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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/HerScreams on 2024-11-10 14:12:35+00:00.
My parents never explained why we had to play the Game of Silence. All I knew was that, every night at exactly 10 PM, we would sit in the living room, completely still, our lips sealed tight. Dad would set the kitchen timer, and that’s when the game would officially begin. We weren't allowed to make a single sound until the timer rang again. The rules were strict, and breaking them? Well, I’d rather not think about what happened when we did.
I made a mistake once when I was younger. It was just a cough. One small, innocent cough. But the moment the sound escaped my lips, I felt it. A sudden, icy brush against my skin, like something sharp and cold dragging across my shoulder. My skin split open, thin and precise, like a paper cut made by something unseen.
Even as a child, I knew. I knew that if I screamed, if I made even the slightest noise, I wouldn’t survive the night. My parents didn’t need to yell or scold me. The terror in their eyes, the pale horror etched into their faces, told me everything. That night, after the timer finally rang, my dad took me aside. “You can’t ever break the rules again,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “They don’t like it.”
After that night, I learned to hold my breath, no matter what.
The rules were simple: no talking, no moving, no noise. I never understood why. There was never any explanation, just the same old ritual.
Now, years later, I still don’t know who they are, but I do know one thing: when you break the rules, they can touch you.
Tonight, the house feels wrong. Something in the air is different. Mom has been nervous all day, pacing the kitchen, wringing her hands. Dad hasn’t said a word, but the tightness in his jaw tells me he’s just as worried. My little sister, Emma, clings to her stuffed rabbit, her eyes darting around the room like she can see something the rest of us can’t.
The timer ticks down. The silence is suffocating. My heart beats in my chest, loud enough that I wonder if it counts as noise. I keep my eyes focused on the floor, trying to block out the rising tension. But then there’s a noise: a soft thump from upstairs. It’s faint, but unmistakable. Something fell. My pulse quickens. Dad’s grip tightens on the armrest. We all know what happens now.
Nothing happens at first. We sit frozen, waiting. Then, the footsteps start, slow and deliberate. They come from upstairs, moving toward us. Mom’s breath hitches. Emma squeezes the rabbit tighter. We’re all on edge, waiting for what’s coming next. The sound grows louder, closer. My chest tightens, fear curling around my spine like an icy hand.
The door to the living room creaks open. But there’s no one there. Just an open doorway, leading into the dark hallway.
The coldness in the room intensifies. The air feels thick, like something is trying to push its way inside.
We sit there, staring at the open doorway, waiting for something to move in the dark. The footsteps have stopped, but the tension hasn’t. The room is freezing now, and I can see my breath in front of me. Emma is shaking, her fingers digging into the worn fabric of her rabbit.
I glance at Dad, his eyes fixed on the doorway, his jaw clenched so tight that I’m afraid he might snap. Mom hasn’t moved an inch. I want to ask her what’s happening, why things feel different tonight, but I know better. The rules don’t allow for questions.
Then, a sound breaks the silence. It’s faint, like a whisper carried on the wind. I can’t make out the words, but I know it isn’t good. The voices, whatever they are, are back. I know from experience that you don’t want to hear what they have to say.
Mom tenses, her eyes wide. She’s heard it too. Dad slowly shakes his head, as if telling us to ignore it, to stay quiet. We’ve been through this before. We know the drill.
But something feels wrong tonight. The air is heavier than usual, the shadows in the hallway darker. It’s like the house itself is changing, warping. I feel a knot of fear twist in my stomach.
The timer on the kitchen counter ticks loudly, counting down the seconds until we’re free. But it feels like an eternity away. I can barely stand the tension anymore, and I’m not sure how much longer Emma can hold out.
Suddenly, there’s another noise. This time, it’s a low scraping sound, like something being dragged across the floor. It’s coming from upstairs again. My heart skips a beat. I don’t dare look at Emma. I know she’s barely holding it together.
The scraping sound stops, replaced by a soft knock on the wall. Three taps, slow and rhythmic. Then another three taps, a little louder this time. It’s coming closer, moving down the stairs.
Mom’s breathing grows rapid, her eyes darting toward Dad. But Dad doesn’t move. His hands grip the armrest of his chair so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He’s afraid too, but he’s trying to hide it. It isn’t working.
Then, without warning, Emma stands up. My heart leaps into my throat. She drops the rabbit on the floor, her small body trembling as she takes a step toward the hallway. “Emma!” I want to shout, but I can’t. I bite my lip so hard I taste blood.
She’s sleepwalking. She does this sometimes, but not like this, not during the game.
Mom moves to stop her, but Dad holds up his hand, stopping her in her tracks. His eyes are wide, and there’s something in his expression that sends a chill down my spine. He’s not stopping Emma. He’s letting her go.
I don’t understand. Why isn’t he stopping her?
Emma takes another step toward the dark hallway, her eyes half-closed. She’s not awake. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. The shadows in the hallway seem to shift, reaching out for her. My heart is pounding in my ears, and I want to scream, but I can’t.
Just as Emma reaches the threshold of the door, something happens. The scraping sound returns, but this time it’s fast and frantic. It rushes toward us, and Emma freezes, her tiny frame standing at the edge of the darkness.
The whispers grow louder, more insistent. They seem to wrap around her, calling her name.
Mom can’t take it anymore. She jumps up, rushing toward Emma, but Dad grabs her arm, pulling her back with a strength I didn’t know he had. “No,” he whispers, his voice strained. “Let her go.”
Let her go? The words don’t make sense. What is he doing? Why is he letting her walk into the dark?
Emma takes one more step, and suddenly, the door to the hallway slams shut. The whole house shakes, and the lights flicker. The cold air vanishes in an instant, replaced by a suffocating stillness.
The timer rings, breaking the silence. The game is over.
But Emma, Emma’s gone.
The timer rang, signaling the end of the game, but my sister had vanished, taken into the darkness beyond the door. My mind raced, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
I turned to my parents, expecting them to react, to rush toward the door, to find Emma. But they sat there, frozen, their faces pale, eyes wide with that same deep-rooted terror I’d seen before. It was as if they were waiting for something.
"Where is she?" I whispered, my voice trembling. "Why aren’t you doing anything?"
Mom finally moved, slowly shaking her head. “We can’t,” she said softly, her voice barely audible. “The game is over.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Emma was gone, and they were just sitting there. I stood up, my body shaking with fear and anger. “We have to find her!” I shouted, louder than I should have, but I didn’t care anymore. “My little sister is out there!”
Dad’s voice was firm when he spoke, though his eyes betrayed his fear. “It’s too late,” he said. “The game has its rules.”
“Rules?” I repeated, incredulous. “What about Emma? We can’t just leave her!”
“We can’t go after her,” Mom said, her eyes filling with tears. “Not now.”
The fear in their eyes, the trembling in their voices … it wasn’t just fear of losing Emma. It was something else, something much worse. They knew something I didn’t, something they weren’t telling me.
I couldn’t stand it anymore. I ran toward the door, throwing it open and stepping into the hallway. The air was colder, denser, as if the house itself had changed. The shadows seemed darker, thicker. I called out for Emma, but there was no answer.
As I crept through the hallway, my footsteps echoed unnervingly. The house felt larger, more expansive than before, the walls stretching out into places that hadn’t existed before. It was like the game had taken over completely, twisting the space around me.
Then I heard it, a faint sound, almost like a sob. It was coming from upstairs.
Without thinking, I rushed toward the stairs, my heart racing. I had to find her. I had to bring her back. Each step creaked under my weight, the air growing colder with every breath I took. I reached the top of the stairs and paused, listening. The sound was closer now. It was Emma. I was sure of it.
I followed the sound down the hallway toward her bedroom door. It was cracked open, just a sliver of light spilling out. I pushed it open slowly, stepping inside.
And then I saw her.
Emma stood in the center of the room, her back to me. Her rabbit lay discarded on the floor, and she was whispering something, too low for me to make out. Relief flooded through me. She was here. She was safe.
“Emma?” I called softly, stepping closer.
She didn’t respond. She just kept whispering, her voice steady and calm. I moved closer, but something felt wrong. The air in the room was thick with tens...
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