Whispers at 3:03 - by Mariam Akorede

Chapter Six: Through the Fog Greybridge’s streets had emptied by the time Mara reached the foot of the bell tower. The fog seemed thicker here, as if the air itself refused to let go of the town’s secrets. The iron gates creaked open under her touch, revealing stone steps worn smooth by generations of footsteps—some of them, perhaps, never leaving. Her flashlight cast a thin beam through the swirling mist, carving shapes in the dark that refused to settle. Every time she turned her head, she thought she saw something—shadows that flickered and danced just out of reach. At the top of the tower, the bell was gone—stolen or lost years ago, the townspeople said—but the structure still loomed, a silent sentinel over Greybridge. Rusted beams jutted like broken ribs from the ceiling, and the wooden floor was littered with old candles and melted wax—remnants of a vigil or a ritual. A shape caught her eye—a small bundle tucked into the corner. She crouched, her heart hammering in her chest. It was a child’s shoe—mud-caked and torn. She lifted it carefully, the leather cracking in her hands. Suddenly, a cold breeze swept through the tower. The fog pressed in, whispering like a thousand voices at once. Mara froze, gun raised. “Who’s there?” she demanded. Silence. Then—faint and distant—a child’s voice drifted from the darkness: “Help me, Mara…” She swung her flashlight toward the sound. Nothing. Just fog and shadows. The voice came again—closer this time, right behind her: “You’re too late, Mara. She’s already here.” She spun around, but the tower was empty. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her gun trembling in her grip. She scanned the space, eyes searching for any sign of movement. Suddenly, her radio crackled to life, but the voice that came through wasn’t dispatch—it was the same child’s voice, warped and distant: “3:03. It’s time.” The radio fell silent. Mara checked her watch—3:03 a.m.—and in that instant, the floor beneath her groaned. She felt it shift—like something massive had woken beneath the tower. A deep, low rumble that vibrated through her bones. She backed away, but her foot caught on something, and she stumbled. Her flashlight clattered to the floor, the beam spinning wildly across the walls. In its flickering light, she saw them—handprints. Dozens of them, smeared across the stone in a child’s size, all pointing inward. Pointing toward her. She picked up the flashlight, every nerve in her body on fire. Then she saw the final clue—scratched into the wooden floorboards in hurried, uneven letters: “The tapes are the key.The tower is the gate.The dead are waiting.” Her pulse thundered in her ears. She knew now—whatever was happening wasn’t just about the murders. It was about the town itself. The fog, the calls, the tapes—all of it was a tapestry of rituals binding Greybridge to something older. Something that wanted to be heard. A sound rose from the depths of the tower—a voice calling her name: “Mara…” She bolted for the stairs, not daring to look back.

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