The fever broke, but the voices remained.
Tyler could hear them now in the corners of the apartment. Little hisses, like someone whispering from inside the walls. When he pressed his ear to the plaster, he swore he heard breathing.
He tried to hide it from Jackson. Tried to force smiles and say he was fine. But Jackson saw through him.
"You're scaring me, Ty," Jackson admitted one night. His voice was low, steady, but the tremor in it betrayed him. "You don't talk. You barely eat. Sometimes when you look at me, I don't think it's you."
Tyler's chest constricted. "Then leave," he snapped before he could stop himself. His own voice rang too sharp, too cold. Immediately, guilt flooded him. "I—I didn't mean—"
But the reflection in the darkened TV screen across the room smirked. Yes, you did.
The whispers grew bolder. They spoke when Jackson left for work, when Tyler sat alone at the kitchen table. At first, he thought they were random noises. But slowly, they formed words. Phrases.
We're already inside.
You can't shut us out forever.
You belong to us.
Every time, the sound came from the walls themselves, vibrating through his bones.
That night, Tyler covered the mirrors with blankets, unplugged the television, anything to erase reflective surfaces. But when he poured water into a glass, his reflection was still there. Watching.