The Door That Whispers

In the province of Edevane, silence wasn’t just safety—it was survival.

There were no protests. No voices raised in public. No children’s laughter on the streets. No stray dogs barked anymore—they’d learned.

Every home came equipped with a wall-mounted screen that flickered to life at 0600 sharp, announcing the **Daily Decree**. Citizens were expected to adapt immediately. There was no warning, no appeal.

Monday:“No eye contact longer than 3 seconds.”

Tuesday: “All windows must remain covered.”

Wednesday: “No questions may be asked aloud.”

Thursday: “Speak only in State-approved phrases.”

Friday: “Report those who fail to comply.”

Each law expired after 24 hours—then replaced by something stranger. Something crueler. All violations, no matter how small, led to “Administrative Silence”—a polite term for being disappeared.

Drones patrolled every quadrant. Facial recognition ran constantly, tied to mood-detection AI. Even your thoughts, they said, could betray you.

Marla Denson had once been a voice. A podcaster, back before language was currency. She told stories—true crime, unsolved cases, urban myths. Her audience had numbered in the thousands. That was before the Rise. Before they installed the **Loyalty Monitors**. Before words became weapons.

Now, she was Citizen 47-F. Her voice was registered. Her thoughts were screened. She whispered, if she spoke at all.

But the whispers… they had followed her.

Especially the one about the **Maddox House**.

The Maddox House stood in **Zone Null**, a sectioned-off district abandoned since the first wave of "compliance reassignments." Barbed fences surrounded its perimeter. Officially, it had been condemned. Unofficially, it was cursed.

Rumor said it was the last place the State couldn’t see.

They said the house whispered. That it remembered. That it was older than the system, and angrier.

Marla wanted the truth. Not the one broadcast in sanitized headlines. The *real* truth—the one buried beneath noise.

So, using a smuggled blackout map from a fallen coder (traded for a week’s food rations and her last battery pack), she stepped outside curfew. Her Loyalty Monitor blinked red in protest. She muted it with a signal scrambler. Her fingers shook, not from fear—but anticipation.

She wanted to hear it. The whisper.

The air around the house was thick and wrong—like time didn’t work quite the same. Ivy strangled its exterior, pulsing faintly like it was breathing. Shattered windows blinked like blind eyes.

As she approached the steps, her ear implant crackled.

“Unauthorized location detected. Return immediately or be silenced.”

She didn’t stop. The door opened before she touched it.

Inside, it was dark—but not empty.

The smell of iron and mildew invaded her nose. Wallpaper peeled like skin, curling in yellow sheets. The floor creaked underfoot, but it wasn’t just wood—it felt like bone beneath carpet.

She activated her recorder, despite knowing it couldn’t transmit out.

“This is Marla Denson. I’ve entered the Maddox House. No state signal is active. I repeat: *no signal*. I think… I think I’m free.”

The door closed behind her with a soft sigh—like it had been holding its breath.

She moved through the hall, flashlight trembling in her grip. Her beam caught framed photographs on the wall. Faces scratched out with something sharp. All but one: a young woman, eyes wide, mouth too large, smiling too hard.

Eleanor Maddox

The air thickened.

And then, the voices started.

Not loud. Just a whisper beneath the walls, like static turned human.

“Under the floor…”

“We’re still watching…”

“Do not trust your own name…”

Her recorder flickered to life on its own. Her voice played back—not from now, but from *tomorrow*.

“They know I’m here. They’re already inside. The door wants someone.”

Heart pounding, she stumbled into the living room—and froze.

Screens. Dozens of them.** Old televisions, cracked monitors, shattered tablets. All showing *live feeds*—from kitchens, bedrooms, bathrooms. Children brushing teeth. Old men sleeping. Couples arguing. Citizens unknowing.

And in one of the screens: *her.* In real time.

Standing exactly where she was now—but with someone behind her.

She spun. Nothing.

Only a whisper in her ear:

“Trade.”

She fled down a hallway that stretched far too long, as if the house were expanding around her. The walls pulsed, as if veins ran behind the plaster. Doors appeared where they hadn’t been. Behind each one: another version of herself. Older. Broken. Eyes hollow. All mouthing the same word—

“Stay.”

She reached a final door. Behind it, a red light blinked.

The screen read:

“New Decree: All unauthorized memories must be erased.”

“Enforcement in: 00:00:10…”

Her breath caught.

She realized what the house wanted. Not her life. Not her story.

Her *place*.

It didn’t want to be empty.

The whispers weren’t curses—they were *bargains*.

“Erase me,” she whispered. “Just let someone else out.”

The house sighed.

Then silence.

The next morning, the screens lit up like always. The Daily Decree was oddly vague:

“Forget what you never knew.”

Citizen 47-F’s unit was marked *vacant*. No questions were asked.

But across Edevane, something changed.

For thirteen seconds, the drones blinked out.

For thirteen seconds, the Loyalty Monitors glitched.

For thirteen seconds, every speaker in every home whispered the same phrase:

“The door is open. Come and see.”

And deep within the Maddox House, Marla’s voice joined the chorus.

Smiling.

Waiting.....