Researching the Whisper
I shoved my laptop onto the kitchen counter, the glow of the screen fighting the faint luminescence of the purslane leaves.
“There’s something about this plant,” I muttered, scrolling through obscure folklore sites.
A thread appeared, titled ‘Purslane: The Soul‑Trap of the Ancients’. My heart thudded as I read.
“In Babylonian rites, purslane was woven into garlands to bind wandering spirits,” a scholar wrote, his words yellowed from centuries of copying.
The whispering grew louder, now unmistakably a voice—thin, pleading.
“Free… me…”
I froze, the spoon clinking against the bowl, the metal echo sounding like a warning.
“Maya?” I called, my voice trembling, half hoping she’d hear the urgency.
The front door clicked, and Maya stepped in, shaking off the night’s chill.
She brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, eyes widening as she felt the temperature drop.
“What’s happening?” she asked, her breath forming a mist in the sudden cold.
I gestured to the glowing leaves, the whisper still threading through the kitchen air.
“It’s not just the plant… it’s something trapped inside it,” I whispered, the words barely carrying over the faint susurrus.
Maya shivered, pulling her sweater tighter.
“We need to stop this,” she said, voice firm despite the icy fingers curling around her spine.
She reached for the purslane, the leaves trembling like a living thing.
“Let’s get rid of it,” she insisted, eyes scanning the kitchen for anything that could help.
Burning the Purslane
We dragged the remaining bunch of purslane to the fireplace, the wood crackling as we tossed the succulent leaves onto the flames.
Maya knelt, her hands trembling, and whispered a prayer for safety.
“Here goes nothing,” she said, the words barely audible over the growing roar.
The leaves caught instantly, a sudden surge of heat licking the air.
But the fire behaved oddly, leaping in spirals, forming shapes that defied logic.
From the orange blaze, a silhouette emerged—tall, wavering, the outline of a human form.
It swayed, as if dancing, its limbs flickering like tongues of flame.
“Release… me…”
the whisper rose, now threaded through the roar of the fire.
Maya stared, mouth open, eyes wide with terror.
“Did you see that?” I asked, voice shaky.
“It’s… it’s a person,” she whispered, clutching the edge of the mantle.
Outside, the garden shuddered, the ground trembling beneath the weight of unseen pressure.
Vines, blackened and ghostly, erupted from the soil, twisting and writhing like serpents.
They surged toward the house, snaking through the cracks of windows and slipping under doors.
The vines’ tips glowed a sickly green, matching the faint luminescence of the purslane leaves.
Maya scrambled for the door, her fingers slipping on the slick wood.
“We need to get out!” she shouted, desperation sharpening her tone.
But the vines slammed against the frame, sealing us inside, their cold grip tightening.
The humanoid flames rose higher, eyes burning with an eerie light, as the garden’s ghostly vines surged forward, trapping us inside the house as the specters closed in.
