Don't speak of it, don't look at it

In the city with its unstable foundations, where skyscrapers rest atop ancient, hidden tunnels, there is always a strange, inexplicable sound that resonates through the night. The locals, accustomed to the creaking of beams and the whisper of pipes, have grown used to ignoring it.

But every time someone acts as if they aren't listening, something stirs beneath the surface. It's not a human or animal voice; it's like the echo of something buried without name, ceremony, or peace. And every time someone sleeps soundly, it crawls through the walls, seeking a crack to slip through.

Once a year, the underworld chooses its own victim, whether young or old, believer or skeptic, the chosen one begins to speak in their dreams in a strange language no one understands. But deep in their soul, they feel it; their eyes become clouded, as if seeing things anew, and their shadows grow longer, even in bright light.

The neighbors understand that they are not supposed to intervene. They discovered this when they tried to save the first victim, and saw their body twisted like a broken puppet, their mouth full of damp earth, their roots still moving.

Terror isn't about what you see, but about the things. But I can't speak of it. It's rather obvious, even if no one says it aloud, that the whispering truly comes from within, not from below.

That the tunnels weren't dug by people, but because a city was built upon oblivion. And that one day, when the last building collapses, there will be no dust or ruins, but only one sound: the whisper that no longer needs to hide.