They whose voices cannot be heard.
Alone in my bed, I stare at the four walls surrounding me, counting the number of holes in the ceiling above. 43. An odd number.
They whose voices should not be heard.
Alone in my bed, I stare at the four walls surrounding me, counting the number of holes in the ceiling above. 44. An even number. Strangely enough, my ceiling was not a perforated ceiling when I first moved into my house. In fact, it wasn’t perforated even yesterday, instead with the holes appearing while I slept for me to discover once the morning sun shone through the window to my left.
They whose voices must not be heard.
Alone in my bed, I stare at the four walls surrounding me, counting the number of holes in the ceiling above. 45. An odd number, but a round one. Strangely enough, my ceiling was not a perforated ceiling when I first moved into my house. In fact, it wasn’t perforated even yesterday, instead the holes appearing while I slept for me to discover once the morning sun shone through the window to my left. They had all appeared at once, all within a relatively small area of the ceiling; just above my bed, in fact, and didn’t leave that small circumference that was encompassed by my bed. Truly, it was odd, and rather frightening when I woke up just this morning, but I figured that it must be nothing more than termites or some other pest that I would be able to deal with at a later date. It is strange to me, however, that so many holes had appeared in such a short time window, overnight in fact, without even waking me from my unconscious slumber.
They whose voices cannot exist.
Alone in my bed, I stare at the four walls surrounding me, counting the number of holes in the ceiling above. 46. An even number. Strangely enough, my ceiling was not a perforated ceiling when I first moved into my house. In fact, it wasn’t perforated even yesterday, instead with the holes appearing while I slept, for me to discover once the morning sun shone through the window to my left. They had all appeared at once, all within a relatively small area of the ceiling; just above my bed, in fact, and didn’t leave that small circumference that was encompassed by my bed. Truly, it was odd, and rather frightening when I woke up just this morning, but I figured that it must be nothing more than termites or some other pest that I would be able to deal with at a later date. It is strange to me, however, that so many holes have appeared in such a short time window, overnight in fact, without even waking me from my unconscious slumber. I pull the covers up to my chin, covers that I should not even need, for it was the middle of the summer months, yet the thermometer (and my own extremities, for that matter) tickle the lower end of the mid-30’s Fahrenheit. It was so cold that frost coated the corners of my window panes and I could see my breath in my unheated house. I shortly considered lighting a fire in my stove to warm the house, yet I quickly brushed this absurd idea aside, as I would have broiled myself come morning when the temperature was sure to return to normal.
They whose voices should not exist.
Alone in my bed, I clutch the knife that I’ve kept at my bedside table at all times for just under two months now. I count the number of holes in the ceiling above me. 47. 47 nights have passed since those creatures had spoken to me through the plaster hanging ever so low above my resting place. I say “those creatures,” despite the fact that I cannot in sound mind say that there is more than one creature, for I have never seen its face, only the voices that come from above. For the past 47 nights, I have been haunted and terrorized by the voices trickling through my ceiling, becoming ever clearer as I punch more and more holes in the ceiling.
It speaks to me again, softly whispering behind the darkness seeping through the holes that it speaks from. For so long, I have heard what has been spoken to me through such a dim abyss, but not once have I been able to listen to what has been said to me, for what is being said is not in a language I understand; nor, I suspect, in any language that any human has spoken throughout our long history. I cry out to the spirit, speaking in my mortal tongue, begging for the torture that awaits me every night to end as I stab at the ceiling with my knife. The voices laugh at me, mocking me and my futile attempt to stop them, to end the life that has become the norm for me in these last few weeks, but a life that goes forever unremembered in the waking hours, to be forgotten when the sun crests my windowsill.
I yell once more at the ceiling, at the monster, at the demons that have been infiltrating the peaceful slumber I once held dear, stabbing again and again at the ceiling above me, plaster flakes raining down upon me as tears stream from my eyes. The voices continue to laugh a loud, echoing laugh that pierces my chest and shakes my soul to its very core, and I can no longer take it. I fall to my knees and place the knife on my bedside table; too exhausted to fight back anymore, not that it has ever borne fruit. I close my eyes as I hear the laughter from above fade, the creature or creatures that find their pleasure in my own displeasure slithering away to undoubtedly revel in my suffering.
They whose voices must not exist.
Alone in my bed, I stare at the four walls surrounding me, counting the number of holes in the ceiling above. 67. An odd number.
