Morning light in Whisper Hollow didn't so much rise as seep—thin, gray, and reluctant. Elena woke stiff and hollow-eyed, the quilt tangled around her legs like something trying to hold her down. She hadn't slept, not really. Every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the wind through the eaves, had sounded like a breath just behind her ear.
She made coffee in Maya's old percolator, the gurgle of boiling water startlingly loud. As she sipped the bitter brew, she forced herself to look around the parlor with clear eyes—not as a mourner, but as an archivist. That was her job, after all: to sort truth from debris, signal from noise.
Today, she'd start with the attic.
She climbed the stairs slowly, each step groaning under her weight like a protest. The open attic door loomed, darker than the hallway behind her. A cold draft spilled down, carrying the scent of dry rot and something else—ozone, sharp and electric, like after a lightning strike.
At the top, she flicked the switch. A bare bulb flickered to life, casting long, trembling shadows over a space frozen in time.
Boxes were stacked haphazardly, labeled in Maya's looping script: Childhood, Art School, Blackwater Research, DO NOT TOUCH. Dust motes swirled in the dim light. An old drafting table held half-finished sketches—trees with too many eyes, spirals that looked like sound waves, a woman with her mouth sewn shut.
But it was the wall that stopped her.
Covering it, floor to rafters, was a collage of newspaper clippings, photocopies, hand-drawn maps, and pages torn from library books. Red string connected names, dates, and symbols in a web so dense it looked like a nervous system. At the center, circled in thick black ink, were two words:
THE HOLLOW VOICE
Elena stepped closer, pulse quickening.
One article, yellowed and dated October 17, 1893, bore the headline:
LOCAL FARMER AND FAMILY VANISH AFTER "WHISPERING PHENOMENON" REPORTED
Another, from 1957:
RADIO STATION SHUT DOWN AFTER BROADCAST OF "UNIDENTIFIED VOCAL LOOP"
And more recent—just two years ago:
BLACKWATER FALLS MAN FOUND MUTE, SCRATCHING THROAT UNTIL BLOOD FLOWED. CLAIMED "SOMETHING TOOK HIS WORDS."
Beneath it all, pinned like a sacred text, was a photocopied page from a forgotten folklore journal:
"In the hollows of Blackwater, it is said a spirit dwells—not of flesh, but of echo. It hungers for voices, not to hear, but to wear. Those who speak its name are remembered… by being unmade."
Elena's throat tightened. This wasn't just research. This was obsession.
She turned to the boxes marked Blackwater Research. Inside, she found Maya's journals—dozens of them, bound in leather and cloth. She opened the most recent.
The handwriting was frantic, uneven, as if written in darkness or fear:
March 3
I heard it last night. Not outside. Inside the walls. Like someone whispering through a seashell held to my ear—but the shell was my own skull. It said my name. Not "Maya." Not even "hey you." It said, "Mayaaa…" in my mother's voice. But softer. Hungrier.
March 12
It's learning. I played an old recording of myself singing—just for fun—and the static afterward… it wasn't static. It was mimicking me. Syllable by syllable. Getting closer.
April 1
Ellie would call this grief psychosis. Maybe she's right. But what if the dead aren't the only ones who echo? What if some things echo back*?*
Elena's hands trembled. She remembered that voicemail. "It sings." She'd thought it poetic. Now, it sounded like a warning.
At the bottom of the box, wrapped in oilcloth, was a small wooden box carved with strange symbols—interlocking spirals and open mouths. Inside, nestled in velvet, lay a single wax phonograph cylinder, its surface clouded with age. Taped to it was a note in Maya's hand:
DO NOT PLAY.
IT REMEMBERS WHAT IT HEARS.
—M
Elena stared at it. A relic from another century. Why would Maya have this? And why fear it?
A floorboard creaked below.
She jumped, heart slamming. "Ben?" she called, voice too sharp.
No answer.
Silence again. Thick. Watching.
She closed the box slowly, but the image of the cylinder burned behind her eyes. And beneath the fear, a colder thought took root:
If Maya was trying to trap something… did it trap her first?
Outside, the crows began to scream.
End of Chapter 2