THE SILENCE BETWEEN SCREAMS

The clock on the wall clicked steadily toward 3:00 p.m. It was the only sound in the room—sharp, hollow, and deliberate. Each tick sounded like a nail being driven through silence. Dr. Kian Voss leaned back in his leather chair, hands folded across his chest, eyes fixed on the empty chair across the desk. The lights above buzzed faintly, flickering with a sickly hue as if even they were reluctant to remain on in this room. This room was known as The Echo Room—unofficially, of course. It wasn’t written anywhere, but everyone at the facility called it that. Because no matter how long you sat in it, the silence always spoke back to you. It was Tuesday. 3:00 p.m. And that meant only one thing: Patient 47B. Or rather, it should have. The file sat unopened on the desk, thin as a breath. No name. Just a number scrawled in heavy black ink. 47B. The page inside was mostly blank. Notes were discouraged. Voss had written just two words during their last session: "unreal presence." He wasn’t even sure what he meant by that. Only that something about 47B lingered long after the sessions ended—like a whisper in a room that should’ve been quiet. He checked the time again. 3:00 p.m. Right on schedule. Then, the door creaked. Voss didn’t flinch. He didn’t greet the sound. He simply said, “You’re late.” There was no reply. Just the sound of the door closing again. Soft. Almost hesitant. He finally looked up. The chair was empty. A cold draft danced through the room. He shivered, but not from the air. He could feel it—the same presence from before. Heavy. Watching. Voss cleared his throat. “Would you like to begin?” Still nothing. His voice cracked slightly. “Why don’t you tell me what you saw that night?” A long pause. And then, from behind him—so close it brushed his spine—came a voice like a breath trapped in a scream. “You already know.” He turned sharply. No one was there. Just his own shadow stretching long against the wall, distorted, bending unnaturally toward the floor. Suddenly, the lights dimmed. The clock stopped ticking. Time, it seemed, had decided to hold its breath.