Stay Quiet, Friend

Lyla sank into the couch, the flickering glow of the TV screen illuminating the shadows that loomed the darkened room. She had chosen a silly romcom, hoping to distract herself, but the air felt thick, almost suffocating. Every creak of the old house made her jump, and the shadows in the corners seemed to whisper her name in a language she couldn’t understand.

It was late, and her roommate Clara was working on her thesis upstairs, but Lyla couldn’t shake the feeling that they weren’t the only ones in the home. An uneasy tension coiled in her stomach, forcing her to triple-check behind each door, under the couch, and even peered behind the shoe rack, half-expecting to find something–or someone–hiding within. She ducked below the kitchen counters, her fingers feeling for a butcher's knife. Her heart sank when she felt the empty spot in the knife rack; it was missing. The chill creeping up her spine told her that whatever was happening was more than just her imagination.

She glanced toward the back door, where the moonlight shimmered through the glass panes, casting eerie reflections that danced on the walls. A sudden gust of wind rattled the bay window, sending a shiver through her. Something was off.

With a tentative step, she approached the back door, feeling the cold metal handle beneath her palm. The moment she unlocked it, her phone buzzed on the coffee table. The sound startled her, and she snatched it up, her pulse quickening at the sight of Clara's name.

“Did you hear that?” the message read.

A cold dread settled over her, crawling beneath her skin as the unease that had settled over her intensified. What could Clara possibly be hearing? She typed back, “Hear what?” but hesitated, glancing down the hallway that led to the stairs.

The dim light from the TV cast erratic shadows that flickered and danced, and for a fleeting moment, Lyla thought she saw something move behind the curtains. Her breath hitched, a primal instinct warning her that she was not alone. Maybe it was just the movie messing with her mind, but the feeling of being watched pressed heavier on her chest.

Another message chimed in: “I think someone’s outside.”

Panic surged through Lyla’s veins, prickling her skin. She stood frozen for a moment, weighing her options. Should she check the back door or run upstairs to her roommate? Clara’s words echoed in her mind—why would she think someone was outside? How could she guess that? Why is she being so casual about it?

“Are you sure?” Lyla typed back, her fingers trembling.

“Just stay quiet,” Clara replied. “I’ll call you when I’m sure.”

A shiver ran down Lyla's spine. Her instincts screamed at her to call the police, but fear held her in place. The silence grew oppressive, and she could hear the faint sound of something dragging from above. Without thinking, she moved to the back door, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. 

As she reached for the handle, a scream erupted from upstairs—a raw, piercing wail that silenced the night. It was Clara’s voice. 

Adrenaline propelled Lyla forward as she bolted toward the staircase, her heart hammering in her chest. “Clara!” she yelled, bounding up the steps two at a time. The hallway stretched out before her, dark and foreboding, thick with an air of dread. “Clara!” she shouted again, panic clawing at her throat. The scream had stopped, replaced by an eerie silence that felt like a warning.

When she reached Clara’s door, her hand trembled as she tried to push it open. It was locked. Why was it locked? Lyla fumbled for her spare key, forcing the door open. The room was empty, save for the dim glow of Clara’s laptop on the desk. Papers were strewn about, books toppled over, and the window was wide open, allowing a chilling breeze to sweep through the room. Lyla stepped inside, her heart racing.

“Clara?” Lyla called softly, her voice just above a whisper. “Where are you?”

Suddenly, she heard a soft rustling from the bathroom. Her breath caught, and fear settled like a stone in her stomach as she approached, each step feeling heavier than the last. She reached for the door, her mind racing with images of Clara being attacked. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the handle, glancing back at the open window that seemed to beckon her to escape.

Then, her phone buzzed again, illuminating the screen with another message from her roommate. “Don’t come in.”

Lyla's heart sank, and a sense of dread washed over her. The message was sent from Clara’s phone, but something felt wrong. 

“Are you okay?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. 

The rustling from the bathroom stopped abruptly, replaced by a suffocating silence that wrapped around her like a shroud. Lyla took a step back, cold sweat prickling her skin. She felt trapped—her instincts screamed at her to run, but she couldn’t leave Clara.

With trembling hands, she yanked open the bathroom door.

Clara stood there, her eyes wide and wild, blood staining her nightgown, the crimson liquid soaking into her hair like a macabre halo. In the bathtub, a body lay motionless, limbs grotesquely scattered like a puzzle—arms and legs discarded beside the sink. The young woman’s lifeless eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, unseeing. Lyla could barely make out the limb hanging from Clara’s hand, for in the other was a knife, glistening in the remnants of her victim.

Lyla froze, her mouth dry and her mind reeling. The air thickened with a metallic tang, and she could feel her lungs begging for air. “Clara,” her voice cracked, trembling as violently as her body was, “What have you done?”

Clara slowly turned her head, a strange, twisted smile creeping across her lips, glistening with the blood that stained her face. “You said you didn’t hear anything,” she said, her voice cold and deliberate. “You lied.”

“I didn’t–,” Lyla began, only to be cut off.

“You lied,” Clara repeated, her tone sharp, cutting through the air like the blade in her hand. “You need to stay quiet, friend, and I’ll make sure you never lie again.”

The door behind Lyla slammed shut, sealing her inside the suffocating darkness. Fear surged through her as Clara advanced, the knife glinting ominously in the dim light.

“Clara, please—” Lyla’s plea faded into a whimper, the weight of impending dread crushing her.

Without warning, Clara lunged forward, the blade slicing through the air with a cruel precision. Pain exploded in Lyla’s mouth, and she gasped, trying to scream, but the sound was swallowed by the metallic taste of blood. As Clara withdrew the knife, Lyla felt a sudden emptiness. Her tongue—her voice, her very essence—slipped from her mouth and fell to the floor with a sickening thud.

Clara’s eyes gleamed with a wild delight as she leaned closer, whispering words that curled around Lyla's mind like smoke. “Now you’ll stay quiet,” Clara said, her voice low and dripping with satisfaction. “No more lies, no more noise.” 

The door behind Lyla slammed shut, the weight of darkness closing in, silencing her voice, and sealing her fate.