THE WHISPERINGS

"Run," he said. "As fast as you can."

She was five. He was ten. Her neighbor. They played hide and seek most afternoons.

She ran like Bambi through the grass, jumping obstacles, dodging imaginary dangers. She turned to look back. He wasn’t there. Relief.

Then—impact.

Her foot caught on something hard. She flipped. Her head met the sidewalk. And just before it did, she saw him—grinning. His foot stretched out. Waiting.

Years passed.

She never left.

Not really.

She stayed by his side. Intervened when she shouldn’t. Nudged his fate into the mess he deserved.

Now he was old. Dying.

She sat close, whispering through the walls like wind. Some nights he heard her. Some nights he prayed louder.

Tonight, he heard everything.

He rose from bed. Knelt. Grabbed his rosary. Begged the voice to stop.

She smiled. Looked up at the plain wooden cross. Wished she had more time.

He took his final breath, mumbling prayers.

She leaned in.

Inhaled.

Held it.

Then exhaled it slowly into the corners of the earth—scattering him. Making sure this particular evil would never reassemble again.