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Whispers of Silence
Chapter 13. Pretty Friends

Chapter 13. Pretty Friends

The mask feels heavier than it should as I carry it back to my desk, its wooden surface still warm against my palms. Claire follows close behind, her earlier giggles fading into thoughtful silence. Neither of us wants to be alone after what just happened. The floorboards creak beneath our feet - our nerves still raw from the evening's fright.

Through the thin wall separating the rooms of our house, I hear Maya's voice, soft but clear, talking to someone. Or something. The sound makes my skin prickle with unease.

"Maya?" I call softly, pushing her door open. The hinges whisper against wood, and moonlight spills across her floor in silver pools. She sits cross-legged on her bed, Mr. Whiskers clutched to her chest, that strange new smile playing at her lips. "Who were you talking about earlier?"

“The pretty ones,” she says.

“The pretty ones again?”

Her head tilts at an angle that seems wrong somehow, like a bird studying something far away. "My friends," she says simply, her voice carrying that dreamy quality that's become more common lately.

I glance at Claire, who stands rigid in the doorway. "How can she be so calm?" I whisper. "After what just happened… I know she didn’t get scared, but…"

"Maybe she really didn't feel it," Claire whispers back, her voice tight with worry. "Have you noticed how she never seems scared anymore? She doesn’t even look like a child."

Something cold settles in my stomach. "What friends?" I move closer, trying to keep my voice gentle despite the growing tension in my chest. The floorboards feel unusually cold beneath my bare feet. "The ones you talk to at night?"

"They're always here," she says, her fingers absently stroking Mr. Whiskers' worn fur. Each movement seems too precise, too measured for a six-year-old. "They tell me such pretty things."

"Maya." I grab her shoulders, giving her a small shake. Her nightgown feels thin beneath my fingers, but her skin burns unusually warm. "What things? What do they tell you?"

But she just stares through me, that smile never wavering. In the moonlight, her shadow stretches oddly across the bed - too long, too dark, moving a half-second too late when she shifts.

"They're just imaginary friends," Claire says from the doorway, trying to sound reassuring though her voice wavers slightly. "All little kids have them, right?" She wraps her arms around herself, as if warding off a chill despite the summer warmth.

I want to believe that. Want to think it's just Maya's imagination, just normal childhood games. But I remember how her shadow moved wrong earlier, how she spoke in that voice that wasn't hers.

"Maya, please." I shake her again, gentler this time. A strand of her dark hair falls across her face, but she doesn't blink when it brushes her eye. "Talk to me. Who are these friends?"

She blinks slowly, like someone waking from a deep sleep. For just a moment, she looks like my normal little sister again. "They're nice to me," she says in her usual voice. "They show me pretty things and tell me pretty stories. About the paths and the doors and the-"

“Can you see them?” I ask frenetically.

“Of course no Julie, they’re INVISIBLE. They are MY friends.”

"Let's get some air," Claire suggests, her voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. "Clear our heads a bit."

The night wraps around us like a cool silk shawl as we step into the garden. Stars spill across the sky like scattered diamonds, and the grass feels soft and dewy beneath our feet. Mom's herb garden releases its nighttime perfume - lavender and rosemary mixing with the sharper scents of sage and thyme. Dad's medicinal section adds deeper notes - valerian root, chamomile, and something earthier I can't quite name.

The old apple tree creaks gently in the breeze, its leaves whispering ancient secrets. I trail my fingers along Mom's rose trellis, feeling the smooth wood worn by years of careful tending. The blooms look like pale ghosts in the moonlight, their perfume growing stronger as night deepens.

"Remember when we used to hide here?" Claire asks softly, settling on the stone bench beneath the apple tree. "Back when the scariest thing in the world was getting caught stealing cookies?"

I sit beside her, the stone cool through my nightdress. "We'd make little hideouts between the flower beds. Mom would pretend she couldn't find us."

An owl calls somewhere in the distance, its voice echoing off the village walls. The sound reminds me of autumn nights, of harvests and festivals that seem very far away now. The crickets add their evening chorus, a familiar sound that somehow makes everything feel less strange. A gentle breeze carries the scent of night-blooming jasmine from Mrs. Hedda's garden next door.

"Look!" Claire points suddenly, her voice brightening. "Fireflies!"

Sure enough, tiny lights dance among Mom's rosebushes, blinking like earthbound stars. We move closer, watching their gentle ballet above the flowers. Their light reflects in Claire's eyes, making her look younger suddenly - more like the girl who used to chase imaginary monsters with me.

"They're beautiful," I whisper, afraid to break the spell. "We hardly see them anymore."

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Claire nods, a sad smile touching her lips. "Not like that dragon-lizard though. Remember? The one with rainbowy wings?"

"That was different," I say softly, watching the fireflies weave between rose stems. "Those only come once a year, if we're lucky."

"Speaking of rare sights," Claire's voice drops to barely a whisper, "do you remember that summer evening, three years ago? Near the old oak?" She shivers despite the warm night, I can see her. "That... that figure we saw. The one so beautiful I couldn’t look at directly, I fell head over heels in love with?"

My breath catches in my throat. We've never spoken of it - that glimpse of something that shouldn't exist, like a painting by a mad artist come to life. "It hurt to look at," I whisper. "Like staring at the sun, but... but worse somehow."

"Wrong," Claire nods. "It was so beautiful. If he came here right now and asked me to marry him, I'd leave you in a heartbeat without even thinking twice, Julie!"

“Oh, fantastic! The world’s about to end, and there you are, leaving your best friend, off on a honeymoon with some charming stranger.” I reply sarcastically.

The garden seems to hold its breath. Even the crickets fall silent, as if they too remember that unnatural beauty. The fireflies continue their dance, but their light seems dimmer now, more hesitant.

That's when everything changes. The air grows thick, heavy with something that isn't quite sound. The breeze dies completely, leaving the garden unnaturally still. One by one, the fireflies blink out, as if someone is gently pinching their lights between invisible fingers.

"Julie?" Claire's voice trembles. "Do you hear that?"

At first, it's just a whisper - like dead leaves scraping against stone. Then it grows stronger, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The very air vibrates with it, making my teeth ache.

Claire's hand finds mine, her fingers ice-cold despite the summer night. We turn slowly, searching the shadows that seem to reach for us with dark fingers. The owl has fallen silent. Even the distant sounds of the village seem muffled, as if we're underwater.

"It sounds like... like people talking beneath ice," Claire whispers. "But I can't quite..."

The whispers grow stronger, and now I can almost make out words - fragments that slip away like water when I try to grasp them. Then it happens - one word breaks through, clear as crystal: "Suffer..."

My knees buckle and I collapse onto the dew-wet grass. "Julie!" Claire tries to catch me, but it's like all strength has left my body.

"Why?" The word escapes as a sob. "Why must I suffer?"

"I've always been a good girl," my voice breaks as tears start falling. "I've done everything I was supposed to... I've tried so hard..."

My thoughts race frantically as I clutch at Claire's arm. Sure, sometimes I tease Maya. And maybe I don't always help Mom right away. Sometimes I get angry when Finn is mean to me... but... A sob catches in my throat. I didn't think that was enough to deserve death.

A final whisper, softer but somehow more terrible than all the others: "Pain..."

"Do I have to die?" The question comes out broken, child-like. My whole body shakes as Claire tries to hold me upright. "Is that what they want? My death?"

Claire half-carries, half-drags me toward the house. Everything feels distant, unreal, except for those voices that keep whispering about pain and death and sacrifice. The fireflies have all gone dark now, leaving the garden to the shadows that seem to follow us inside.

Claire grabs my arm just before we reach the back door, pulling me into the shadows beside Mom's herb garden. "Wait," she whispers. "Your mother will know something's wrong the moment she sees you like this."

She pulls out her handkerchief, gently wiping my cheeks. I can feel how swollen my eyes are, how raw my face must look from crying. "Is it that bad?"

"Just... let me fix this." Her fingers work quickly, smoothing my hair, adjusting my dress. "Keep your head down if your mom's in there. Maybe we can-"

The sudden glow of the kitchen lamp spilling across the garden stones makes us both freeze. Through the window, I see Mom moving around, the familiar clink of dishes painting a picture of normal evening routines that feels wrong after everything that's happened.

I take a shaky breath, trying to steady myself. "Do I look okay now?"

"Better." Claire squeezes my hand. "Just say you're tired if she asks. It's not even really a lie."

The kitchen door creaks as we enter, and warmth wraps around us – the lingering scent of fresh bread and herbs, Mom's humming as she wipes down the counter. Everything so perfectly normal it makes my chest ache.

"There you are!" Mom turns, wiping her hands on her apron. "How was your evening walk, girls? The garden's lovely in the moonlight, isn't it?"

I keep my head down, muttering something about being tired, but Mom's already noticed. She pauses in her work, her eyes moving between us with that careful attention that catches everything.

"Julie?" Her voice softens. "Have you been crying, sweetheart?"

Claire steps closer to me, and I feel her slight nod to my mother – some silent communication passing between them that I'm too drained to interpret.

"It's good to let things out sometimes," Mom says gently, and I realize she thinks this is just normal tears, just me finally breaking down about everything that's been happening. Not knowing about the whispers, about what we heard in the garden. "Why don't you girls head upstairs? I'll bring up some tea in a bit."

Relief washes through me as I understand – she thinks I've finally opened up to Claire, finally let out all the stress and fear I've been carrying. If only she knew the real reason for my tears.

"Thanks, Mrs. Delia," Claire says, already guiding me toward the stairs. "We're pretty tired."

"Of course you are." Mom's voice follows us up. "It's been a long day."

A long day. I almost want to laugh at how simple that sounds, how normal. As if whispers about suffering and sacrifice are just another part of growing up, like skinned knees or first crushes.

By the time we reach my room, I can barely stand. Claire helps me to the bed, her hands steady though I can feel her trembling. Through my window, the night garden looks peaceful, normal - but I know better now. The whispers may have stopped for now, but their echoes linger in my mind.

"It's starting again, isn't it?" she whispers, her face pale in the moonlight. "The whispers like your grandmother heard?"

I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. Because now I understand - Maya's "pretty friends" might be imaginary, but the whispers... the whispers are real.

And they're trying to tell me something.

Something about pain.

About sacrifice.

About death.

Whether I'm ready to hear it or not.