Mister Whispers

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There are things that lurk in the forests, things that stalk the roads at night, things that watch from the deep places where no lantern light reaches. The people of Areeott know these stories well. They know the rules of the wild, the proper way to address spirits, the offerings to leave behind. But Mr. Whispers is different. He does not wait in the trees. He does not pace the empty roads. He comes inside.   It is said that when the world falls quiet, when the last candle flickers low, when the fire dies to embers and even the wind holds its breath, that is when he comes. He does not break windows or scratch at doors. He does not crawl through cracks or creep across the floors. He does not need to. He is simply there. In the corner where no one looked a moment before. In the doorway where the light does not reach. In the hallway, just out of sight.   And then he whispers your name.   No one knows what he wants. Some say he takes children, though there are few who can name a child who vanished at his call. Others claim he steals voices, that those who answer him speak less and less until they are silent altogether. There are those who insist he does not harm at all, that he only listens, only lingers, only waits. But all agree on one thing—once you hear him, you must never answer.   The stories are old. No one remembers the first telling, and no two versions are exactly the same. In some villages, he is a man who walked into the mountains and returned wrong, his voice softened by the stone, his name lost to the echoes. In others, he is something that was never human, something that learned how to shape itself into the suggestion of a man, something that does not breathe, does not blink, does not move unless he is certain no one is watching. The priests of the Church of the Beacon do not speak of him, but the old women by the hearth still mark their doorframes with iron.   There is a silence that comes with his presence, a weight in the air like the hush before a storm. The crackle of the fire dampens. The wind outside dulls. Even the restless creaks of the house settle, as if waiting. And then, in that stillness, the whisper comes.   Soft. Low. Almost familiar.   Your name.   The children of Areeott are taught young. They know what to do. Do not answer. Do not look. Do not move. Keep your breath steady. Keep your eyes on the fire, the lantern, the dim glow of safety. If you pretend not to hear, he may leave. If you pretend not to notice, he may lose interest.   But there are those who cannot help themselves.   It is not a trick. Not a game. Not a test. If you answer, if you acknowledge him, he knows you now. Names are his to take. Not the way a thief steals a coin, but the way a song buries itself in the mind, looping endlessly, whispering over and over in the quiet spaces.   He can follow you anywhere now.   Some who hear him are never quite the same. They hesitate before answering when spoken to, as if waiting for something else to speak first. They wake in strange places with no memory of how they got there. They startle at their own reflections, at the sound of their own names on another’s lips. And sometimes—rarely, but often enough that the stories persist—they stop speaking altogether.   And sometimes, though only in the darkest stories, someone will see a figure standing in the corner of their room where no one should be. Not moving. Not breathing. Only watching.   The best way to keep Mr. Whispers at bay is to never let him in. A home that is too quiet, too still, too open to listening invites him closer. That is why people in Areeott leave a single candle burning through the night, why they place iron nails above their doorframes, why some families hang a tiny bell near their bedside. Noise keeps him uncertain. Light keeps him hesitant. Iron keeps him from stepping too close.   But most of all, they never answer.   Because if he calls your name, if he whispers it from the dark and you speak back—he is no longer on the outside looking in.   Then, he is already inside.  

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