That night, when I was alone in my room, it came again—the whisper.
It wasn't something that echoed through the air; no… it slipped inside me, mixing with my own thoughts the way the evening sun melts into the horizon. And the moment I heard it, I knew. It was him. The same mysterious voice.
But how?
How could he know that I was going to die on the night of the cultural festival?
And more importantly—why tell me?
The questions coiled tighter and tighter inside my chest until I could barely breathe. Then another thought clawed its way up: Maybe the voice knows about the dream. The dream where everyone died. The dream where that serial killer—the man who ended my last life... came for us all.
What if the voice was part of it? What if he was behind everything? I wanted to scream questions into the dark, to demand answers, but I didn't know how to reach him. I tried—whispered back into the emptiness. Nothing.
Silence.
Like he had never been there at all.
In the end, I forced myself to forget, pulling the blanket over my head. My thoughts swirled until sleep finally dragged me under. Even then, I felt something lingering at the edge of my dreams… as if the whisper was still watching, waiting.
The First of the Seven Nights
Morning came, but the weight of whisper still clung to me. At the gate, Alden's voice cut through it like sunlight breaking the fog.
"Yo, good morning!"
And just like that... things felt normal again.
Later, during break, Alden leaned against my desk.
"The Cultural Night Festival's coming. Students can make stalls you know. We should do one too."
"A stall? I... I've never done anything like that."
I hesitated. I had no idea how to even start.
But when he invited me, I couldn't say no.
"... yeah. Let's do it."
He smirked. "But we'll need more members. You cool with that?"
I wanted to keep him to myself. I wanted to say no. But I forced a smile. "As long as you're there, I'm fine. Maybe I'll even make some friends."
Even though deep down... the thought terrified me.
That's when Alden brought Clara and Julian over.
Both from our class. I'd seen them before, but this was the first time I'd actually met them.
"Hey, you're the guy always hanging out with Aldy, right? Nice to meet ya," Julian said casually.
Clara smiled. "Looking forward to working together."
My body froze. My throat closed up. But then, somehow, the words left me without fear:
"Yeah... nice to meet you too. Let's work hard together."
It was that simple. So simple. All this time, had I been too afraid to try?
Building the Stall
When asked what kind of stall we'd make, Alden puffed his chest. "Behold! A fortune-telling stall!"
Clara and Julian grinned. I laughed too. It was fun. Almost too fun. And for a while, I let myself believe this was the life I had always wanted–
the one I had yearned for when death closed in on me.
But then the memory of the dream slithered back.
The blood. The screams. The bodies.
Still, I smiled. Still, I helped. Maybe if I ignored it long enough, the dream would stay just that... a dream.
Days slipped by. By the fifth night, we were walking home together, laughing, teasing. Clara and Julian waved goodbye first. Then it was just me and Alden.
At the crossroads, I smiled at him. "See you tomorrow. Good night!"
"Yeah," he replied. But this time his voice dropped lower–cold, heavy. "Only two nights left until the cultural festival."
I blinked, caught off guard. That wasn't his usual carefree tone. For a split second, his smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Y-yeah... let's do our best," I managed, forcing a laugh.
What was that about? Why did Alden suddenly say it in such a cold, serious tone? The questions rose and clawed at my mind, but I shoved them down, telling myself he was just being overly earnest about the cultural festival...
about our stall. Yet, the more I thought about it, the more it felt wrong–like Alden wasn't talking about the festival at all. Deep down, it was as if he already knew something was going to happen... in just two nights.
On the way home, the air felt wrong. Too still.
Too sharp. I felt it–that gaze. Thorns pricking into my skin. Someone watching me. Shadows moved where there shouldn't have been any. I quickened my pace, but the feeling clung to me like a second skin.
The Sixth Night
At first, it was just another normal day. The sun streamed through the windows, chalk dust floated in the air, and for a brief moment, I almost convinced myself things were ordinary.
Until our homeroom teacher set down her papers with a grave look and said:
"Listen carefully, everyone. Starting tomorrow, your parents or guardians must pick you up after school. There have been… incidents. A serial killer is still out there."
The words landed like stones. The classroom buzzed with chatter—nervous laughter, whispers, the scrape of chairs as people turned to each other.
"Another one? In our area?"
"Do you think it's that guy from the news?"
"I heard he cuts people into pieces—"
I couldn't move. My chest tightened. My nails dug into my palm. No. It's happening. The dream wasn't just a dream. The timeline is catching up.
My breaths came sharp and shallow. The edges of my vision blurred. My heart hammered like it was trying to punch its way out.
That's when a hand rested gently on my shoulder.
"It's okay. Everything's alright. I'm here with you," Alden said, his voice calm, steady, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. For a moment, just a moment, I wanted to believe him.
But then—something flickered across his eyes. A shadow, there and gone so fast I might have imagined it. His smile never faltered, but it was like a mask pressed too tight against his face.
The buzzing chatter of the classroom grew louder, almost distorted. I swore I heard it—threaded through the noise, so faint only I could notice it:
"…you know what comes next."
I jerked my head around, searching. No one was near me except Alden. His hand still rested on my shoulder, warm, grounding.
Had it been him? Or was it the whisper?
I couldn't ask. My throat was dry, sealed shut. All I could do was nod weakly, forcing myself to meet his steady gaze.
"It's fine," Alden repeated, softer this time. "We'll be fine."
But deep down, I knew.
Nothing was fine.
Not then. Not ever.
The Seventh Night
The school was alive with lights and laughter. Stalls lined the halls, decorations hung everywhere.
But when my eyes drifted to the gym, my stomach knotted.
The gym. The same place from my dream. The place where I saw the corpses.
Our stall was already done. Clara and Julian had gone to help others, while Alden left to grab drinks. I stepped inside, smiling at what we'd built together.
The stall looked like every other one on the surface—tacky drapes, fake candles flickering in glass jars, and the faint smell of cheap incense that clung to the air. But the moment I stepped inside, the noise of the festival outside felt muted, like I had walked into another world.
The crystal ball sat in the center of the table, smooth and polished, catching what little light there was. It should've just been a prop. A stupid festival gimmick. But something about it made my stomach twist.
I sat down. My hand hovered above the glass. I don't even know why I touched it—curiosity? Restlessness? The second my fingers brushed its surface, the air turned cold. Not just cool... cold enough that I could see my breath fog the air.
Then it began.
The crystal ball flickered—not light, but movement, like a screen trying to come alive. Shapes twisted in the glass. A blur at first, then clearer with each pulse. My heart clenched as I leaned closer.
It wasn't random. It wasn't just some cheap trick.
It was my dream.
The same dream that had been haunting me. The same suffocating shadows, the same distorted whispers curling around me like smoke. The image shifted, the fragments stitching themselves together into something unmistakable—me.
I was watching myself, thrashing, suffocating in that dream I thought was just a nightmare. But now it was trapped inside the crystal ball, playing out like a memory.
A sharp sound cracked through the silence. At first, I thought it came from the crystal ball–but no.
It was inside the stall. A whisper. Low. Drawn out. Almost laughing.
"You've seen this before... "
I jerked back, nearly knocking the chair over, but the voice didn't stop. The ball trembled on the table, the images distorting, and for the briefest second I saw something else. Not the dream. Not me. Something darker. A figure standing at the very edge of the vision, motionless, watching. The figure that I'd seen before when the serial killer killed me.
I blinked, and the ball went dark. Just a lifeless piece of glass again.
It was real.
It had always been real.
My body shook. My lips went dry. If it was one of the loops, why don't I remember?
That's when it came again.
The voice. Right behind my ear.
"You really think that was a dream?"
The words slithered into me, colder than ice, sharper than any blade. And this time, I swore I could hear a hint of amusement.
I knew it.
I knew the whole time that it wasn't just a dream.
But if not dream... what was it?
I didn't wanted to accept it.
I froze. My throat closed. The fear clawed its way up my body like fire.
But then I thought of Alden. Clara. Julian. My friends. Their smiles. Their voices. The life I had finally begun to grasp.
And somehow, I steadied my breath.
"No," I whispered to myself. "Not this time. I won't run. I won't give up. I'll save them. I'll save myself. And I'll kill the serial killer. I'll put an end to this nightmare. This ends with me."
The whisper chuckled. Low. Mocking.
"Try, if you like. You always do."
My heart stuttered. My skin went cold.
Always?
–S. Yusuf