The Whispering Flesh

It began with the faintest sound, like a scraping on stone. It was subtle at first, almost imperceptible to the human ear. But soon, the sound grew—a dull, rhythmic scraping that echoed through the barren town. The walls of the buildings trembled with the vibrations, and the very air seemed to hum with tension.

Jenny sat alone in the corner of her apartment, her legs drawn tightly to her chest. The darkness outside had swallowed the town, and the storm that raged outside only made things worse. Her window rattled with the force of the wind, but it was the sound that made her blood run cold—the scraping, like nails against metal.

It had started three days ago, the whispers. They were faint at first, too faint to make out understandable, as though someone, or something, was trying to speak from the other side of a door. It was as though the walls themselves were whispering, telling secrets they were never meant to reveal.

But last night, the whispers changed.

They became louder, clearer, and suddenly, they weren't whispers anymore. They were screams.

Jenny pressed her hands to her ears, trying to block out the sound, but it only grew louder, until it seemed to come from all around her. The scraping turned into gnawing, like teeth gnashing against bone. Then, came the wet sounds—the sickening squelch of something heavy dragging across the floor, dragging something heavy and slick with blood.

The door to her apartment slammed open with a deafening crash, and a cold gust of air swept through the room. The shadows in the corner of the room seemed to pulse and writhe, twisting like something alive. And from the darkness, something stepped out—a figure too large, too malformed to be human.

Its body was a patchwork of skin, stretched tight over bones, the flesh mottled and raw. Where skin was torn, exposed muscle and sinew twitched like they were still trying to heal, but couldn't. Blood poured from the gashes in its body, pooling onto the floor in a thick, viscous mess.

The creature's eyes were hollow, but somehow they shone with an unnatural light. They locked onto Jenny with a hunger that made her stomach churn.

It dragged itself toward her, its limbs scraping across the floor, leaving streaks of red and black behind. As it moved, it opened its mouth—its jaw unhinging, the muscles tearing apart as its lips stretched far beyond human limits. Inside, there were no teeth, just raw, pulsing flesh, slick and glistening with something viscous and dark.

Jenny froze, her body lost all its strength, her heart pounding in her chest. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. Her mouth felt dry, her throat closing up, as the creature drew closer, its breath coming in ragged gasps.

It reached out with one clawed hand, its fingers twitching and curling as it grasped for her. As its hand closed around her wrist, she felt the pressure—cold, unyielding—and then it began to squeeze, slowly, deliberately.

The pain shot through her arm like a thousand needles, sharp and burning, until she thought her bones would snap. But the creature wasn’t just pulling at her skin; it was pulling her into it, dragging her closer to its terrible, fleshy form. The closer she got, the more she could see—the raw, pulsating wounds where skin should have been, the writhing masses of muscle beneath the surface.

And then, she felt it—the scrape of its teeth along her skin. The sound was deafening, like a blade being dragged through bones. The creature's mouth opened wider, and she could hear the wet, sucking noise as it closed around her flesh.

Her vision blurred as the creature sank its teeth into her side, tearing through the thin layer of skin and fat beneath. Blood gushed from the wound, hot and thick, coating the creature’s face and hands. It did not stop. It pulled her closer, dragging her toward its hungry maw, where the teeth were jagged, made of blackened bone and sharp edges.

Jenny could feel the agony as her body was ripped apart piece by piece, she felt the pain, every bit of it. The creature fed on her flesh like a starving animal. The pain was unbearable, her muscles twitching uncontrollably, but there was no escape. The creature was relentless, its hunger never sated.

Finally, it released her, but not before tearing a chunk from her leg. The blood spurted from the wound, splashing onto the floor in a dark fountain. She collapsed to the ground, trembling and broken, her body a mangled mess of torn flesh and exposed bone. The creature stepped back, its eyes gleaming with satisfaction as it watched her bleed out.

But before she could slip into unconsciousness, the whispers returned.

Not from the creature. No. These whispers came from the walls, from the floor, from the very air around her.

The walls were alive. The building itself was alive. The flesh of the house stretched, pulling itself toward her, toward the blood. And the creature? It wasn’t finished. It was never finished.

The darkness swallowed her whole, and the last thing she heard before her vision faded was the sound of the walls scraping against each other, and a soft voice whispering in her ear: "You’re not the first."