It started with a whisper.
Faint.
Incoherent.
Almost like a trick of the wind brushing past my ear.
But I wasn't outside.
I was in my kitchen, making toast.
Nothing mystical.
Nothing haunted.
Just… bread and butter.
Until the whisper returned.
"You hear us now."
I dropped the knife.
Spun around.
Empty room.
No shadows.No reflections.No tricks.
Just silence again.
Except… it wasn't.
Underneath the silence was a low hum.
Like a radio station just out of range.
And beneath that—
Voices.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
Murmuring.
Laughing.
Crying.
Telling stories that weren't meant to be heard.
At first, I thought I was going insane again.
I braced myself for the spiral.
But it didn't come.
Because this time, I wasn't afraid.
I understood.
These voices weren't inside my head.
They were coming through me.
Because of the contract.
Because I was now the vessel.
That evening, I returned to the mirror.
Not to summon anyone.
Just… to listen.
And the mirror responded.
It shimmered faintly.
Not like glass, but like water.
And from deep inside it, I heard a name:
"The Whisper Market."
The words painted a picture in my mind.
A place.
Not physical.Not fully.
More like a frequency.A channel you had to tune into with your soul.
It was where haunted places connected.
Where curses were catalogued.
Where memories were currency.
I saw glimpses.
A motel in Arizona where time ran backward every midnight.
A well in Japan that whispered your deepest fear when you peered in.
A sunken church in the Philippines where ghosts traded favors in exchange for names.
And in each of these places—someone like me.
Someone marked.
I wasn't alone.
That truth was both comforting… and terrifying.
Because if I wasn't alone, then others could find me.
Others who had made contracts of their own.
And not all of them would be trying to escape them.
I began keeping a journal.
Not for therapy.
Not to "process."
But to record.
Everything I heard.
Everything I saw.
It wasn't random.
The voices followed patterns.
They told stories in pieces, like fractured fairy tales.
One night, I heard a complete phrase.
Clear as a bell.
"The Market is opening again."
That same night, the lights in my apartment flickered three times—then stayed off for exactly six minutes and sixteen seconds.
In the dark, I heard a knock at the window.
I live on the fourth floor.
When the lights came back on, there was no one there.
Just a symbol drawn in condensation on the glass.
Three interlocking circles.
I recognized it from one of the mirror-visions.
It was the sigil of trade—used when someone wanted to make an exchange.
I didn't sleep.
I lit candles.
Salted the floor.
Not to keep things out.
But to invite clarity in.
That's when I heard it again.
The Market's voice.
Not a single whisper this time—but a chorus.
"Elias. Do you wish to trade?"
I didn't answer right away.
Because I understood what that question really meant.
They weren't asking if I wanted something.
They were asking what I was willing to give up.
At dawn, I wrote a message on my mirror:
"What do you want?"
The reply etched itself in the glass.
One word.
"Memory."
My stomach turned.
Because I knew what kind of memory they meant.
Not a bad one.
Not a trauma.
They wanted a good memory.
Something precious.
Something that made me human.
That was the Market's game.
You traded warmth for knowledge.
Love for power.
Clarity for control.
And once you gave something up, it was gone forever.
I stepped back.
Closed my eyes.
And thought.
What memory could I lose… and still be me?
I found one.
A night from childhood.
Running through sprinklers with my brother.
Pure joy.
No pain.
Just laughter under a violet summer sky.
That memory… was real.
And beautiful.
And perfect.
And expendable.
I whispered:
"Take it."
A rush of wind filled the room.
The candles went out.
And just like that—it was gone.
I could still see the scene… but it no longer belonged to me.
Like watching someone else's dream.
In its place, the mirror showed me coordinates.
A location.
Latitude. Longitude.
An abandoned bookstore in Baltimore.
Where something—or someone—was waiting for me.
That's how the Whisper Market worked.
You paid.
Then you traveled.
Not across borders, but across thresholds.
Haunted places weren't just haunted anymore.
They were connected.
Linked by whispers, by contracts, by offerings made in silence.
I didn't pack a bag.
Didn't call anyone.
Just wrote down the coordinates, grabbed my coat, and left.
Because something had changed again.
I was no longer a man trying to escape the supernatural.
I was now a participant.
A trader.
A traveler.
A whisper among whispers.