I didn't sleep that night. Not in the car, not on the floor of the old post office I'd barricaded myself into after fleeing the theatre. I sat, flashlight clutched in one hand, crowbar in the other, my ears straining against a silence that felt too full to be real.
Every now and then, I thought I heard footsteps—slow, dragging, like someone who didn't quite know how to walk in human skin. But when I turned the light, there was nothing. Just the long-forgotten faces of wanted posters curling on the wall, their ink faded like bruises under water.
But I remembered what I saw in the theatre.
The faces in the seats.
The doll who spoke.
And the tape with my name on it.
---
At dawn, I crept back toward the square. The fog hadn't lifted. It clung to the buildings like a disease. I kept low, camera in hand, whispering my thoughts like confessions:
> "9:11 AM. Found evidence of preserved victims… mass grave via puppet display… intelligent construct or supernatural force maintaining memory through mimicry… no known origin yet. I'm going back in."
But I didn't go back to the theatre.
The boy had disappeared. I had no clue where he came from—or where he'd gone—but his warning haunted me. He hadn't wanted me on that stage. He'd pointed me to the door. He wanted me to find something deeper.
And I was starting to believe that Graywick wasn't just cursed.
It was alive.
---
I picked the only structure I hadn't yet entered: the library.
It sat on the far end of Main Street, half-buried behind weeping willows and crumbling bricks. Its sign was blackened, but I could still make out the letters:
> GRAYWICK HISTORICAL ARCHIVE & PUBLIC MEMORY HALL
Memory Hall. That felt important.
The door resisted me, then gave in with a sound like sobbing wood. I stepped into the main foyer and was instantly hit by cold.
Not just physical cold—mental cold. The kind that drapes over your skull like a wet cloth and seeps into your thoughts.
The place was massive.
Four floors of shelves. Spiral staircases. Balconies that leaned like they were eavesdropping. I flicked on my flashlight and swept it across the dust-heavy air.
That's when I saw it.
On the second floor, carved into the railing:
> "IF YOU HEAR YOUR NAME, DO NOT ANSWER."
I froze.
Because in the back of my skull, something had just whispered:
> "Rowan…"
My light sputtered.
I shut my mouth, jaw clenched tight. The voice had been soft, like it came from inside a wall. Or a dream. Or under my tongue.
Another whisper.
> "Come upstairs…"
I didn't want to. But my feet moved anyway.
---
The second floor was worse. Books torn and gutted. Pages strewn like feathers after a violent plucking. But the center of the hall was pristine—a circular platform beneath a glass dome. Beneath the glass: portraits.
Paintings of children. Adults. Families. All in stiff poses, unsmiling. Each one labeled beneath the frame with a name and date.
The names made my stomach turn.
> CALEB STONE – MISSING 1981
ELOISE HART – MISSING 2003
MARYBETH GLASS – DECEASED 1957 (BODY NEVER RECOVERED)
The same names from the dolls.
But the paintings weren't still.
Each one of them… moved.
A twitch of the mouth. A subtle shift of the eyes. Just enough to make me question reality. I blinked, and they returned to their original poses. I looked away, and I swore I heard someone breathe.
That's when I saw the hallway behind the portraits. A sign hung above it:
> THE WHISPER GALLERY
It should've stopped me.
But I followed it.
---
The hallway narrowed as I moved through it. The walls pressed close. Paintings on either side now featured no faces—just outlines, blurs, shadows of people who didn't want to be seen. Or remembered. And yet… the whispers grew louder.
> "You were supposed to forget…"
"She stitched the silence into our names…"
"Don't scream. Don't ever scream…"
They weren't directed at me. Not all of them. Some were fragments. Others arguments. One was a lullaby.
Then the hallway ended.
And I entered a circular chamber.
Sound didn't echo in here. It folded.
I could hear my own blood pumping. I could hear the stitching in my jacket creak as I moved.
On the far wall: a chair.
A large, high-backed wooden chair covered in straps.
Next to it: a phonograph. Still spinning. Still humming a broken note.
And above it all, on the curved wall in childlike scrawl:
> "HER VOICE IS A NEEDLE."
The moment I read it, my ears rang.
Then bled.
---
The phonograph crackled to life.
And a voice began to play.
> "You were meant to listen. Not speak. Not scream. Not ask. The children of noise are gone now. The tongue is a weapon. The tongue is a gift. The tongue is a curse."
Behind me, the hallway sealed.
No door. Just smooth wall.
The voice continued:
> "You came here for truth. But you cannot handle sound. You must be made clean. You must be made quiet."
The chair's straps slithered like snakes, opening.
The phonograph needle glowed red.
And then a hatch opened in the floor beneath the chair… revealing a doll.
Not lifeless. Breathing.
And it had my face.
---
I stumbled back, tripping over my own feet. The whispers rose to a scream—not loud, but dense, like every regret I'd ever buried now wanted to pull free through my ears.
I clutched my head.
> "She hears you. She hears you. SHE HEARS YOU—"
Something rose from the chair.
Something in red.
The doll turned its head toward me.
Its lips parted.
And in my voice, it said:
> "I'll take your scream now."