Chapter Eight: The Voice That Shouldn't Be
Fragment One
The silence stretched thin, like a drumskin pulled too tight.
Tyke was used to it by now. Or at least, he told himself he was. Days, weeks, eternities—he wasn't sure how long—wandering through blankness with only his own voice to keep him company. He'd grown skilled at talking to no one. Grumbling. Whining. Making jokes no one would laugh at.
He kicked at the non-ground and sighed.
"Honestly, if this is some kind of cosmic joke, it's a boring one. If I'm supposed to learn patience, congratulations—I'm learning how to complain forever."
He waved his arms dramatically.
"Hello? Any mysterious beings in here? Any chance of a refund on this experience? I'll give it one star. No, half a star. Actually, I'll keep the star for myself. It looks better on me."
He cackled at his own joke. A cackle that sounded more desperate than amused.
And then—
A voice.
Not his own.
Sharp as flint striking metal.
"Listening."
Tyke froze mid-step.
The word wasn't in the air. It hadn't bounced off walls, or traveled through ears. It had landed inside him, stamped into the marrow of thought.
He stood completely still, hands dangling stupidly at his sides, mouth half open.
"…what?"
Nothing answered.
He spun around, squinting into the silence. No one there. No echo. Just the vast hush.
"Uh…okay. That was…definitely not me. Unless I'm finally talented enough to surprise myself." He tapped his temple twice with his knuckles. "Anybody in there? Rent's due if you're moving in."
No response.
His laugh wobbled. "Right. I've cracked. Lost the plot. Next thing you know my elbows will start singing duets with my knees. Fantastic."
He tried walking again, faster this time. But every step he took seemed to thud with the memory of the word. Listening. Like a pebble dropped into a pond that never stopped rippling.
Tyke muttered louder, as if he could drown it out. "Sure. Totally fine. I'm just a genius. A genius whose inner voice decided it's bored and now has improv ambitions."
He spun suddenly, shouting at the air: "HEY, VOICE! SAY SOMETHING AGAIN! COME ON, DON'T BE SHY!"
The silence answered with exactly nothing.
Tyke's lips twisted. "Oh. Great. Perfect. The one time somebody—something?—answers me, they pull the classic disappearing act. Just my luck. I'm ghosted by a ghost. Brilliant."
He forced a laugh, but it stuck in his throat. The air felt thicker now, the silence heavier. He swore he could feel a presence coiled at the edges of his mind, listening.
Listening.
The word pulsed again in memory.
Tyke shook his head fiercely. "Nope. Not real. Just me, myself, and my extremely creative imagination. End of story."
But it didn't feel like the end of a story. It felt like the beginning of one. And for the first time, Tyke wasn't sure if he was the only storyteller.
Inside, El Como remained perfectly, deliberately still. Silent once more.
Tyke couldn't let it go.
One word. Just one. But it was like hearing a cough in an empty theater—once you notice, you can't ignore it.
He stomped across the endless floor of nothing, muttering under his breath. "One word. That's all I get? Not even a sentence? No introduction? 'Hi, Tyke, I'm your mysterious head-tenant, pleased to haunt your skull.' Nothing?"
He cupped his hands around his mouth. "HELLO, STRANGER IN MY BRAIN. YOU HAVE A BEAUTIFUL VOICE. WOULD YOU LIKE TO USE IT AGAIN?"
The silence swallowed him.
Tyke tapped his foot. "No? Not feeling talkative? Oh, sure, now you're shy. Real considerate. You barge into my head, say one creepy word, then vanish. Classic roommate behavior. Do you also leave socks on the floor of my frontal lobe?"
He chuckled nervously, then stopped mid-chuckle because the silence somehow seemed to lean closer, like the world itself was listening.
He paced. He posed questions in every direction.
"What are you? Are you me? Are you…extra-me? Are you a prank?"
Nothing.
"Do you at least like my jokes? Because I'm killing it over here. Literally murdering myself with comedy."
Still nothing.
The silence was beginning to feel personal.
Tyke tried another tactic. "Okay, fine, don't answer serious stuff. But what if I ask you easy questions? Like, uh, do you like bread? Everyone likes bread. Even monsters like bread."
No reply.
He threw his hands in the air. "Unbelievable. My imaginary stalker is gluten-free. This is worse than I thought."
He tried whispering instead, conspiratorial. "All right. Secret between us. If you're in there, knock once for yes, twice for no. You don't even have to say words."
The void knocked zero times.
Tyke groaned. "Silence treatment. Wonderful. My own brain is mad at me."
He spun in a circle, trying to spot something in the shapeless background. He swore he could almost see a figure at the edge of vision, a shimmer, like heat on a summer road. But the moment he focused, it was gone.
He muttered quickly, anxiously. "Okay, Tyke, chill. Totally normal to hear voices. Totally normal. Happens to everyone. Right? Right. Everyone's got a little guy in their head saying ominous things. Sure. Perfectly healthy. Doctors recommend it, I'm pretty sure."
His voice cracked into a laugh that echoed far too loudly. He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide, as if someone might scold him for being too noisy.
No one did.
But the silence felt heavier than ever.
He tried again, softer. "Come on…you said 'listening.' So you are. You are listening. Aren't you?"
Nothing.
He pulled at his hair with both hands. "You can't just start talking and then stop! That's illegal. That's—" He stopped, eyes narrowing. "Wait. Maybe you like it. Maybe you like watching me squirm."
He jabbed a finger at the air. "Well, enjoy the show, mystery voice! I'll just keep rambling. I'll complain about everything. You'll regret opening your creepy little vocal cords—if you even have vocal cords—because I never shut up!"
He grinned manically. "Ready? Here we go. Number one: my shoes hurt, even though I'm not sure shoes exist here. Number two: I miss sandwiches. Number three: why is it always silent, huh? What happened to birds, or wind, or people telling me I'm great?"
He stopped for breath, panting.
Still silence.
He scowled. "Not even a pity laugh. Cold. Ice cold."
The air thickened again, that sense of presence pressing close. El Como was there, right there, just beyond words.
Tyke shivered. "You're listening, aren't you? I know you are. I can feel it."
The silence hummed back at him like a smirk.
He clapped his hands together. "Fine! Be that way. But you slipped once. You'll slip again. And when you do, buddy, I'm ready."
He pointed both fingers at his head like pistols. "This brain ain't big enough for the two of us."
He grinned, but the grin quivered. Because deep down, he wasn't sure he believed it.
And somewhere inside, El Como remained still, silent, amused..