Evelyn barely slept.
Every time she closed her eyes, she felt something watching her. Not from the window. Not from the door.
From the mirror.
It stood opposite the bed like a silent witness, reflecting the room in perfect stillness. But Evelyn knew—something was wrong with it.
She stayed curled under the quilt, listening to the old inn breathe around her. The wind rattled the windowpane. Floorboards creaked in the hallway. And beneath it all, just on the edge of hearing—
A whisper.
She snapped her eyes open.
It was closer now.
Right beside her.
Her breath caught in her throat. Slowly, she turned her head toward the mirror.
For a moment, everything was normal. The room was as it should be—dim, still, untouched. But then she noticed it.
The reflection of the bed was empty.
Her stomach dropped. She was lying here, staring into the mirror—but her reflection was gone.
The whisper came again. A single word, stretched thin and breathy, as if spoken from the other side of a locked door.
Mercer.
Her last name.
Evelyn bolted upright. The moment she did, her reflection snapped back into place as if nothing had happened.
She scrambled out of bed, heart hammering, and grabbed the dresser. The mirror was cold beneath her fingertips. Just glass. Just a trick of the light.
But she wasn't imagining the whispers.
Something knew her name.
Something was calling to her.
She needed answers.
The Town's Secrets
Morning came reluctantly, the sky a dull gray as Evelyn left the inn. The town was no livelier in daylight. The streets were nearly empty, the buildings sagging under the weight of years. She passed a few locals—older women murmuring to one another, a man watching her too intently from a storefront. No one smiled.
She made her way to the Black Hollow Historical Society, a small brick building near the center of town. If there were records of the town's history—of her mother's connection to it—this was where she'd find them.
Inside, the place smelled of old paper and mildew. Rows of dusty shelves lined the walls, filled with books and yellowing newspapers. An elderly man sat behind a desk, peering at her over wire-rimmed glasses.
"You're looking for something," he said, more a statement than a question.
Evelyn nodded. "I need to know about the whispers."
The man's expression didn't change, but his grip on the book in his hands tightened.
"No one talks about the whispers," he muttered. "Not anymore."
Evelyn pulled out her notebook. "Then tell me about the people who hear them."
The man hesitated. His eyes flicked toward the door, as if checking for eavesdroppers. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said:
"They only call certain people. Those who have history here. Blood ties." His gaze settled on her. "And once they start calling your name… they don't stop."
A chill ran down her spine.
He leaned in closer. "Tell me, Miss Mercer… have they spoken to you yet?"
She hesitated. Then, finally, she whispered, "Yes."
The man exhaled sharply, his face clouding with something like sorrow. "Then it's already started."
Evelyn's grip tightened on her notebook. "What's started?"
The man swallowed. "The same thing that happened to your mother."
Her blood ran cold.
Before she could press further, a sudden chill filled the air.
Then—just behind her—
A whisper.
Evelyn.
She spun around.
The library was empty.
But she knew—she wasn't alone.
The Ones Who Were Taken
The whisper still lingered in the air, curling around Evelyn's name like smoke.
She turned slowly, scanning the dimly lit historical society. The shelves stood undisturbed, dust motes drifting through the slanted light from the windows. But the air was wrong—thick, charged, listening.
The elderly man behind the desk—Mr. Holloway, as she now knew from his nameplate—was watching her closely.
"They called your mother, too," he said, his voice low. "And she never escaped them."
Evelyn's breath hitched.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
Mr. Holloway exhaled, as if weighing his words. "Your mother wasn't the first. And she wasn't the last."
He turned toward the shelves and, with a slow, deliberate motion, pulled out an old leather-bound ledger. The spine cracked as he opened it, flipping through pages filled with names. He stopped on one and turned the book toward her.
Evelyn leaned in, her stomach twisting as she read the faded ink.
Missing Persons of Black Hollow.
Row after row of names stretched down the page—people who had vanished without explanation. Some dating back decades. Others… only a few years ago.
Then, her eyes landed on a name she knew too well.
Margaret Mercer.
Her mother.
A heavy silence stretched between them.
Evelyn's pulse thundered in her ears. "I—I thought my mother died in a car accident."
Mr. Holloway shook his head, his expression grave. "That's what they told you. But she was already gone before they ever found her body."
The words sent a chill through her bones.
"Gone?" she repeated. "Gone where?"
Mr. Holloway hesitated, then closed the ledger with a soft thud.
"The whispers take them."
Evelyn clenched her jaw. "What does that even mean?"
But before he could answer, the temperature in the room dropped. The air grew thick, suffocating. And then—
A whisper.
He shouldn't be telling you this.
Evelyn stiffened. The voice was different this time—deeper, more urgent.
Mr. Holloway's face went pale. His gaze darted toward the shadows stretching in the corners of the room.
"I've said too much," he whispered. "You need to leave."
Evelyn's heart pounded. "No. I need answers."
"Answers won't help you." His voice was shaking now. "They never do."
A sudden crash made them both jump. One of the shelves toppled over in the far corner of the room, books scattering across the floor. The air buzzed with unseen energy.
And then—
A whisper so close it felt like it came from within her own mind.
Run.
Evelyn didn't need to be told twice. She grabbed her notebook and bolted for the door.
As she reached the threshold, she stole one last glance at Mr. Holloway. His expression was unreadable, his hands trembling on the desk.
"They don't stop once they've chosen you," he said. "No matter where you go."
Evelyn stepped out into the cold morning air, her chest heaving.
The whispers weren't just a town legend.
They were real.
And they were coming for her.