The knife whispered to me that night.
Not in words, exactly — more like memories folded into the metal. The more I held it, the more it hummed with something ancient, pulsing through my fingertips like a second heartbeat. It wasn't Tom's blade anymore. It was mine now.
And it was hungry.
I didn't leave the basement for hours. Couldn't. My hands were still stained. My legs still trembled. His body lay twisted like a puppet with its strings cut, the final Session still recording as the battery died out.
When I finally made it to the mirror upstairs, I didn't recognize myself. Eyes too wide, too dark. Smile too calm. I looked like someone who had just survived hell — or maybe someone who had just started enjoying it.
By the time the police showed up — summoned by a neighbor's report of screaming — I had cleaned everything. I knew exactly what to say.
"He snapped," I whispered. "My uncle... he tied me up. Said voices were talking to him. I don't know why... I think he thought I was my mom."
They bought it.
Why wouldn't they? I had the bruises. The tears. The "trauma." And Tom had the knife wounds.
Case closed. Another tragic family downfall. The papers even printed "Young girl survives deranged uncle's final psychotic break." Ha. Cute.
But deep down, I knew something they didn't.
It wasn't over.
Three Weeks Later
Life moved on. Kind of.
They put me in temporary care. Gave me a psychologist. Her name was Dr. Lysa — too soft-spoken, too gentle. Like she was trying not to spook me.
I smiled a lot in our sessions. Told her I was okay. Told her I was ready to move forward. Told her I was healing.
Lie. Lie. Lie.
Because healing doesn't happen when the knife whispers to you at night.
Sometimes I'd wake up and find it resting under my pillow — even though I'd hidden it behind drywall, inside a vent. It kept returning. It wanted me to know I wasn't done.
That I'd only just begun.
One night, I opened Tom's notebook again. The one I'd hidden under the floorboard.
Inside the back cover, scribbled in a hand so frantic it nearly tore through the page, were the words:
"The blade doesn't kill. It chooses. And once it does… the voices begin."
I closed the book.
Too late, Uncle Tom.
They've already started.
The First Mark
It happened at school.
Yeah, I was back at school. Because apparently, surviving a psychotic killer means you're ready to rejoin geometry and cafeteria mystery meat.
There was a boy. Caleb. A loudmouth. The kind who throws pencils at girls and laughs when they flinch.
He bumped into me in the hallway, sneered, and muttered, "Psycho Barbie."
Everyone laughed.
I didn't.
That night, I had a dream.
In it, Caleb was strapped to a chair. Leather cuffs. Duct tape. A knife carving "RESPECT" into the wall behind him. He cried. Begged. Screamed.
And I laughed.
When I woke up, I felt... peaceful.
Until the news broke.
Caleb missing. Last seen leaving detention. Security footage: Glitched.
They found a note in his locker. Just one word: "LISTEN."
I didn't write it.
At least… I don't think I did.
Whispers in the Static
That night, I played the final hidden file from Tom's drive. One he tried to erase, buried under layers of corrupted code. Took hours to decrypt.
It started with silence.
Then... a chorus of voices. Not human. Not quite.
They chanted names. Mine included.
Over and over.
Then a message — robotic, warped, yet chillingly clear:
"The blade remembers. The girl ascends. The blood calls her name."
I slammed the laptop shut. My breath hitched.
What the hell had Tom dragged me into?
Red Rain
Rain fell the next day — heavy, thick, crimson in my dreams. I walked the school halls, each step echoing like I was the only real thing left in the building. I could hear whispers from lockers. See shadows behind mirrors. Even the teacher's voice sounded like static.
Then I saw it.
A carving.
"SESSION #17: AWAKENING"
Scratched into my desk.
I didn't do it.
At least… I don't think I did.
I touched the letters. They were warm.
And somewhere, deep in my pocket, the knife pulsed like a second heart.
To Be Continued...
You thought the monster was Tom. That the blade ended with him. But monsters don't die when you stab them. They migrate.
And the knife?
It doesn't make you a killer.
It makes you a messenger.