Stirring up a storm in your mind.

[saysweetprayers]

He is not solid, not a creature that is reliable and strong. he is more like water, more like shadows and the night sky. he is a creature of dark and quiet places, of words unsaid and caught in your throat.

He is so many things but concrete and stone is not one of them.

But the little girl interests him, she’s curious and so small, fragile with so many words caught in her throat. It’s delicious and interesting and wonderful.

He slips through he cracks, slides under her door and appears to her in the night whispers words into her mind and haunts her as she sleeps. He doesn’t care if it’s an invasion of privacy, such things are beneath him, but he does leave her notebooks as a thank you. He leaves her proper books as well, books of poetry and old stories, novels of adventure and of grief.

he leaves her all manner of words so she can fill herself up again, so he might find her antoher night and feed and haunt and revel in her.

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[strangletheheart]

The dreams come like fevers. She feels lost in them, chased by a shadow until she's stuck in a corner and it's hanging over her, long fingers reaching into her head. And she can't scream, can't cry out for help, just stare up at the shadow with wide-eyes.

Then all she can hear is the whispers: sweet, sad things. She doesn't know if it's her voice or another's.

She wakes up restless, shaking and her head aches. She never understands where the books and notepads come from. She's almost scared to touch them because they're so beautiful. But she manages to use them in the end, she reads the books, writes in the notebooks: of the dreams, of her loneliness, of her illnesses, the beginnings of letters to her brother she'll never send.

Her Calling's acting up this time and the sickness that plagues her wakes her up in the middle of the night. She stares wide-eyed in the gloom, sinking back into her pillows.

"Am I dreaming?" she whispers, "Is this real?"