Darkness. Grace stood in the middle of it, her breath coming in short gasps.
The air was thick, pressing against her skin like unseen hands. A deep, guttural whisper curled around her ears, slithering like a serpent through the void. The voice was not singular. It was layered, as if a thousand voices spoke at once—some deep and rumbling, others sharp and rasping, all colliding in a nightmarish symphony. The words echoed inside her skull, seeping into her bones, vibrating beneath her skin. Her bare feet pressed against something solid, yet when she looked down, there was nothing but abyss beneath her. A chill crawled up her spine, cold and wet, like skeletal fingers dragging across her flesh. She turned, but there was nothing. A single flickering light appeared in the distance, floating, swaying—an ember suspended in an ocean of black. And then, out of the abyss, figures began to emerge. Shadowy, indistinct shapes, their bodies shifting like smoke, their heads tilted at unnatural angles. Some had elongated fingers, curling and beckoning. Others stood frozen, their featureless faces turned toward her. The whispering voices grew louder, tangled, chaotic, pressing against her skull until her head ached. Grace tried to move, but her legs felt rooted to the unseen ground. The darkness thickened, wrapping around her arms, her neck, her throat. She gasped, clawing at nothing, her breath hitching as something cold brushed against her cheek. And then she saw it. A towering figure in the distance, shrouded in black, its presence sucking the air from her lungs. It had no face—just a gaping hole where a mouth should be, stretching and twisting in silence. The thing raised a hand, long and clawed, dripping with something dark and viscous. It pointed at her. The ground beneath her cracked. The abyss yawned open, and hands—hundreds of them, pale and writhing—burst from the shadows, grabbing her ankles, her wrists, pulling her down. Their fingers dug into her skin, cold and unyielding. She screamed. A deafening shriek filled the void, but it wasn't hers. A monstrous sound, inhuman and filled with rage, ripped through the air. The faceless figure's gaping mouth stretched wider, impossibly wide, darkness spilling from it like ink. Grace's body plunged into the abyss. The whispers turned to laughter.
Then, the whispers began again. They slithered through the air—hushed, overlapping, in a language she did not know. The words curled around her, seeping into her bones, rasping and guttural, distant yet suffocatingly close. She couldn't understand them, but she could feel them—ancient, hungry, watching. Shuth'ren mala'kai... vekh sorath... The voices layered, rising and falling like a wicked chant. Shapes flickered in the darkness—tall, thin figures with elongated limbs, shifting like smoke. No faces, just hollow, gaping voids where eyes should be, all fixed on her. She turned to run. The ground cracked beneath her. From the abyss, hands erupted—pale, skeletal, grasping. They wrapped around her ankles, her wrists, her throat, pulling, dragging. Cold fingers burrowed into her skin like they meant to tear her apart. A shadow loomed before her. Taller than the others. Unmoving. Watching. It tilted its head, the whispers growing into a deafening roar. The language was still foreign, but now it was urgent, commanding. "Mek'thar rith'al... saen'varh..." She fought, kicking, clawing, but the grip only tightened. The pain at the back of her neck burned white-hot, a searing brand. Her vision blurred. The abyss yawned open beneath her. The faceless figure leaned closer. The whispers stopped. And in the last moment before she fell, before the darkness swallowed her whole— A single word broke through the void. A word she understood. "Remember." She screamed— And woke up.
A gasp tore through her throat as Grace bolted upright, her small body trembling. Cold sweat clung to her skin, her nightgown damp as she clutched the sheets in tight fists. Her breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, her chest rising and falling rapidly as the last echoes of the whispers still rang in her ears. Darkness pressed against the corners of her room, the shadows stretching unnaturally, shifting as if still alive with the remnants of the dream. The word—Remember—lingered in her mind, crawling down her spine like ice. Her lips quivered as a sob escaped her, and then another, until she was wailing into her hands, her cries loud, uncontrolled, raw. The fear, the confusion, the suffocating loneliness—she couldn't hold it in. The door burst open. "Grace?" The deep, familiar voice pulled her out of the abyss of terror. Footsteps rushed toward her, and before she could fully process it, strong arms wrapped around her. "Papa!" she sobbed, burying her face in his chest. "I'm here, my little light," he whispered, his voice steady, grounding. He held her tightly, his warmth enveloping her shaking form as she sobbed against him. He rocked her gently, the way he used to when she was younger and afraid of thunderstorms. "Shh, it's okay. I'm here." But it wasn't okay. The whispers had felt real. The darkness in the dream had touched her. Her father pulled back slightly, cupping her tear-streaked face in his large hands. His deep brown eyes searched hers, filled with unwavering love and concern. "Another nightmare?" She nodded, hiccupping. "The voices… the shadows…" she tried to explain, but the words tangled on her tongue. Her father smoothed her wild, damp hair back and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "I believe you, Grace," he murmured, his voice gentle yet firm. "And I need you to listen to me." She sniffled, her hands gripping his sleeves. "You are special," he said, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from her cheek. "There is light in you that no darkness can ever put out. Do you hear me?" She bit her lip, her breath still shaky. "But why does it keep happening?" she whispered. He exhaled, glancing toward the small wooden cross hanging above her bed. Then, with slow movements, he reached for his Bible from the nightstand. "Some things in this world, we do not yet understand," he said, flipping through the pages. "But no matter what happens, you are never alone." Grace pressed her face against his chest again, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as he started to pray softly. His voice was deep, soothing, a melody of faith and protection as he called upon God to watch over her. She closed her eyes, his words wrapping around her like a shield. And for now, that was enough.
The dreams had started when Grace was five. Every night, she would wake up screaming, her tiny body drenched in sweat, her heart slamming against her ribs. The whispers always came, the dark figures, the unearthly voices speaking a language she could not understand—until that final moment when one word always broke through. Remember. And every night, her father was there. He would rush into her room the second he heard her cries, his footsteps hurried but steady. He always smelled like earth and pinewood, the scent of home. Without a word, he would gather her into his arms, whispering, "Shh, I've got you, little light. I've got you." Sometimes, she would cling to him for what felt like hours, too afraid to close her eyes again. And he would stay, holding her, humming a lullaby under his breath. But some nights, she had questions. One night, at six years old, after another terrifying dream, she clutched her father's arm as he rocked her. "Papa," she whispered, her voice hoarse from crying. "Where's Mama?" Her father stilled. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the soft creak of the rocking chair. Then, he let out a breath and held her a little tighter. "She was beautiful," he finally said, his voice warm, like a memory wrapped in golden light. "She had the brightest smile, and when she laughed, it was like music. Just like yours." Grace sniffled. "What happened to her?" His fingers brushed through her hair, gentle, comforting. "She went to heaven, my love. But she loved you more than anything in this world." Grace frowned, staring up at him with her big, questioning eyes. "Will I go to heaven too?" He smiled, but there was something bittersweet in it. "One day, when it is time. But not for a very, very long time, Grace." He tapped her nose playfully. "You have too much life to live first." She was quiet for a moment, then whispered, "How did you meet her?" Her father chuckled, the sound deep and soothing. "I was a foolish man," he admitted. "I tripped over my own feet in the market and nearly knocked over a fruit stand. Your mother was the one who helped me up. She said I was the most awkward man she had ever seen." Grace giggled. "That does sound like you, Papa." He tickled her side, making her squeal. "Watch it, young lady. I'll have you know I was quite charming." She giggled again, and he continued. "She was kind. She had the gentlest heart, but she was also fierce. She believed love was the strongest thing in the world." He kissed her forehead. "And she was right." Grace tilted her head. "How will I know when I find love?" Her father smiled, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "You'll just know, my little light. When the right person finds you, your heart will tell you." That became their routine. Every morning, her father would wake her up with the smell of warm bread and honey. They would sit by the fireplace, eating together, while he read from the Bible. Every evening, he would tell her stories—about her mother, about faith, about the wonders of the world. And every night, when the nightmares came, he would be there to hold her, to pray over her, to remind her that no darkness was stronger than the light inside her.
---
The sun was just beginning to rise, casting soft golden light through the trees as Grace and her father walked toward the small church on the hill. His hand was warm, calloused from years of work, but gentle as it wrapped around hers. Grace swung their hands playfully, her steps light. "Papa, did you think about my gift?" Her father glanced down at her with a teasing smile. "Gift? What gift?" She huffed. "The one I asked for last week! And the week before that." "Hmm," he said, pretending to think. "Was it a pony?" "No!" she giggled. "A golden crown?" She laughed harder. "Papa!" He chuckled, squeezing her hand. "Alright, alright. Remind me, my little light." She tilted her head up at him, her expression suddenly serious. "Will I go to heaven?" His steps slowed, and he turned to look at her fully. "Of course you will, Grace. I've told you that before." She furrowed her brows. "But are you sure?" He crouched to her level, brushing her cheek with his thumb. "Why do you ask me this so often, my love?" She shuffled her feet, looking down. "Because… I'm different." His eyes softened. "Different doesn't mean bad." "But what if God changes His mind?" she whispered. "What if He decides I don't belong there?" Her father let out a gentle sigh, pulling her into a hug. "Listen to me, Grace. God does not change His mind about love. And He loves you more than anything." She pressed her face into his shoulder. "But I have those dreams, Papa. And sometimes, I hear things I don't understand." He held her tighter. "That doesn't mean He loves you any less. If anything, it means He's watching over you even more." He leaned back, resting his forehead against hers. "You are my daughter, Grace. You are good. You are loved. Never doubt that." She let his words settle in her heart, but a quiet doubt still lingered at the edges. They reached the church, the large wooden doors creaking open as they stepped inside. The scent of old wood and candle wax filled the air. Stained glass windows cast colorful patterns on the stone floor. Her father led her to the front pew, kneeling before the altar. Grace watched as he closed his eyes, his hands clasped together in deep reverence. He always looked so peaceful when he prayed, as if speaking directly to God. She leaned closer. "Papa?" she whispered. He opened one eye, smiling. "Yes, my love?" "How do I pray?" He took her small hands in his, guiding her fingers into a gentle clasp. "Prayer is just speaking to God. No fancy words needed—just your heart." She nodded, watching him intently. "Let's pray together," he said. He bowed his head, and she mimicked him. His voice was steady, full of warmth and faith. "Father in Heaven, we thank You for this day, for the breath in our lungs, for the love that surrounds us. Guide our steps, strengthen our hearts, and remind us always of Your grace. Amen." "Amen," she echoed. When he lifted his head, she was still staring at him. "I want to pray like you one day," she said softly. "I want to have faith like you." He smiled, brushing a loose curl from her face. "You already do, little light." She beamed, wrapping her arms around his waist. That day, as they sat in the quiet church, Grace listened to her father's prayers and felt, just for a moment, that maybe—just maybe—she would go to heaven too
And if she could bring life back… what else could she do?.
---
The classroom was alive with chatter, but Grace Langley sat by the window, her small hands folded neatly on her desk. Outside, children ran across the schoolyard, their laughter ringing through the air. She never joined them. It wasn't that she didn't want to—it was that she didn't belong. She didn't know how to. Instead, she watched. Studied. She understood things, deep things, things that made adults give her strange looks when she asked. --- Religion class was Grace's favorite—not because she loved it, but because it always left her with more questions. And she was never afraid to ask. One day, as Sister Margaret spoke about heaven and hell, Grace raised her hand. "Yes, Grace?" "Sister, if God knows everything, then why did He create Lucifer if He knew he would rebel?" The nun blinked, gripping her wooden pointer a little tighter. "Because God gave His creations free will." "But He already knew what Lucifer would choose. So...was it really free will?" Silence. Some kids snickered. The nun cleared her throat. "It is not our place to question the ways of God, Grace." But Grace did. She always did. Another time, in physics class, she raised her hand after a lesson on gravity. "If gravity pulls everything down, why do birds fly?" The teacher smiled, thinking this was an easy one. "Because of their wings and air resistance." "But wouldn't that mean, if we could control air the right way, we could fly too?" Her teacher's smile faltered. "That's...not exactly how it works." But she could tell he didn't have a real answer. --- Grace was only six the first time she realized people were afraid of her. A group of older kids had cornered her after school. "Creepy church girl," one of them sneered. "Always staring out the window like a ghost." She didn't react. She never did. But then one of them shoved her. "Say something, freak." She stumbled but didn't fall. Instead, she looked at the girl and thought, hard. "Please fall." It was a fleeting thought—until the bully suddenly tripped over nothing, her face slamming into the dirt. Gasps. Whispers. Grace's heart pounded. She hadn't touched her. Had she? The kids backed away. "She's a witch!" someone hissed. The rumor spread like wildfire. --- After that, she stopped answering so many questions in class. She still knew the answers—always knew them—but she would hesitate, pretend to think, sometimes even get things wrong on purpose. Her father noticed one evening when checking her homework. "You got this wrong, pumpkin." She shrugged. "You knew this, didn't you?" She didn't answer. He watched her carefully. "Why are you pretending to be something you're not?" She looked down. "Because people don't like it when I know things." Her father sighed, pulling her into a hug. "You're special, Grace. Never hide that." --- She tried making friends, once. A little girl named Anna invited her to play. Grace agreed, smiling for once. But when they played hide-and-seek, Anna hid behind the storage shed. Grace closed her eyes. Where would I hide if I were her? The answer came instantly. She walked straight to the shed and found her. "You cheated!" Anna accused. "No, I just knew." Anna never played with her again. After that, Grace stopped trying.
---
Grace sat on the porch, legs swinging as she stared at the sky. The stars blinked lazily above her, scattered like forgotten secrets. Her father had gone inside, leaving her alone with her thoughts. Thoughts that never seemed to quiet down. She hugged her knees, resting her chin against them. "Will I ever be normal?" The question slipped from her lips before she could stop it. She thought about the dreams. The whispers in a language she didn't understand. The way people looked at her when she spoke things she shouldn't know. The way she sometimes felt like she didn't belong anywhere—not even in her own skin. "What am I?" The words felt heavier than they should. A breeze rustled through the trees, cool against her skin, but it didn't take the weight off her chest. Grace sighed and stood up. Maybe one day, she'd have answers. Maybe one day, she'd finally understand why she was different. But deep down—she wasn't sure she wanted to know.