It was just another quiet afternoon in the small town of Rivermoor. Birds chirped in the trees, and the sun cast soft golden light across the fields. But inside the Whitman household, panic had taken root.
“Lily!” her mother screamed, racing down the hallway. The eleven-year-old lay motionless on the kitchen floor, her lips pale, her mouth oddly clenched, and her eyes shut tight. She wasn’t responding.
Only an hour ago, Lily had been playing with her little brother, laughing and chasing bubbles through the garden. But something had gone terribly wrong.
They rushed her to the hospital. The doctors worked swiftly—checking her pulse, scanning her brain, running blood tests—but Lily remained unconscious. What disturbed them most was her mouth. It wasn’t just still—it looked almost frozen, as if she’d tried to scream or speak but couldn’t. It was neither a natural expression nor a simple medical symptom.
“She’s stable,” said Dr. Harris, “but we don’t know why she won’t wake up—or why her mouth is locked like that.”
The family was devastated. Lily had always been a vibrant, cheerful child. She loved singing and storytelling. Her voice was the soul of the house. And now, that voice was silent.
As days passed with no improvement, theories began to emerge. Some whispered about a seizure. Others thought it might be trauma. A few of Lily’s friends even shared that she had mentioned hearing strange voices the night before. “She said someone was calling her name,” one friend recalled. “But no one else was there.”
Then, a week into her unconscious state, something strange happened. Late at night, Lily’s nurse noticed a small, whispering sound—coming from Lily’s mouth. It wasn’t words exactly, but a breathy hum. When the nurse leaned closer, Lily’s lips moved—just slightly—and the room chilled. The monitor beside her flickered. Lights dimmed for a moment.
It wasn’t normal.
The nurse called for help, and soon a team of specialists was on alert. Some suggested this could be a neurological episode—others weren’t so sure. Lily’s grandmother, who had strong beliefs in spiritual matters, whispered, “Something is holding her back. It’s not just medical.”
Eventually, Lily woke up.
But she didn’t speak.
She stared ahead, her mouth barely able to open. When she finally managed a word, it was barely a whisper: “He said… don’t tell…”
The room fell silent.
What had Lily experienced? Was it an illness? A trauma? Or something more mysterious—something no doctor could explain?
Even now, she avoids talking about that day. She’s alive. She’s healing. But her voice—once her brightest trait—remains soft, cautious, and sometimes trembling.
Whatever happened that day, one thing is certain: something took her voice. And God only knows what else it tried to take.
