A Whisper in a Language I’ve Never Heard

The Whisper That Unraveled Time

The first time I heard it, I was alone in my apartment, the hum of the refrigerator, the only sound in the quiet. Then—there it was. A whisper, so soft that it could have been the wind slipping through a crack. But my windows were sealed. And the voice….. it wasn’t speaking any language I knew.

It (the voice) slithered into my ears like a secret, syllables curling around my thoughts, tugging at something very deep inside me. A word—if it was a word—that sounded like "Veshtari."

I froze. My skin prickled.

"Hello?" I called out, my voice too loud in the empty room. Silence answered.

The Whispers Grow Louder

The next night, it came again. This time, as I lay in bed, half-asleep. The whisper wasn’t just in my ear—it was inside my mind. A murmuring chant, rising and falling like a distant tide.

"Veshtari… yth’mara… khal’dris…"

I shot up, heart hammering. The room was dark, but for a second, I thought I saw something—a shadow, moving wrong. Not cast by anything. Just… there. Watching.

I turned on every light in the apartment. Found nothing.

But the whispers didn’t stop.

They followed me to work, threading through the noise of the city. At the coffee shop, beneath the chatter of customers—yth’mara. On the subway, under the screech of metal—khal’dris.

I was losing my mind.

Or something was finding me.

The Revelation in the Archives

Desperate, I went to the university library, digging through linguistics archives, searching for any language that matched the sounds. Days passed. Then, in a crumbling anthropology text, I found it.

A dead dialect. Spoken by a secluded tribe in the Andes, wiped out in the 1800s. Their name? The Veshtari.

The book described them as "keepers of the threshold." They believed certain words could unlock doors—not just physical ones, but doors between worlds. Their shamans whispered to spirits, to things that slept beyond the veil.

And one phrase stood out in the text:

"Yth’mara khal’dris"—"The sleeper waits."

My hands shook. This wasn’t coincidence. The whispers were a message. A warning. Or… an invitation.

The Final Whisper

That night, I dreamt of a door. Not wood, not metal—something older. Its surface writhed with symbols that hurt to look at. Behind it, something breathed.

The whisper came again, louder, urgent:

"Veshtari… open."

I woke gasping. My apartment was freezing. The shadows in the corner twisted. And there, on my wall—where there had been nothing before—a symbol glowed faintly. The same one from the dream.

I reached out. The moment my fingers touched it, the air split with a sound like tearing fabric.

The door was here.

And it was opening.

The Ending Beyond the Door

Light—wrong, shifting light—spilled through the widening gap. A scent like ozone and decay filled the room. And then… I saw it.

Not a shape. Not a thing. A presence, vast and hungry, folding into our world like ink in water. The whispers weren’t words.

They were its voice.

And it saw me.

The last thing I heard, as the darkness swallowed me whole, was the whisper one final time—now a chorus, now a scream:

"VESHTARI KHAL’DRIS YTH’MARA!"

Then, silence.

Epilogue: The Note Left Behind

They found my apartment empty. No signs of struggle. Just my journal, open to the last entry:

"If you’re reading this, don’t listen to the whispers. They aren’t calling to you.

They’re calling through you.

And something answers."

—END-