ✦ ✦
By the time the night fully fell, Evelyn had learned something vital: Edgar wasn't just a distant name or shadow. He was real. Calculated. He could manipulate the knives, the whispers, even the fear itself. And the small violence—the shadows, the abrupt movements, the scratches on the walls—were his calling card.
Evelyn and Silas huddled together on the couch, sketchbooks, knives, and pens scattered around them. They didn't speak for a long time, letting the silence and the hum of the town outside fill the void. But both knew that this was just the beginning.
Edgar had entered their lives, and the fractures in the whispers were growing sharper every day. And now, there was no turning back.