10-19-2025, 10:14 PM
Sámiel lay in the dirt like a king on a bed of ashes, eyes half-lidded, watching the dark sky for signs that even the gods had blinked. Lalitha’s laughter still rang faintly in his ears, like bells made of bone, and somewhere behind that the real music began again. From the world itself.
He let the quiet spool out a little longer, just to listen. To feel. And there it was.
The click of a beetle’s wing somewhere in the underbrush.
The creak of cooling metal from the ferris wheel behind the midway.
The shiver of dead leaves stirred by the wind’s return.
The crackle of paper trash curling toward a nearby heater’s flame.
The tap tap tap of Lalitha’s fingers against the bottle.
A chorus, not of voices, but of things. Old things. Forgotten things. The world’s debris whispering its secrets when no one else is listening.
“You are right,” he muttered. “We fed them tonight.”
He smiled without meaning to, pondering the them that feasted, and turned his head just enough to glance sideways at Lalitha. Her eyes glittered, still drunk on madness, and her grin was all teeth and mischief.
He gave a sigh, long and low, more amused than reluctant.
“Do you hear them?” he murmured. “They’re still speaking. Not the dead. The... others.”
His hand drifted through the air above them as if sculpting something invisible. “The beetles are singing. The spiders are spinning songs into the rafters. The world’s full of little horrors with their own lullabies. People just stopped hearing them.”
He twisted to look at her, shirt open and stained with sweat and dirt. His expression sharpened not serious, but electric. Possessed by the thrill of a new idea, not entirely his own.
“A Chorus of Bones. That’s what I’ll call it. Ahh yes. My next show."
His voice had taken on a different edge now, lower, almost reverent. The performer was returning, but this was not his stage persona. This was the maker. The summoner.
“One night only. I’ll build it like a passage through the dark. A path that sings back at you.” His hands were moving again as if sketching shapes in the air, spinning the idea into flesh. “Rooms filled with whispers and insect wings. Threads of spider silk that tangle around the ankles. Ash underfoot. You’ll hear the voice of a thing older than language. A spirit without form. A hunger without shape. In the music, you'll hear your own personal song.”
He picked up the bottle again, took one slow sip, then set it gently beside her hand.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, but no less playful for it.
“A secret.”
He pondered what secrets hoarded in his soul that he might share.
“I give everyone a name,” he said simply. “Little ones. Pet names. I never say them out loud. Not even to myself.”
He tilted his head toward her, and his hair, still damp, slid across his cheek.
“Do you want to hear yours?”
He let the quiet spool out a little longer, just to listen. To feel. And there it was.
The click of a beetle’s wing somewhere in the underbrush.
The creak of cooling metal from the ferris wheel behind the midway.
The shiver of dead leaves stirred by the wind’s return.
The crackle of paper trash curling toward a nearby heater’s flame.
The tap tap tap of Lalitha’s fingers against the bottle.
A chorus, not of voices, but of things. Old things. Forgotten things. The world’s debris whispering its secrets when no one else is listening.
“You are right,” he muttered. “We fed them tonight.”
He smiled without meaning to, pondering the them that feasted, and turned his head just enough to glance sideways at Lalitha. Her eyes glittered, still drunk on madness, and her grin was all teeth and mischief.
He gave a sigh, long and low, more amused than reluctant.
“Do you hear them?” he murmured. “They’re still speaking. Not the dead. The... others.”
His hand drifted through the air above them as if sculpting something invisible. “The beetles are singing. The spiders are spinning songs into the rafters. The world’s full of little horrors with their own lullabies. People just stopped hearing them.”
He twisted to look at her, shirt open and stained with sweat and dirt. His expression sharpened not serious, but electric. Possessed by the thrill of a new idea, not entirely his own.
“A Chorus of Bones. That’s what I’ll call it. Ahh yes. My next show."
His voice had taken on a different edge now, lower, almost reverent. The performer was returning, but this was not his stage persona. This was the maker. The summoner.
“One night only. I’ll build it like a passage through the dark. A path that sings back at you.” His hands were moving again as if sketching shapes in the air, spinning the idea into flesh. “Rooms filled with whispers and insect wings. Threads of spider silk that tangle around the ankles. Ash underfoot. You’ll hear the voice of a thing older than language. A spirit without form. A hunger without shape. In the music, you'll hear your own personal song.”
He picked up the bottle again, took one slow sip, then set it gently beside her hand.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, but no less playful for it.
“A secret.”
He pondered what secrets hoarded in his soul that he might share.
“I give everyone a name,” he said simply. “Little ones. Pet names. I never say them out loud. Not even to myself.”
He tilted his head toward her, and his hair, still damp, slid across his cheek.
“Do you want to hear yours?”