With her fingers caught in the ragged edges of the blanket, Laura sat on the edge of the bed. She could feel the weight of a thousand voices pressing against her head, but the room was quiet except for the heater's faint hum. They were never external. Deep inside her, these murmurs had taken root and were around her mind like ivy choking a tree.
They had once been referred to as intrusive thoughts by her therapist, Dr. John. He had stated in his quiet, rehearsed voice, "Laura, they're not real." "They're not reflections of who you are; they're echoes of your trauma." However, they had a genuine sensation. They felt tangible.
It started with the accident that claimed the life of Marcus, her obsessive lover. The night was full of memories and laughter as they drove home late from a concert. The car spun out of control once the tires hit ice. Laura had emerged from the ruins, bruised and bloody, her lungs blazing with the scream she was unable to utter. She hadn't crawled out with Marcus.
A month later, the first murmur was heard.
"You should have kept him safe."
It was simple to disregard at first. Feelings like grief and guilt are common following a loss of this kind. The whispers, however, became more frequent. They began to bring up memories she didn't want to recall. “You were always ignoring him.” You're self-centered. You made no attempt to drag him out.''
After several months, Laura started to isolate herself. The outside world becomes intolerable, an uproar of light and sound that only heightened the voices within. She quit her job, stopped answering calls from friends, and confined herself to her little apartment. Even Dr. John's appointments dwindled in frequency until she finally stopped going entirely. What was the point?
The murmurs continued.
Laura was lying in bed one night, gazing at the cracked ceiling, when a new voice came into her head. Compared to the others, this one was crispy and more clear.
"Have you heard me?"
Her heart thumping, she sat up.
"Laura."
It wasn't her voice or the critical voice she had grown so used with. This was a frigid, alien voice.
It growled, "Without him, you are nothing."
In an attempt to block it out, she gripped her head, but it only got louder. The shadows on the walls twisted into hideous shapes as the room appeared to grow darker around her.
Do you believe that he is at peace? Do you believe he will pardon you?
Laura gasped and clambered to her feet. The air was heavy and oppressive. After stumbling to the bathroom, she turned on the light. She was anchored by the strong fluorescent glow. Gazing into the mirror, she sprayed her face with cold water. Her dull, hollow-eyed reflection gazed back.
"You can't run from me."
The voice was talking right into her ear from behind her now. The bathroom was empty as she turned around.
The next few days blended into one another. Laura hardly slept or ate. The murmurs stopped being limited to quiet times and started to occur constantly. Every waking moment, they followed her around, making fun of her and reminding her of all her mistakes and regrets.
But a change was taking place.
The mutterings started to manifest themselves. Initially, she just caught glimpses of it—dark things flitting in her outside view. After that, they were clarified. Mirrors, window reflections, and even the water collecting at the bottom of her sink began to appear to her. They had humanoid features, but their faces were hidden, deformed as if they had been painted on a canvas.
Laura made an effort to fight back. She covered all of her apartment's reflecting surfaces, but it made no difference. The voices became more demanding and louder.
"You can't get away from us."
After days of constant suffering, Laura lost it one evening. She tossed her books on the floor, ripped the sheets from her bed, and yelled till her throat hurt. She called out into the empty room, "What do you want from me?"
The whispers ceased for the first time.
The piercing voice reappeared moments later, colder than before.
"We want your voice."
At first, Laura didn't get it. What were they trying to say? Her voice? What did she say? But before long, the response was given.
She tried to talk when she woke up the following morning, but nothing came out. She grasped her throat, letting out guttural sounds that barely topped a whisper as panic swept over her. She reached for her phone and attempted to contact Dr. John for assistance, but the words would not come out.
The whispers were gone, but in their place was a suffocating silence.
In a desperate attempt to find answers, Laura found solace in her old journal. She hasn't written in it since Marcus's death, she now filled page after page with queries, anxieties, and whatever she could think of to make sense of what was going on.
The darkness seemed to deepen in her flat as she typed. She sensed that they were observing her, their faceless eyes looking over her shoulder.
She then heard it. Her tone.
It emerged from the shadows that gathered like spilled ink in the room's corner. It sounded distorted like a tape recording on a broken disc.
It mimicked the final thing she had whispered to her fiance prior to the accident: "Marcus..."
The shadows started to move, their shapes changing and combining into one. It was tall and terrifying as it stood in front of her, and the weight of its presence was too great to bear.
It said, in her stolen voice, "We have your voice now."
Laura's hands shook and she dropped the pen.
She wrote, "Why?" on the closest page.
The sound of glass breaking was the shadow's laughter.
It said, "You gave it to us." "You fed us whenever you had self-doubt or allowed guilt to control you. We now have your voice.''
With tears running down her cheeks, Laura shook her head. She wanted to cry out, to plead, but she couldn't.
The next few days were a haze of desperation and quiet. Laura felt as though she was haunting her own life like a ghost. She was unable to communicate or connect with anyone. She was always being watched and ridiculed by the shadows.
Then, however, something changed.
Laura experienced a flash of defiance one evening as she sat in the dimly lit flat, holding her journal. Her voice had been stolen by the shadows, but her words had not. She was still able to write and express herself.
She started writing in her journal about everything she had been suppressing, including her wrath, anguish, and guilt. She wrote about the accident, Marcus, their future plans and the life she had lost.
As she typed, the shadows appeared to get smaller, their shapes fluttering like fading fires.
She scribbled, her fingers calm in spite of her tears, "You can't silence me."
The biggest shadow moved ahead, its shape trembling. It screamed, "You think this will save you?"
For the first time, Laura looked at it without fear. Taking a new page, she penned two words:
"I forgive."
With its edges melting into vapors of smoke, the shadow backed away.
She scribbled again, "I forgive myself," the words gushing out of her like a dam bursting. I did my best because I loved him. I refuse to be defined by you.
The room echoed with the sound of the shadows screaming, and suddenly they vanished.
The days after Laura's exile from the shadows were difficult. The murmurs had vanished, but their echoes still tormented the peaceful recesses of her mind, and the weight of her experiences hung over her like a thick cloud. She was first hesitant to leave her flat. She was afraid of being rejected by the outside world, which would not comprehend the physical and invisible scars she carried.
Her journal's pages, which captured the unadulterated nature of her suffering and resiliency, were frequently the subject of her gaze. For so long, writing had been her only means of communication with a world that felt so far away.
Laura chose to move ahead a little. With cautious, shallow breathing and a racing heart, she made her way to the corner store. Even though she just wanted a carton of milk, she made herself stay and walk the aisles despite the bright, fluorescent lights of the supermarket making her squint. When a friendly cashier greeted her, Laura mustered a faint smile despite her inability to speak. She hadn't shared a sincere smile for months.
She opened her journal once more when she was back in her flat. She wrote with a different weight this time, one of cautious optimism rather than sorrow.
“I spent today outside. It wasn't as awful as I had assumed. I’m still here’’.
Her thoughts started to take on a pattern as she wrote more. She had been persuaded for a long time by the murmurs that she was helpless and trapped in her sorrow and shame. As she filled page after page, however, she came to the realization that her voice had always been there. It was hers, and it was strong, even though it had been buried under layers of misery.
For weeks, Laura struggled to summon the bravery to phone Dr. John. The words would still not come. After writing a note outlining her predicament, she placed it in an envelope and sent it to his office. In just a couple of days, she got a response: a plain appointment card with his signature text written on the top.
Dr. John's face softened as she entered his office. He motioned her to take a seat so she could get comfortable.
He said softly, "It's nice to see you, Laura." "I was concerned about you."
Laura took out her journal and moved it across the desk. His brow furrowing and then relaxing as he read through her journal, he flipped through the pages in silence. After he was done, he looked up, his eyes filled with sadness.
“You’ve been through so much,” he said. ‘’Thank God that you're still alive. That speaks volumes about your strength’’.
With tears in her eyes, she gave a nod. She no longer felt the urge to keep them back for the first time.
Weeks passed as Laura started to bring her life back together. Dr. John urged her to start small by getting in touch with old friends, taking up hobbies she had put aside, without letting her grief consume her.
She made contact with her college best buddy Emily again. Long pauses and tentative smiles marked their difficult initial encounter, but as the hours went by, the warmth of their earlier connection returned. Laura was not pressed by Emily for details.
Emily offered quiet support, a comforting presence that reminded Laura she wasn’t alone.
For Laura, writing became her therapy. Her journaling eventually evolved into little essays and book chapters. In her writing, she captured Marcus's laughing, his cheeky smile, and the way he would sing off-key simply to make her laugh. She revealed the whispers that had plagued her and her shame in her writing on the accident. Most significantly, though, she wrote of her quest for forgiveness—of herself, of Marcus, and of the universe.
A shiver crept across Laura's skin one night as she sat at her computer, absorbed in her writing, and a familiar heaviness settled over the room. It was dark again.
Despite her racing heart, she resisted giving in to her fear. Slowly, she turned, looking around the apartment's dark corners. The biggest shadow, still dark and amorphous, stood in the doorway.
Its voice was a vicious parody of her own, and it hissed, "You think you've won." No matter what, we are a part of you. A part you can't get rid of’’.
Laura got to her feet, her hands shaking but her will unwavering. She took her journal and put it out in front of her as a shield.
Despite the lump in her throat, she struggled and answered, "You're right," in a firm voice. "I am a part of you. Surprised at her own voice’’. She continued…’’However, you no longer have authority over me’’.
With its edges flickering like a candle flame, the shadow drew back. "The guilt will always be with you," it spat. ‘’You will never be free’’.
Laura started writing after turning to a new page in her journal. A flood of rebellion and self-acceptance poured out of her. She wrote about the accident once more, but this time she concentrated on the times she and Marcus had spent together and their love for one another. She wrote about her resolve to live a life he would be proud of in order to respect his memory, rather than punishing herself.
The shadow squirmed, its shape disintegrating into little pieces. It muttered, its voice becoming softer, "This isn't over."
Laura's voice was stronger than it has been in months as she said out loud, "No, It is." she roared.
Laura was left standing by herself in the silent room as the shadow dissolved into nothingness.
The encounter with the shadow marked a turning point for Laura. She realized that her journey wasn’t about erasing her pain—it was about learning to live with it, to let it shape her without defining her.
After that night, the whispers never came again. Although it took longer, Laura was able to regain her voice. Now it was different, steady yet quieter.
She resumed her counselling sessions with Dr. John and began to reconnect with the world outside her apartment. She even started writing a memoir about suffering, grief, and the importance of forgiveness.
