There's a secret I've kept locked away since childhood, a memory from the large, echoing house we once lived in, particularly its vast, shadowed library. I was only seven or eight when we came home late, around 10:30 at night. Standing in the mudroom, a voice, chillingly identical to my mother's, whispered my name directly into my ear. Before I could even register the shock, the exact same call echoed from the library, a space physically impossible to reach so quickly. My actual mother was nearby; when I asked if she heard it, she just gave me an unsettling, blank look and said no.
Driven by a fear I couldn't comprehend, I slowly made my way to the library. The air grew heavy and cold, and there, amidst the towering bookshelves, a gaunt, shadowy figure stood. Its presence was palpable, its stillness unnerving. In the span of a single heartbeat, the figure vanished, leaving behind only a profound, freezing emptiness. To this day, the memory haunts me. Iโve read stories of entities that mimic voices to lure the unwary, and though I rationalize, I can't shake the chilling question: what was calling my name, and what would have happened if I'd walked faster into the shadows of that library?
stake - chloejohn