Bound by silence
The Fletcher home loomed at the edge of town, its sagging roofline and
peeling paint standing as a warning to those who dared to pass by. It was a
place the locals avoided, whispering rumors of dark secrets and eerie
silences seemed to emanate from its depths. Inside, the air was stagnant and
heavy, as though the house itself mourned for what it contained.
Lacey Fletcher was no longer a person in the eyes of the world. She
was a shadow, a figure trapped in a purgatory of flesh and bone. Her parents
whispered her name only in fleeting moments, as though saying it too loudly
would summon something terrible. Lacey had always been quiet, even before
the sickness stole her voice, but this silence was different. It was suffocating,
alive, as if the walls themselves held their breath in anticipation.
She had been beautiful once, with bright eyes that held an entire world
of curiosity and long, lustrous hair that caught the light like spun silk. As time
went on, that beauty had been stripped away by time, neglect, and the
relentless grip of the unknown. Lacey’s body was no more than a skeleton.
Her flesh was an unnatural sight, her skin clinging to her bones like a brittle
veil. Her sunken eyes stared at the dim ceiling, as if searching for an escape.But the worst was not her physical decay. It was the house, an entity in
its own right, that seemed to breathe with her. Its groans and creaks
synchronized with the shallow rise and fall of her chest. It felt like each step
taken in the house was a risky move.
The couch she lay upon was no longer just a piece of furniture. It had
transformed into a grotesque throne, its leather darkened and hardened with
age, wrapping around her like a parasite. It pulsed in faint rhythms, a
reminder that something unnatural had taken hold.
At night, the house grew restless. The buzzing of flies swelled into a
low hum that echoed from the walls. Shadows stretched and twisted, forming
shapes that flickered at the edges of her vision. She was not alone in those
moments. Something watched her, unseen, yet undeniably present. Its gaze
was heavier than the suffocating air around her.
The whispers started then, faint at first, like wind slipping through
cracks in the walls. They grew louder, more insistent, weaving a story only
she could hear.
“You are ours now,
” the voices said, a mix of mockery and malice.
“You
belong here. You cannot leave. You never had the power, the conviction toleave. You knew you would be here. You knew you would never be able to
escape the grasp. But now you're ours.
”
Her parents, consumed by their own ghosts, did nothing. Sheila
wandered the halls with vacant eyes, clutching a rosary. Clay drowned
himself in alcohol, muttering prayers that died in his throat. They told
themselves she was still alive, still their little girl, but deep down, they knew
the truth. Something else had taken her place, something curious, something
that you couldn’t describe, couldn't put your finger on even though it was
right under your nose, something you felt like was right there, but you didn’t
know what it was.
One night, the house stirred with a hunger that could no longer be
ignored. The whispers grew louder, overlapping into a symphony of voices
that seeped into Lacey’s fragile mind. Her body twitched, a movement so
slight it might have been missed. The couch groaned in response, its leather
tightening around her like a second skin.
Her parents woke to a sound that froze their blood, a low guttural
noise that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Clay stumbled
into the living room, his bottle slipping from his fingers as his eyes met the
sight before him. Lacey was sitting up, her head tilted at an unnatural angle,her eyes, once lifeless, now glowing with a sickly green light. The couch
seemed to pulsate beneath her, its blackened leather stretching out like roots
that curved around her body.
“She’s… she’s moving,
” Sheila whispered, clutching the doorway as her
rosary slipped from her grasp.
But it wasn’t Lacey. Whatever moved her body was not the daughter
they had neglected and abandoned. It grinned with teeth that were not hers,
a smile that was just too wide for a human, a gaping maw splitting her face
into something unrecognizable. Flies swarmed her, creating a halo of buzzing
death that seemed to respond to her every movement.
“Why didn’t you save me?” The voice that came from her mouth was
layered, a chorus of torment and accusation.
“Why did you leave me here?”
“Why, why, why,
” she yelled.
“What did I do to you? Why do I deserve
this?”
Lacey screamed. Sheila backed away as Lacey, or the thing that wore
her flesh, began to rise. The couch creaked and tore, releasing her with a wet
sucking sound that filled the room. Her movements were jerky and unnatural,like a marionette pulled by invisible strings. The house shuddered, its walls
groaning as if alive, as if responding to her movements.
“You left me to die,
” she whispered.
“You left me to die,
” the voice hissed, the grin widening.
“Clay, Clay, get the gun!”
“You think he can help you? All he will ever be is a deadbeat alcoholic,
and you know it. You’re denying it. Sometimes you have to face the truth
instead of pushing it away.
”
“You see him?” Lacey yelled. Sheila stayed silent.
“I said, do you see
him?”
“Yes, yes, I see him.
” Sheila hesitated to answer.
“Well, now you see him, now you don’t.
” laughed Lacey.
By a snap of Lacey’s fingers, boom, her father fell to the ground, his
heart pounding out of his chest. It got faster and faster until—boom—no
more Dad.
“Clay!” Sheila screamed, falling to her knees, crying.
“Oh, come on. You know you never needed him. All you need is to feel
what you put me through,
” snapped Lacey.
“No, no, no, please, Lacey, we know you’re in there,
” Sheila pleaded.“We? Who’s we?” Lacey asked. Then Lacey said,
“You know what? I'm
gonna do this the fun way.
”
Lacey grabbed a kitchen knife and started stabbing her mother until
she stopped breathing. She then stomped on her skull until it caved in,
leaving her face a puddle of blood and mush.
“That’s what you get. That’s
what you get for leaving me there!” she wept.
The last thing the neighbors heard that night was the sound of
breaking glass and the desperate screams of the Fletchers pleading for mercy
as the skin of their daughter killed them in bloody murder, cut off abruptly as
the house fell silent once more, an eerie silence fell over the neighborhood.
Lacey, or what was living in her, went back to the couch. The leather
consumed her body, but can you really call it a body by the state it was in?
Cuts and bruises, ribs showing, abnormally skinny, malnourished,
greenish-blueish-purple skin—how can you let someone get to that bad of
health? How?
When the authorities arrived days later, they found no signs of life, like
nothing was ever there in the first place. The house was empty which made
the walls feel taller, everything was gone, except for the couch in the living
room. It stood pristine, untouched, perfect, as if Lacey was never there. It’slike no one was ever there, as if untouched by decay. But if you leaned close
enough, you could swear it breathed.
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