Chapter 6: Whispers Beneath the Pillow (Part 2/2)
The next morning, Peterson rose before anyone else. He hadn't really slept. The whispers had come and gone all night—soft, circling, impossible to understand. They weren't terrifying, exactly... but they weren't comforting either. Like a warning spoken in a language he didn't yet know.
He washed his face at the basin, staring at his reflection. The cut above his eyebrow had begun to scab over. His eyes were red from lack of sleep, but something behind them had sharpened.
After breakfast, Amanda and Miranda skipped off to school without him. His mother left shortly after to return to the market. Peterson sat on the edge of his bed for a while, unsure what to do with the weight of free time and the ache of suspension.
He stared at his pillow. Then slowly pulled it aside.
The medallion was still there.
He picked it up cautiously. The metal felt warmer than it should have—like it had absorbed his body heat through the night. The snakes' silver coils caught the light strangely, and the skulls seemed more... defined. Their mouths slightly open now. He couldn't be sure, but it looked different than before.
"I know you're doing something," he whispered to it. "But what?"
No answer. No glow. No reaction.
Peterson slid it into a shoebox and pushed it under the bed.
---
With two weeks of suspension ahead of him, Peterson wandered the city. He couldn't stay home all day—there was too much noise in his head and not enough silence in the house. He avoided the usual corners, especially anywhere his old gang might be lurking. He wasn't sure if he still belonged with them. Wasn't sure he ever did.
He found himself walking past Jean-Daniel's place.
The small yellow house looked as worn as ever—cracks in the wall, a sagging roof, and a bucket catching rainwater by the front door. Peterson hesitated before knocking. Voices inside echoed through the walls. Then the door creaked open.
Jean-Daniel blinked. "Yo."
"Yo."
They stood in silence for a second, then grinned.
"Wanna go for a walk?" Peterson asked.
Jean-Daniel grabbed his hoodie and stepped out.
They didn't talk much as they strolled through back alleys and side streets, avoiding the loudest roads and trouble spots. It was the kind of walk friends took when they didn't need to say much—just be there.
After a while, Jean-Daniel broke the silence.
"My mom was pissed," he said. "She didn't even show up at school. Told me she's tired of getting calls from teachers."
"She's still sick?"
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Cough's getting worse."
Peterson nodded. "Sorry."
"Not your fault. But… thanks."
They kept walking.
"You hear anything weird lately?" Peterson asked suddenly.
Jean-Daniel gave him a look. "Weird how?"
"Like… at night. When you're alone."
Jean-Daniel squinted. "You mean like… whispers?"
Peterson's heart skipped.
"You heard them too?"
"Once," Jean-Daniel admitted. "Few nights ago. Thought I was losing it."
"Same here."
They exchanged glances, both suddenly uneasy.
"Maybe it's stress," Jean-Daniel offered.
"Yeah," Peterson said. "Maybe."
But deep down, he didn't believe that.
---
That evening, Peterson helped his mother sort produce for the next market day. He picked out bruised mangoes, cleaned baskets, and tied loose twine around bundles of thyme. Altagrace watched him with cautious eyes.
"You've changed," she said finally.
"How?"
"You move quieter now. And you think more before you speak."
He smiled slightly. "I've had a lot to think about."
"Just don't let thinking turn into hiding," she warned. "You're allowed to speak your truth. Even if it shakes the room."
He nodded, grateful but unsure how to explain what truth he was even carrying.
---
Later that night, when everyone was asleep again, Peterson reached under the bed and pulled out the shoebox. He sat cross-legged, staring at the medallion for a long time before finally holding it in his palm.
He whispered into the dark, "What are you?"
The green glow returned faintly—soft at first, then stronger. And the whispers followed.
But this time… they weren't shapeless.
They formed into a single, whispering word.
"Peterson…"
His name.
Spoken in a voice he didn't recognize, yet somehow felt like he should.
He dropped the medallion in shock. It hit the floor with a metallic thud and rolled into the corner.
His chest heaved. Sweat prickled his forehead.
He stumbled back onto the bed, staring wide-eyed at the shadowed wall.
It spoke. It knew him.
He didn't sleep at all after that.