Bethany 
The house had never been silent, even in the dead of night. Dark whispers lurked all over the house. Even in the dead of night when the town of Leamington Spa slept, the Crowley home was alive with sounds that had no source. A faint tapping on the windows when no branches were near. A soft scratching at the floorboards though no rats could be found.
The whispers were faint. slithering voices that curled through the dark like tendrils of smoke. By the time Edward Alexander Crowley was six, the whispers had become his constant companions. One night, long after his mother and the servant had retired, Edward sat awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling. The gas lamp beside him flickered erratically as if caught in some unseen breeze.
A single moth batted against the glass, its tiny wings making a rhythmic tapping sound. A single moth batted against the glass, its tiny wings making a rhythmic tapping sound. Then came whisper “Edward….”
A seething voice as if coming from nowhere. It slithered through the air like silk, neither male nor female, neither near nor far. Edward did not flinch. He had heard this voice before. He tried to ignore it, but the voices ignored it, to drown it out with prayers his mother had forced him to recite. But it always returned, patient and knowing.
“Edward,” it cooed again.
This time, the boy turned his head. His alluring eyes scanned the room, taking in the heavy curtains, the wooden desk piled with books, the wardrobe standing ominous in the corner. But nothing stirred.
“I hear you,” he whispered back.
The voice chuckled. It was soft but full of amusement as if pleased by his response. “Do you wish to know?” it asked.
Edward sat up, his small fingers gripping the edge of his blanket. “Know what?”
The shadows in the room deepened. The moth, still trapped against the glass, gave a final, desperate flutter—then fell still.
“Everything.”
Edward felt his pulse heightened. He had always sensed that he was someone more than just a regular boy. The world around him seemed slower, a little dull, as if veiled by something he alone could peek through. He understood things no child should—how people lied when they smiled, how the prayers his mother muttered at night carried the weight of fear, not faith.
But knowing everything? The word sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine. He slid out of bed, his bare feet pressing against the cold wooden floor. The gaslight dimmed further, throwing the room into an eerie twilight. He slid put
He slid out of bed, his bare feet pressing against the cold wooden floor. The gaslight dimmed further, throwing the room into an eerie twilight. The whisper coiled around him, a presence unseen but felt, filling the space between his breaths. “Come closer,” it urged. Edward hesitated, then took a step toward the dusty cupboard.
The voice purred with approval.”Good”
The voice told the boy all about how he could acquire power, slowly and steadily, until a bang appeared on the door.
Then, his mother came into the room with a bang, shouting “What are you doing??”
His mother stood in the doorway, candle in hand, her face as pale as death.
“Step away!” she shouted, her voice trembling.
Edward blinked, confused. The whisper was gone. The room felt smaller and colder. The gas lamp blinked back to life as if nothing had happened.
Emily Crowley ran forward, grabbing her son’s shoulders with a force that startled him. “What were you doing?” she demanded. Edward stood quietly waiting as she chanted mantras from the church.
Inside the mind of Edward came all the ideas of how he could conquer the world as he stood zoned out.
About The Author
