Camp Whisper's main rule was simple: Make noise. Always. We wore bells on our backpacks. Sang constantly. Even in our sleep, the counsellors patrolled with airhorns to startle us awake if we grew too quiet.
"Silence invites them,"
They'd say. When the generator failed during the worst storm in decades, we learned why. First came the creeping muteness. Watches stopping, fire crackles disappearing, breath sounds vanishing mid-exhale. Then the shapes. Still figures standing between cabins, their faces smooth as porcelain where the rain hit them. They moved only when unobserved, advancing in the flashes between lightning strikes.
Emily made the fatal mistake of screaming when one appeared at the window. The moment sound left her lips, every figure snapped toward her. We watched through the cracks in the cabin walls as they peeled her apart with terrifying gentleness, their fingers passing through flesh like it was mist. When they finished, Emily stood among them - perfect, still, and smiling.
Now we play the game properly. The counselors' airhorn sits rusting in the corner. We haven't made a sound in three days.
FINAL ENTRY IN CAMP LOG: “WHISPER QUIETLY. THEY LIKE THE LOUD ONES BEST."
