The Red String Effect

Chapter Five -- Part Four: Echoes

The basement smelled like rust and mold. Water dripped from the broken pipe, tapping steadily against the floor as if keeping time with the knot hammering in Layla's chest. She sat against the wall, soaked, trembling. Luca stood a few feet away, watching the dark where the shadow-figure had dissolved. His expression was carved from stone, unreadable. Layla hugged her knees to her chest. "I can't tell the difference anymore." Her voice was hoarse. "It felt like him. His eyes, his voice—" she broke off, shuddering. "But it wasn't, was it?" Luca turned. His gray eyes held hers. "No. It wasn't." Her tears burned. She pressed her face into her knees. "Then I don't know if I can do this." The silence stretched. The only sound was the steady drip of water. When Luca finally spoke, his voice was quiet. "You don't have a choice." Layla flinched.

The whispers didn't stop after that. They multiplied. She heard them in the hallways, between the chatter of other students. In the cafeteria, when trays clattered and voices rose, she caught the faint sound of sobbing threaded between laughter. When she saw in class, she swore she heard her name buried under the teacher's lecture, as though the shadows were speaking through the seams of the world and then the others started hearing it too.

It began with Ellie, the girl who sat in front of her in homeroom. Halfway through attendance, Ellie jerked upright, glancing around with wide eyes. "Did you hear that?" she whispered. The teacher frowned. "Hear what?" Ellies face paled. "Someone said my name." Layla's blood ran cold. The next day, Mason Gray—they boy Harper had once loved—dropped his pencil in history class and didn't pick it back up. He sat stiffly in his chair, staring at nothing. When the teacher asked what was wrong, he whispered, "it told me I don't have a thread." The whole class laughed nervously, but Layla couldn't breathe. It was spreading.

By Friday, the school felt wrong. The lights flickered more often. Clocks skipped minutes. Entire conversations looped, like people repeating themselves without realizing. Layla sat in the library, gripping her notebook so hard the pages wrinkled. The whispers filled her skull. Not just Peter anymore—other voices, layered, weaving together into something louder.

Help us.

Join us.

We are waiting.

She pressed her palms against her ears, rocking in her seat. Her chest burned. The knot throbbed harder, hungrier, as though feeding on the noise. A hand touched hers. She flinched, snapping her head up. Luca sat across from her. His expression was calm, but his eyes burned with intensity. "You feel it too," she rasped. He nodded. "The echoes aren't just after you anymore. They're breaking through." Her stomach turned. "Because of me?" "Because of us," he said. Layla swallowed hard, the taste of iron sharp on her tongue. She wanted to deny it, but the truth pulsed in her chest. The knot was alive. Spreading. And now the echoes were, too.