Otherworldly Echoes

The rain hammered against the windows of the old manor, a steady drumbeat that echoed through its empty halls. Outside, the landscape was a blur of dark clouds and cold mist, the world distant and strange. Inside, Professor Marianne Grant sat hunched over her desk in the library, surrounded by stacks of old books, her mind entirely absorbed in her work.

She had spent months studying the artifact—the so-called ‘Whispering Stone’—that had arrived at the university under mysterious circumstances. It was an unassuming object at first glance, a smooth, oval stone no larger than the palm of her hand, etched with delicate, almost imperceptible runes. But there was something about it, something ancient and unsettling, that had gripped Marianne's curiosity from the moment she first laid eyes on it.

She had always been drawn to the unknown, to the fringes of human knowledge where history and myth intertwined. The stone was one such enigma. Every test, every examination, had yielded nothing concrete. It was as though the object resisted understanding, defying any attempt to classify or explain it.

The real mystery, however, had begun when she first heard the whispers.

It had been late at night, much like this one. She had been alone in the library, her mind wandering between lines of an ancient manuscript when she thought she heard something—just the faintest sound, like a voice carried on the wind. At first, she dismissed it as fatigue, a trick of her imagination. But the whispers returned, night after night, growing clearer and more insistent.

They came from the stone.

She glanced at it now, sitting innocuously on the table beside her notes. The rain had softened to a light patter, and the room felt unnervingly still. Her heart beat faster as she reached out, her fingertips brushing the cool surface of the stone. The air seemed to thicken around her, growing heavy with anticipation. She knew what was coming, yet she wasn’t prepared for it.

The whispers began again.

Faint at first, like voices muffled by distance, but unmistakable. They spoke in a language she couldn’t understand, soft, melodic, yet filled with an unsettling cadence, as if the words were not meant for human ears. Marianne closed her eyes, letting the sound wash over her, trying to discern meaning from the strange, disembodied voices. They seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, surrounding her, slipping into her mind.

She jerked her hand away, heart pounding in her chest. The whispers ceased immediately, leaving the room in suffocating silence. Marianne stood, unsteady, her pulse racing. She had never believed in the supernatural, always attributing strange occurrences to the limits of human understanding. But this—this was different. The stone was not just an artifact. It was a doorway, a conduit to something beyond.

Something that wanted to be heard.

Marianne took a deep breath, steadying herself. She had spent too long in academia, dissecting facts and figures, to shy away from the unknown now. No one else had heard the whispers; no one else had experienced the pull of the stone. She was certain of that. Whatever was happening, it was happening to her, and her alone.

The question was: why?

Two Weeks Earlier

The stone had arrived at the university under unusual circumstances. A package, unmarked and with no return address, had been delivered to the Department of Archaeology. Inside, nestled in a bed of straw, was the stone, along with a single note written in a spidery hand: ‘This belongs to you now. Use it wisely.’

At first, Marianne had assumed it was some kind of prank. But the stone’s peculiar energy—its inexplicable pull—had captured her attention. She had spent weeks studying it, first out of intellectual curiosity, then out of obsession. The whispers had begun shortly after she started handling the stone regularly, though she had told no one.

But now, after weeks of sleepless nights and endless research, she could no longer deny what was happening. The whispers weren’t just random sounds; they were trying to communicate. She just didn’t know how to respond.

The Present

Marianne paced the library, her thoughts racing. What if the whispers were a form of language, a message meant for her? The stone was ancient—older than any civilization she had ever studied. Could it be a remnant of something lost to history? Or worse, something not of this world at all?

Her fingers itched to touch the stone again, but a deep sense of dread held her back. The more she listened, the more the whispers seemed to unravel something inside her, pulling at the edges of her sanity. She had to know what they wanted, but she feared what might happen if she gave in completely.

The rain picked up again, rattling against the windows. Outside, the darkness was thick, almost impenetrable. A flicker of movement caught her eye—a shadow, passing by the window. Marianne froze, her breath catching in her throat. She stared at the glass, heart pounding.

Nothing.

Just the storm.

Her nerves were frayed from days of isolation and mounting anxiety. She was jumping at shadows now, seeing things that weren’t there. She turned back to the desk, determined to push forward with her work.

And then the whispers returned—louder this time.

Marianne spun around, her eyes wide. The sound wasn’t coming from the stone anymore. It was in the room. The voices, still indecipherable, seemed to swell, filling the air with a strange, oppressive energy. She could feel them pressing in on her, wrapping around her like a fog.

She backed away, her hands trembling. "What do you want?" she whispered aloud, her voice barely audible over the cacophony of voices.

The whispers didn’t stop. They grew louder, more insistent, as if trying to convey something of great importance. Marianne clutched her head, the noise reverberating in her skull. The voices overlapped, intertwining, until they became a single, droning chant. It was no longer just noise. It was a command.

Come.

She staggered back, knocking over a stack of books. Her pulse raced as she tried to block out the sound, but it was everywhere, seeping into her thoughts, her skin, her bones. The stone on the desk pulsed faintly, glowing with a dim, otherworldly light.

The whispers grew louder. Come.

Her body moved on its own, drawn to the stone as if by invisible strings. She reached out, her hand trembling, and grasped the artifact once more. As soon as her fingers closed around it, the world seemed to fall away. The library, the rain, the storm outside—it all dissolved into darkness.

And in that darkness, she saw them.

Shapes, vast and incomprehensible, shifting in the void. They moved like shadows on the edge of her vision, their forms too alien, too strange for her mind to fully grasp. She could sense them more than see them, their presence overwhelming, filling her with an ancient terror. They were not human. They were not even from her world.

The whispers were theirs.

We are waiting.

Marianne’s breath caught in her throat. The words were clear now, cutting through the noise like a knife. The beings—whatever they were—were speaking to her, directly, their thoughts pouring into her mind.

We are waiting. You will open the way.

She shook her head, terror surging through her. "No," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I don’t understand. I can’t—"

You will open the way.

The darkness pressed in on her, suffocating. She tried to pull away, but the stone burned in her hand, its heat searing her skin. The beings drew closer, their presence filling her mind, drowning her thoughts in their endless, otherworldly voices.

Marianne screamed, but no sound came out. She could feel them inside her now, twisting her thoughts, warping her perception. The whispers turned to roars, deafening her, overwhelming her senses until she could no longer think, no longer breathe.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.

The darkness receded, and Marianne found herself back in the library, the stone still clutched in her hand. The rain outside had stopped, and the room was eerily quiet.

But something had changed.

The air felt heavier, charged with a strange, electric energy. The stone no longer glowed, but Marianne could feel its power pulsing through her veins, as though it had fused with her, become a part of her.

She dropped the stone onto the desk, staring at it in horror. The whispers had gone silent, but their message lingered in her mind, clear as day.

You will open the way.

Marianne stumbled back, her heart racing. She didn’t know what the beings were, or where they had come from, but she knew one thing for certain: they were coming. The stone had been a key, and she had been chosen to unlock whatever lay beyond.

Panic surged through her. She couldn’t let it happen. She had to stop it. But how? How could she fight something that existed beyond the limits of human understanding?

The answer, she realized with growing dread, lay in the stone. It had brought the whispers. It had shown her the beings. And it would be the only thing that could send them back.

With shaking hands, Marianne picked up the stone once more. The runes on its surface glowed faintly, as if responding to her touch. She took a deep breath, steeling herself.

If she was to open the way, then perhaps she could close it too.

The whispers were gone. But the silence was far worse.

---

Students came for special classes from Marianne,
only to find her and the stone gone, and a note in her
handwriting that read: ‘I’m sorry. I had no other choice.’