The hairs on the back of my neck stood when I heard the first whispered hiss. Quickly my mind took me to fear. The next hiss was methodical and gentle, the hairs fell, and I listened.
“Follow us for succor, your peril will heal.” These whispers are truth, I tell you, they have found comfort in the walls of my skull.
I must find the source. I must find the source. I must find the source.
The whispers. My relief.
