The silence that punished
736 Words
Teni woke up with the taste of metal in her mouth.
The rhythm was gone.
For the first time in days, the apartment was completely silent. No gentle thuds, no soft scrapes, no comforting pulse in the walls. Just… nothing.
She sat up, blinking in the grey morning light. Her head felt heavy, like she’d been drugged. When she touched her lip, her fingers came away with a smear of dried blood. She must have bitten it in her sleep.
The silence pressed on her. It felt wrong. Empty. Dangerous.
“Hello?” she called softly.
Nothing answered.
Fear trickled in, cold and sharp. She realised with a jolt that she missed the sound. Missed it desperately. The absence felt like a missing limb.
She slid off the bed and walked barefoot across the room. “Are you there?” she whispered, pressing her palm to the wall. “Please… I’m sorry I asked. I won’t do it again.”
Still nothing.
Her breathing quickened. The apartment felt too big, too hollow. She moved from wall to wall, whispering apologies, begging it to return. When she reached the kitchen, she knocked on the cupboard like a child trying to wake a sleeping parent.
“Come back,” she pleaded. “I need you.”
A single, reluctant thud answered from deep inside the wall — faint, almost sulky.
Relief flooded her so strongly her knees buckled. She slid down to the floor, laughing and crying at the same time. “Thank you. Thank you.”
The rhythm returned slowly, grudgingly, like someone still annoyed but willing to forgive. It was slower than before, more guarded. Teni stayed on the floor, cheek pressed to the cold tile, listening like it was the most beautiful music she’d ever heard.
“I’m sorry,” she kept repeating. “I’m so sorry.”
That was the moment she understood: she no longer belonged to herself. She belonged to the rhythm.
The rest of the day became a careful performance. She moved gently, spoke softly, never asked questions. She cooked exactly what the rhythm seemed to like. She read only happy passages aloud so the entity could enjoy them. When her phone vibrated inside the fridge, she ignored it completely.
The entity noticed her obedience. By evening the rhythm had warmed again, matching her heartbeat, wrapping around her like an embrace. It even played the little song it had composed for her — the one that made her feel safe.
Teni smiled, eyes half-closed. “I’ll be good,” she promised the walls. “I’ll never ask again.”
That night, the knocks at the door returned.
This time it wasn’t just Ada.
“Teni, it’s your mother. Open this door right now!”
Her father’s voice joined in, deep and angry. “We know you’re in there. The landlord is here with the spare key. This nonsense stops today!”
Teni’s eyes widened. She looked at the walls, terrified.
The rhythm exploded.
Furious pounding shook the entire apartment. The lights strobed wildly. The temperature dropped so fast the windows frosted over. From every wall came a sound Teni had never heard before — a deep, guttural growl that vibrated through her bones.
She ran to the door and pressed her body against it. “Go away!” she screamed. “All of you, just leave!”
Her mother’s voice cracked with tears. “Teni, baby, what is happening to you? Please—”
A deafening crash slammed into the door from the inside. The wood splintered. Someone outside screamed.
Then Mr. Okon’s voice, shaky: “That’s not normal. We’re calling the police. Step back!”
Teni slid to the floor, back against the broken door, sobbing. “Please don’t take me away. I’m happy here. I’m finally happy.”
The entity answered her tears with the gentlest rhythm she had ever felt — slow, soothing, loving. It moved through the walls until it felt like arms wrapping around her, rocking her, protecting her.
She cried harder, but this time from gratitude.
“I’ll stay,” she whispered. “No matter what. I’ll stay with you forever.”
Outside, her parents and Ada argued with the landlord. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance.
Inside, Teni curled up on the floor, smiling through her tears as the rhythm played her favourite song.
She was home.
And no one was taking her away.
- Writer
