The Return of Silence

Magen and Her Mom

The first thing people noticed about Magen was her laugh—light, bubbly, with a mischievous sparkle. But in the last few months, that laugh had vanished. She’d become silent, withdrawn, speaking in whispers, if at all, to her mother, Jane, who was just as unsettled by her daughter’s sudden shift. Magen’s gaze would often wander, her eyes unfocused, as if they saw something others couldn’t.

The house where Magen and Jane lived was a modest two-story cottage on the edge of Ashgrove, known for its long, winding streets, thick forest borders, and the whispering shadows that seemed to cling to every corner. Locals steered clear after dark, claiming the house had a history—a violent one. Jane had ignored these whispers, and for a time, things were peaceful. But now, it seemed the shadows had found their way into her home, lingering in the corners, flickering across Magen’s face.

One evening, Jane found Magen sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor, surrounded by a circle of old photographs, candles flickering at the edges. Her daughter’s face was barely visible in the low light, but her eyes were strange, gleaming with an intensity Jane had never seen. Her heart quickened as she called out to her daughter.

“Magen, honey…what are you doing?”

Magen’s head tilted slightly, her gaze unwavering. She pointed to an old photograph Jane hadn’t seen in years—a family photo from her own childhood, one she kept hidden at the bottom of an old box. But there it was, Magen’s small finger tracing the outline of a shadowy figure at the edge of the picture.

“She wants to talk to you,” Magen murmured. “She says you don’t remember.”

The hairs on Jane’s arms stood up. She stepped forward, her knees weak, reaching down for the photo. In it, she saw herself as a young girl, standing beside her mother. But just behind them, a barely visible figure hovered, eyes glinting, mouth curled into a ghostly smile.

“Who…who told you to find this, Magen?” Jane stammered.

“She did,” Magen whispered, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “Mom, she’s been here…in my room. She says she wants you to remember her, to stop pretending she never existed.”

A chill swept over Jane. This was impossible—her mother had passed away decades ago, and even in life, she’d been distant, her presence like a specter lingering in the dark corners of Jane’s memory. She could never quite recall her face, just her outline, her voice, harsh and cold.

Jane’s mind spun as Magen continued in that eerie whisper, eyes fixed on her mother. “She says she remembers the night you left her. The night you hid in the dark closet, while she searched for you, calling your name. She remembers how you stayed silent…until she stopped calling.”

It was like a forgotten dream, hidden in the deepest recesses of Jane’s mind. She’d been a child, alone with her mother in that drafty old house. There had been an argument—screaming, the sound of breaking glass. And then Jane had hidden, covering her ears until the silence became unbearable. When she finally emerged, her mother was gone, her absence an inexplicable mystery.

The feeling that night, of being watched from the shadows, had never truly left her.

Now, standing in her own home, with her daughter staring up at her as if channeling that ghostly memory, Jane felt as if time had warped, bending back on itself. The house grew darker, the air thick with an oppressive energy.

“Come with me, Magen,” Jane said, pulling her daughter up by the hand, but Magen resisted, her gaze cold and unfaltering.

“She’s here,” Magen murmured, voice dropping to a low, rasping tone. “Right now.”

The lights flickered, the walls seemed to groan, as if something—someone—was pushing against them, trying to break through. Jane’s heart raced as Magen’s face twisted, a look too adult, too knowing for her young daughter’s features.

The front door creaked open on its own, and Jane felt her skin prickle, a faint echo of her mother’s voice brushing against her mind, calling her name.

“She wants to come inside,” Magen whispered.

The room filled with shadows that seemed to pull Jane forward, her feet moving as if compelled by an invisible force. She glanced back at her daughter, but the girl’s face had become a mask, hollow, unfeeling. Jane felt her pulse pound, cold sweat trickling down her spine.

“Why did you leave me?” The voice was like a rustle in the dark, neither here nor there, echoing from every corner.

Jane wanted to scream, to deny it, but her voice felt trapped, and when she looked at Magen, it was her mother’s eyes she saw, gleaming with a strange, unearthly light.

“I didn’t leave you… You left me!” Jane shouted into the empty room, but the air felt thick, dead.

The door slammed shut behind her, and she found herself alone in a cold, shadow-filled silence. Magen was gone.

Or was she?

The floorboards creaked, shadows twisted, and in the doorway, a figure slowly took shape. A woman’s figure—tall, thin, with the ghostly outline of someone Jane once knew. She reached out, fingers cold as ice, resting them on Jane’s shoulder, sending an icy chill through her.

“I’m home, Janey,” her mother’s voice whispered in her ear.