The Call

The air in Sofía’s room was thick with a silence that felt manufactured, a deliberate absence of sound designed to amplify the slightest disturbance. It was the kind of quiet that settled over Valle Gris after dusk, a heavy blanket woven from suspicion and the rustling of unseen things in the surrounding woods. Sofía lay rigid in her bed, the thin cotton sheets doing little to ward off the chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. Her eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling fan that spun with a slow, almost mournful creak. Every shadow seemed to lengthen, to twist into unfamiliar shapes.

She’d been trying to dismiss them, the voices. Nightmares, she’d told herself. Stress. The unsettling news that had gripped Valle Gris like a fever. But the whispers were growing bolder, more insistent. They were no longer the indistinct murmurs that had first haunted her sleep. They were clearer now, laced with a chilling familiarity.

Tonight, it had been different. Tonight, they hadn’t just been whispers. They had been a name.