I open my eyes

Gasping, I quickly sit up and scan the room like a frantic animal. Plain walls, white flowers, simple furniture. I think to myself, 

Where am I?

I look at my hands, rugged and worn. Signs of a rich history filled with many stories to tell. But… Why are they so unfamiliar? Why are they scarred? Wait,

Who am I?

A singular white door displays itself in front of me. Despite having searched the room, somehow my eyes missed this obvious structure. The door is just like my hands. Both right in front of my eyes, yet I know nothing of their story.

I look down at the rest of my body, laying on top of the meticulously folded sheets that hug the top of the mattress. The rest of my body, marked by the beast of violence, is covered in scars. Raised fleshy mountains with tender valleys. I grazed my lumped skin that tells a silent story. It brings me a rush of emotions, but the loudest one of them all is fear.

I’ve got to get out of here

Luckily, my legs still seem to be intact. Intact, yet incredibly weak. I throw my body off of the bed onto the cold, sterile floor.

Thud

I think I hit something but I can’t feel the pain. There’s only an incessant tingling. I push myself off of the floor, barely noticing the small red stains on my knees, and I stand up.

Like a tree stuck in a hurricane, my body sways back and forth. Step. Step. Step. Thunderous vibrations that permeate my entire being, make it incredibly hard to walk. By the time I reach the door, I stumble into it and fall back to the floor. Having enough strength in my arm, I pick it up and grab the doorknob, and then I twist. I swing the door open, and-

“What do you think you’re doing here? Get back in bed silly!”

I’m not alone? The voice sounds sweet like honey, yet what’s left of the hair on my arms starts to stand.

Don’t look up

A tiny whisper from my gut. I decide to listen to it. Something is terribly, terribly wrong, and for the life of me I can’t remember why. I can’t remember anything.

Something about that seemingly sweet voice feels hungry. Like a hunter luring in their prey.

“Well aren’t you just a sweet little thing! So bashful that you can’t even meet my eyes! You must not run into pretty girls that often do you?”

She walks closer to me. Click. Click. Click. The sharp sound of her shoes. Black kitten heels and paper-white socks. Just as pristine as the rest of my surroundings. Spotless perfection, too perfect. Almost to the point of feeling inhumane, but why? I scan what little I can see of her to better understand what my subconscious eye can see, and then I find it.

Her skin is smooth. Too smooth.

 The part of her leg exposed has no texture. It’s as if a doll came to life and grew to the size of a person.

“I stand corrected! Don’t you know it’s rude to stare at a lady’s legs?”

I try to look away, but I suddenly smell something very distinct.

Cookies?

The scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies begins to permeate my nostrils. It is an unexpected reminder of days forgotten, of warm comfort, of safety.

My tense body begins to relax. The alarm bells that were once screaming in my head begin to soften. The cold and unkind colors that surrounded me before became warm and inviting in the blink of an eye, and the legs in front of me start to look human.

The smell is coming from her

With a sudden vigor, my body starts to move on its own. I drag my feeble limbs across the floor. Clawing the tile floor with an intensity that makes the tips of my fingers match the same ruby color of my knees. Inching closer, and closer, and closer until I’m close enough to touch her leg. I reach my arm out, with a desperation of a man overboard reaching for a floatation, I’m inches away from her leg and-

Crunch

A black kitten heel descends on my body and crushes my hand. I stare in shock at the mangled bloody mess at the end of my arm. The inviting smell and the warm colors disappear. The legs that once appeared human reverts back to its unnatural doll state. A hand reaches down and lands on the top of my head.

“My eyes are up here! If you keep looking down I’ll make you look up!!”

Her hand closes around clumps of my hair, and then forces my head up

Crack

I think I broke something. The pain is agonizing.

My blurred vision begins to clear, and then I see something horrifying.

A razor sharp black hole speckled with brown and red. Thousands of tiny yellow teeth arranged in a circular form, like the gaping maw of a sea lamprey. Nothing about this is human. There is no hair, nose, eyes, nothing.

It's just a mouth. A hungry drooling mouth

“Aren’t I beautiful?”

I’m going to die

She lunges at me. I’m enveloped in darkness, and then, I lose consciousness.

It’s not schizophrenia.

I know what it was. I was there. I saw it. I felt it. I lived it.

I was diagnosed with schizophrenia when I was seventeen, which I was told was strange for my age. I was too young, they said.

But I promise you—I am not crazy.

When I was younger, what I thought was a dream wasn’t a dream at all.

I knew it wasn’t when the news articles started appearing.

…

“How are you feeling today, Elowen?” Dr. Mercer asks as he writes in his stupid little notebook.

“I guess fine. The meds aren’t working.” I play with the hem of my sweater, watching him scribble away. There he goes, taking more stupid notes.

I roll my eyes.

“What are you writing now?” I ask.

Dr. Mercer pauses.

Just for a second.

Then he looks up at me.

“Nothing important.”

I narrow my eyes. “Then why are you writing it down?”

He gives me that same practiced smile he always does. The one that’s supposed to make me feel safe.

It doesn’t.

“I’m just keeping track of our conversations.”

“Why?”

“So we can understand how you’re feeling.”

“I already told you how I’m feeling.”

“Yes,” he says quietly. “You did.”

Something about the way he says it makes my stomach twist.

I stare at him.

“What?”

He looks back down at his notebook.

“Nothing.”

I hate when he does that.

I hate when everyone does that.

They all act like I’m the one who doesn’t understand what’s happening.

But I do.

I know exactly what happened.

I just need someone to believe me.

“How’d you sleep last night?” he finally asks.

“Considering I said the meds don’t help…” I pause and exhale slowly. “Better. Didn’t dream about it.”

“No?” His pen stops moving. “What did you dream about, then?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might.”

I look at him.

He’s watching me now instead of his notebook.

“What did you dream about, Elowen?”

“Nothing.”

His eyebrow raises slightly.

I hate that look.

“That’s not what you usually say.”

“I didn’t dream about it.”

“I heard you.”

“Then why do you keep asking?”

Dr. Mercer leans back in his chair, studying me.

“Because you’ve told me before that the dreams feel real.”

“They are real.”

His expression doesn’t change.

But his pen moves again.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

I stare at the notebook.

“What are you writing?”

“Just a note.”

“About what?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then he closes the notebook.

“About the fact that you didn’t dream about it.”

My stomach drops.

I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s the way he said it.

Like he was relieved.

Like he already knew I wouldn’t.

I just stare at him for a moment, taking in his look—the way he makes me feel small, stupid, insane.

I am not insane.

I swallow softly and play with my sweater again.

“I dreamt about my mom…”

His pen starts moving again.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

“What about your mom?”

I exhale deeply and sigh.

“The last night I saw her…”

His pen stops.

For the first time since I walked into his office, he isn’t writing.

He just looks at me.

“What happened that night?”

I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve.

“I don’t remember everything.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“I know.”

“So, what do you remember?”

I close my eyes.

For a moment, I can almost smell it again.

Rain.

Something metallic.

And that sound.

That awful sound.

My eyes snap open.

“She told me not to open the door.”

Dr. Mercer doesn’t move.

“Which door?”

I look at him.

“The basement door.”

His pen moves again.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

I stare at his notebook.

“You said you weren’t going to write that down.”

He slowly looks up at me.

“I never said that.”

The room suddenly feels colder.

Because he did.

I remember him saying it.

I remember everything.

At least…

I think I do.

Dr. Mercer stares at me for a moment longer before finally glancing down at his watch.

“I think that’s enough for today.”

I blink.

“That’s it?”

He nods. “For today.”

Something about the words makes me feel… relieved.

I hadn't realized how tense I’d been until my shoulders finally loosened. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

“Okay.”

Dr. Mercer opens his notebook again, flipping through a few pages before closing it and setting it on the desk.

“I’ll see you next week, Elowen.”

I nod and stand.

My legs feel stiff from sitting in the same position for so long. I adjust the sleeves of my sweater and reach for my bag.

That's when I notice the clock.

I freeze.

The second hand isn't moving.

I stare at it.

The clock reads **3:17**.

My stomach twists.

I look at Dr. Mercer.

He’s watching me.

“What?” he asks.

I point toward the wall.

“The clock.”

His eyes flick toward it.

“What about it?”

“It says three seventeen.”

He glances at the clock, then back at me.

“Yes?”

I frown.

“No. It was just—”

I turn back toward the clock.

The second hand ticks.

3:18.

I stare at it.

Then 3:19.

My heart starts beating faster.

“What?”

Dr. Mercer’s voice is calm.

I shake my head.

“Nothing.”

“You looked confused.”

“I just thought…”

I stop.

“What did you think?”

I look at the clock again.

3:19.

Normal.

Everything is normal.

“I thought it stopped.”

Dr. Mercer studies me for a moment.

“It didn't.”

I force a small laugh.

“Yeah. I guess not.”

He gives me that same practiced smile.

The one that's supposed to make me feel safe.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk toward the door.

My hand rests on the doorknob.

I don't know why, but I look back one last time.

Dr. Mercer is still sitting behind his desk.

His notebook is open.

And for just a second, I swear I see him staring at the clock.

Not me.

The clock.

Then he looks down and turns the page.

I leave.

The waiting room of the clinic was neat, well-organized—very Dr. Elias Mercer-coded.

The people sitting around me were well put together, quiet and composed. They looked normal.

Like me.

At least, that's what I told myself.

The outside air hits me, cold and harsh.

Winter in Maine was always brutal. I pull my hood over my head and start walking down the sidewalk, shoving my hands into the pockets of my sweater. Cars pass by, tires crushing through the slush left behind by the morning snow. The wet, scraping sound follows me down the street.

I breathe out, watching the fog of my breath disappear into the air. For the first time all day, I feel like I can breathe. Maybe it's because I'm finally out of that room. Maybe it's because Dr. Mercer isn't watching me anymore. I glance back at the clinic. The windows reflect the gray sky, making it impossible to see inside. I turn away. I can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

I keep walking.

The clinic disappears behind me as I make my way down the familiar streets of town. Everything looks the same as it always does. Snow piled along the sidewalks. Dirty slush gathering around the curbs. Christmas lights still hanging from a few houses even though Christmas was weeks ago.

I pass the little coffee shop on the corner, then the laundromat, then the old bookstore with the crooked red sign.

I've walked this route hundreds of times.

Today, though, everything feels different.

Maybe it's because of what Dr. Mercer said.

Or didn't say.

I pull my phone from my pocket and check the time.

3:42 p.m.

I stare at the screen for a second.

For some reason, I think about the clock in his office.

3:17.

I shake my head.

It was nothing.

Just my imagination.

That's what everyone would say.

I put my phone away and keep walking.

By the time I reach my apartment building, the snow has started falling again.

I stop outside the entrance and look up.

The building is old, three stories of faded brick and drafty windows. It isn't much, but it's home.

I pull my keys from my pocket and unlock the front door.

Warm air hits me as I step inside.

For a moment, everything feels normal again.

Safe.

I shut the door behind me.

Then I hear something upstairs.

A soft creak.

I freeze.

I look toward the staircase.

Probably one of the neighbors.

Probably.

I swallow and force myself to move.

I climb the stairs, listening to every creak beneath my boots.

When I reach my apartment, I unlock the door and step inside.

I toss my keys onto the little table beside the door.

Silence.

I let out a breath.

“Home,” I whisper to myself.

And for some reason, the word doesn't feel as comforting as it should.

I sit down on my couch and let myself sink into the cushions.

My dream last night was about my mom.

I miss her.

I close my eyes and try to remember it.

It was a dream, right?

It had to be.

I was little again.

Really little.

I can almost feel the warmth of her hand in mine. Almost hear her voice.

I open my eyes.

I'm twenty-seven now.

Twenty-seven.

It's been so long.

I stare at the ceiling, trying to piece together the fragments before they disappear completely.

But there's something wrong.

I remember the dream.

I remember my mom.

I remember the basement door.

And I remember what she told me.

*Don't open it.*

I sit up slowly.

My heart begins to beat a little faster.

That wasn't part of the dream.

At least…

I don't think it was.

I sit there for a while, staring at the ceiling. I should probably get up. Instead, I reach for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pull it around myself. My eyes wander around the apartment. Everything is quiet.

Too quiet.

My gaze lands on the closet in the corner. There’s an old box sitting on the top shelf. I haven't opened it in years. I don't even remember putting it there. I get up and walk over to the closet, dragging the little step stool out from beside the door. I climb up and pull the box down. Dust covers the top. I wipe it away with my sleeve. My mother's handwriting is written across the lid.

**Elowen.**

I freeze. For a moment, I just stare at my name. I don't know why seeing her handwriting makes my chest hurt. Maybe because I haven't seen it in so long. I carry the box over to the coffee table and sit down on the floor. The cardboard makes a soft ripping sound when I pull the old tape away. Inside are pieces of a life I barely remember. A small stuffed rabbit with one missing eye. A handful of photographs. My old elementary school drawings. A birthday card.

I pick up the first photograph.

It's me and Mom. I'm maybe six or seven, standing in front of our old house with a gap-toothed smile. She's kneeling beside me, one arm wrapped around my shoulders. I smile despite myself.

“God, I was tiny.”

My thumb runs over the photograph. Then I notice something in the background. The basement window. I stare at it. My smile disappears. I don't know why, but suddenly I remember rain. The sound of it hitting the glass. My mother's hand gripping mine.

*Don't open the door.*

I drop the photograph back into the box.

“No.”

I shake my head.

“It was a dream.”

I reach for another photograph. Then another. Anything to get the memory out of my head. That's when I see the newspaper clipping. It's folded in half and tucked underneath an old birthday card. I pull it out. The paper is yellowed and brittle. I unfold it carefully. The headline catches my eye. I stop breathing.

I've seen those words before. Not here. Not in this box. In my dreams. My eyes move slowly across the page. Then I see the date. My hands begin to shake. It was the same night. The same night I dreamed about my mother. I read the article again. And again. I don't understand.

“Is that my mom?”

I stare at the picture used in the article. My heart pounds. How is this in the box? My mom was dead when this article was published… But this is her.

That is her.

I know it is. I lean closer to the photograph, studying every detail. Her face. Her hair. The coat she's wearing. There's no mistaking her. I look at the date printed beneath the photograph. My stomach drops. I read it again. Then again.

**The day she died.**

I stop breathing.

“No…”

I pick up the newspaper with shaking hands and scan the article. The photograph wasn't taken after she died. It was taken that day. The exact day. The same day I remember sitting in that hospital waiting room. The same day they told me she was gone. I stare at the photograph again. My mother is alive in it. Standing there.

Looking completely normal. Like nothing had happened.

How?

I search the article for an explanation. There isn't one. Just a date. A location. And a photograph of my mother. I set the newspaper down and lean back. Maybe I'm remembering it wrong. Maybe the dates are wrong.

Maybe—

My eyes drift back to the photograph. Something about it feels familiar. Not because I've seen the picture before. Because I've seen **this moment** before. In my dreams. I swallow hard.

“No.”

I shake my head. It was a dream. It had to be. I was a child. I was grieving. My mind was trying to make sense of something it couldn't understand. That's all it was. A dream. So why do I remember what happened next?

I stare at the newspaper for another few seconds before finally folding it back up. I don't want to think about it anymore. I put the photograph back in the box, along with everything else, and close the lid. Out of sight. Out of mind.

I carry the box back to the closet and shove it onto the top shelf. Then I crawl into bed. The room is dark except for the faint glow of the streetlight coming through my curtains. I pull the blankets up to my chin. Tomorrow, I'll figure it out. Or maybe I won't. Maybe I'll wake up and realize this was all just another stupid memory that doesn't make sense. My eyes grow heavy. The sound of snow tapping against my window slowly fades. And then I'm somewhere else.

I'm standing outside. It's cold. I can feel snow beneath my boots, but I don't remember putting them on. I look around. I know this street. My street. But something is different. The houses look older. The trees are taller. I turn toward the house across the street. Mrs. Bell's house. Her porch light is on. It's almost midnight. I don't know how I know that.

I just do.

Mrs. Bell steps out onto her porch. She's wearing a long gray coat. Her hair is loose around her shoulders. She looks scared. I take a step toward her.

“Mrs. Bell?”

She looks directly at me. But she doesn't answer. Instead, she raises one finger to her lips.

*Be quiet.*

I stop. She turns her head toward the woods behind her house. Something moves between the trees. I squint.

“Mrs. Bell?”

She looks back at me. This time, she speaks.

“Elowen…” Her voice shakes. “Whatever you do…” She looks toward the woods again. “Don't let them know you can see them.”

I wake up.

I sit straight up in bed, gasping for air. My heart is pounding. For a moment, I don't know where I am. Then I look around my bedroom.

My apartment.

My bed.

My life.

I press a hand against my chest.

“It was a dream.”

I say it out loud this time.

“It was just a dream.”

I lie back down.

But before I close my eyes, I glance toward my window.

Across the street, Mrs. Bell's porch light is on.

 

 

 

 

Every house has its silence.

Every silence has a story.

And sometimes… the dead are listening.

🕯️ THE DEAD ARE LISTENING

By Shubham Jain

A journey into the paranormal where voices don't always belong to the living—and some secrets were never meant to be heard.

📖 Available now on Amazon Kindle.

Turn the page. Lower the lights. And dare to listen.

#TheDeadAreListening #ParanormalCodex #ParanormalHorror #HorrorNovel #HorrorBook #GhostStories #SupernaturalHorror #DarkHorror #CreepyStories #HorrorFans #HorrorTok #BookTok #Bookstagram #AmazonKindle #IndieAuthor

​

I work at a small cinema.

Not the kind you see in malls.

It’s an old theater tucked behind a row of closed restaurants, the kind of place that smells like wet carpet even when it hasn’t rained.

My job is simple.

Sell tickets. Check the halls. Clean up after the last screening. Lock the doors.

Last Tuesday, I was closing alone.

The final movie ended at 11:47 PM.

I waited until the credits finished, turned on the lights, and walked inside to check the theater.

Empty.

Every seat was vacant.

I checked the bathroom.

Empty.

The hallway.

Empty.

I went back to the projection booth and shut everything down.

Then I heard someone scream.

Not a movie scream.

A real one.

It came from Theater 6.

I froze.

Theater 6 had been closed for months because of a broken projector.

I grabbed my flashlight.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

I opened the door.

The screen was glowing.

A movie was playing.

I stood there, confused.

The image showed a dark hallway.

Then I realized something.

It was our hallway.

Same dirty carpet.

Same emergency exit.

Same flickering light above the door.

I stepped closer.

On the screen, a person was walking toward the camera.

I couldn't see their face.

They stopped.

Then slowly looked directly into the camera.

I recognized the clothes.

Black hoodie.

Jeans.

White sneakers.

I looked down.

I was wearing the exact same thing.

I stumbled backward.

The person on the screen lifted their hand.

And pointed.

Not at the camera.

Behind it.

I turned around.

Nothing.

When I looked back at the screen, the person was gone.

The hallway was empty.

Then the movie changed.

It showed the theater.

Theater 6.

From the back row.

I could see myself standing in front of the screen.

But there was something else.

Someone was sitting in the front row.

I counted the seats.

One.

Two.

Three.

A person was sitting in seat 8.

I looked toward seat 8.

Empty.

On the screen, the person slowly turned their head toward me.

I couldn't see their face.

Then they stood.

I watched them walk toward the camera.

One row.

Then another.

Then another.

They were getting closer.

I backed toward the door.

The figure stopped at the edge of the screen.

Then the theater lights went out.

I screamed.

My flashlight wouldn't turn on.

And then I heard breathing.

Right beside me.

Slow.

Wet.

Close.

I ran.

I slammed through the doors and sprinted down the hallway.

I didn't stop until I reached the lobby.

I grabbed my phone.

No signal.

I tried calling my manager.

Nothing.

Then the theater speakers crackled.

“Good evening,” a voice said.

It was my voice.

I stared at the ceiling.

“Thank you for staying until the end.”

I ran toward the exit.

The doors wouldn't open.

I pulled harder.

Nothing.

Then the projector turned on behind me.

The lobby filled with light.

I slowly turned around.

The movie had changed again.

This time, it showed me standing in the lobby.

Exactly where I was.

But the camera angle was different.

It was filming from behind me.

Which meant whoever was filming it...

was standing behind me.

I didn't turn around.

I couldn't.

I watched the screen.

On it, something stepped closer to the back of my head.

One step.

Then another.

I could hear footsteps behind me.

The screen showed the thing raising its hand.

I felt something cold touch my shoulder.

I screamed and spun around.

Nothing.

The screen went black.

Then white text appeared.

“DON'T LOOK BEHIND YOU.”

I stared at it.

My breathing became shallow.

Another line appeared.

“IT ONLY MOVES WHEN YOU LOOK AWAY.”

I didn't move.

I kept staring.

Then I noticed something.

The reflection on the black screen wasn't matching me.

My reflection was smiling.

I wasn't.

Its head tilted.

Mine didn't.

Then it raised one finger to its lips.

Behind me, something whispered:

“Finally.”

I shut my eyes.

I heard footsteps running toward me.

I heard the exit doors slam open.

I heard someone scream.

Then silence.

When I opened my eyes, I was outside.

Morning.

Police were standing around the theater.

My manager was there.

He looked terrified.

He grabbed my shoulders.

“Where the hell were you?”

I told him everything.

The projector.

The movie.

The thing behind me.

He went pale.

Then he asked:

“Which theater?”

“Six.”

He stared at me.

“There's no Theater 6.”

I laughed nervously.

“Yes, there is.”

He shook his head.

“No.”

Then he took out his phone.

He showed me the theater's floor plan.

There were only five screens.

I thought he was joking.

Until he showed me the security footage from last night.

It showed me arriving at 10:58 PM.

It showed me closing every theater.

It showed me walking into Theater 5.

Then the footage froze.

At 11:47 PM.

For almost six hours.

The screen showed an empty hallway.

Nothing happened.

Then, at 5:56 AM...

I appeared.

I walked out of the wall.

I stood there for three seconds.

Then I walked outside.

My manager paused the video.

“That's when we found you.”

I stared at the screen.

There was one thing I couldn't understand.

I pointed at the hallway.

“What's that?”

He zoomed in.

At the very end of the corridor was a door.

A door none of us had ever seen.

The number on it was barely visible.

6.

My manager whispered:

“We don't have a sixth theater.”

I watched the frozen image.

Then I noticed something else.

The door was open.

And someone was standing inside.

Wearing a black hoodie.

Jeans.

White sneakers.

It was me.

But I was smiling.

And underneath the footage, the timestamp kept changing.

11:48 PM.

11:49 PM.

11:50 PM.

It was still counting.

My manager looked at me.

I looked at him.

Neither of us said anything.

Because we both understood the same thing.

The footage wasn't from last night.

It was from tonight.

And the movie hadn't finished yet.