The woods behind Ashgrove had one rule.
If you hear your name, don't answer.
Nobody remembered who started the rumour. Parents said it. Teachers repeated it. Older kids laughed about it around bonfires. By the time I was sixteen, I'd heard it so many times that it had lost all meaning.
Until the night I heard it myself.
It started with my dog, Baxter.
He slipped through a gap in our backyard fence just before sunset, chasing something into the trees. By the time I reached the forest, daylight had almost disappeared beneath the thick branches. My phone had no signal, my flashlight was nearly dead, and every direction looked exactly the same.
"Baxter!" I shouted.
Only silence answered.
Then, somewhere ahead, I heard my own voice.
"Baxter!"
It sounded perfect. The same tone. The same panic. Like someone had recorded me only seconds earlier.
I froze.
The voice called again, farther into the woods.
"Baxter!"
My stomach tightened. There was no echo. It was me... but it wasn't.
I remembered the old rule.
If you hear your name, don't answer.
I turned to leave.
"Mason."
The whisper floated between the trees.
"Mason..."
Every hair on my arms stood up.
Whoever—or whatever—had spoken knew my name.
I walked faster.
"Mason."
Closer now.
"Mason."
Closer still.
It wasn't shouting. It didn't need to. Every time it spoke, it sounded as if it were standing just over my shoulder.
I refused to answer.
Then Baxter barked.
Relief flooded through me.
The bark came from a clearing ahead, where the moonlight spilled through the trees. Baxter stood beside an old stone well covered in moss. His tail wasn't wagging. He wasn't moving.
He was staring into the well.
I hurried over and grabbed his collar.
"What are you looking at?"
Something answered from below.
"Mason."
Not a whisper this time.
A child's voice.
I looked down.
The well was far deeper than it should have been. Instead of water, there was darkness—thick, endless darkness that seemed to swallow the moonlight itself.
Then a face drifted upward.
It was mine.
Not similar.
Not close.
Mine.
Its eyes were open far too wide, and it wore a smile I had never made in my life.
"You came," it said.
My legs refused to move.
"I've been practising."
Its lips stretched farther, splitting at the corners until they reached its ears.
"Say something."
I couldn't.
"Just one word."
It began climbing.
Not climbing the stones.
Climbing the air.
Its hands grasped nothing as it pulled itself higher, inch by impossible inch, until its head rose above the edge of the well.
Its skin glistened like it had been underwater for years.
Baxter growled.
The thing smiled wider.
"Please," it whispered in my voice.
"Answer me."
Baxter suddenly lunged.
He slammed into my legs, knocking me backwards. I hit the ground hard, and the spell broke. We ran without looking back.
Behind us, I heard footsteps.
Not one pair.
Two.
One belonged to me.
The other matched mine perfectly.
We burst from the woods and didn't stop until we reached my backyard.
The footsteps stopped at the tree line.
I never told anyone what happened. They would have laughed.
But every now and then, usually around midnight, my phone rings.
The screen always says Unknown Caller.
When I answer, I don't hear breathing.
I hear leaves rustling.
Then my own voice says,
"I finally found the way out."
And somewhere outside my bedroom window...
No comments:
Post a Comment