The Silent Ones by Olivia Salter | Short Fiction

  

The Silent Ones

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,015

The sky hung heavy and gloomy, deep bruised purples streaking through the clouds as Jackie’s car crawled up the gravel drive. She shut off the engine, the car ticking as it cooled, and stared at the farmhouse ahead, squat and sinking in a field of wild grass. The land was still, almost too still, like a held breath, and the house itself seemed to exhale a stale, earthy scent that made her stomach turn.

The porch sagged under her weight as she climbed the steps. Every inch of this place was wrapped in memories—summers with her grandmother, afternoons on the porch watching storms roll in from the hills, and her grandmother’s whispered stories about the “Silent Ones.” As a child, she’d giggled, dismissing them as ghost stories meant to scare her. But now, standing there, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching her, lurking just out of sight, waiting.

Inside, the house was thick with dust and quiet, the kind of quiet that had weight to it, pressing in from all sides. Faded photos lined the walls—faces she vaguely remembered, people she’d never met. Her grandmother’s favorite armchair sat by the window, empty now, its cushions worn.

Jackie shivered, brushing her hand over the chair’s arm as if expecting to feel warmth. But the fabric was cool, lifeless, and as she pulled her hand back, she could have sworn she heard a soft sigh, like someone settling back down after a long wait.

***

Days stretched on, each one dragging her deeper into the house’s silence. She sorted through her grandmother’s things by day, pulling out dusty boxes and weathered envelopes, but each night she lay awake, ears straining in the dark. And each night, the house seemed to breathe a little louder, as if it were coming alive, filling with a faint, eerie hum she couldn’t quite place.

She found an old letter one morning, the paper brittle and yellowed, her grandmother’s cramped handwriting fading. Her fingers traced over the words, “They remember, Jackie. They always remember.”

That night, the silence broke. It started with a faint shuffle in the hallway, like bare feet dragging along the floorboards, and then a whisper—low, thick, a sound that seemed to sink into her skin. Jackie froze, her breath shallow, and waited, her eyes fixed on the door. But the only thing that came was more silence.

She tried to brush it off, but the next morning she noticed something odd. Dark stains, almost bruise-like, had spread along the walls, curling into odd shapes, vaguely human. Their empty eyes seemed to follow her as she moved, and her skin prickled as if she were being watched from every corner of the room.

Her fingers brushed against one of the stains. It felt wet and cold, like something trapped inside was pushing its way out. Her grandmother’s words echoed in her mind, and a chill settled over her: They remember.

***

That night, the silence grew dense, stifling. Jackie moved through the house, hoping the routine would steady her nerves. But as she stepped into the hallway, a figure flickered at the edge of her vision—a shadowy silhouette, melting into the wall, its mouth twisted open in a silent scream.

Then she saw another. And another. Silent figures, contorted, reaching out, their faces twisted with something between anger and sorrow. And finally, her grandmother—her face hollow, empty eyes locked onto Jackie, lips moving but making no sound.

Jackie’s heart raced, the images around her blurring, memories rising to the surface. A flash of her own face, young and hard with anger. Her grandmother begging her to let go of her pride, her stubbornness. A neighbor boy’s face, his bright smile, and the summer night he’d vanished after she’d sent him away. She hadn’t thought of him in years, but now she remembered it all—the storm, the floodwaters, and her own silence that followed.

The weight of her guilt closed in, pressing down on her like a physical force. She staggered back, but the Silent Ones drew closer, their hands outstretched, their fingers cold as they brushed against her skin.

She heard them now, their voices filling her mind, whispering accusations, demanding answers. They surrounded her, her grandmother’s ghost watching, silent, as if awaiting her confession.

***

Jackie’s breath came in shallow gasps as she stumbled backward, desperate to escape. She ran through the house, each step echoing in the dark, but the Silent Ones followed, sliding through walls and slipping between shadows, always just behind her. They pulled at her clothes, their hands cold as ice, their faces filling her vision, crowding her, suffocating her.

She could feel their pain, their anger, all the lives touched by her family’s sins. Each face brought with it memories, flashes of moments she’d buried, pieces of herself she’d tried to forget. And with each memory, the silence grew thicker, wrapping around her throat, squeezing until she could hardly breathe.

Her grandmother’s voice, soft and resigned, whispered in her ear. They remember everything, Jackie. You can’t escape it.

***

Morning came quietly, casting soft light over the farmhouse. Outside, the fields lay calm, untouched, a gentle breeze rustling the wild grass. But inside, the silence was absolute. Neighbors who came to check on the house found it empty, the floors undisturbed except for faint footprints in the dust that led from room to room, stopping just outside the bedroom door.

They left quickly, unwilling to stay in a house that felt so… heavy, haunted. Over time, rumors grew about the house—that if you stood still enough, you could hear whispers slipping through the walls, shadows shifting in mirrors, echoes of footsteps pacing the halls. And sometimes, in the silence, a new shadow could be seen on the wall—a woman’s silhouette, mouth open in a silent scream, her eyes forever wide with the weight of things left unsaid.

The house waited, just as it always had, its silence stretching, ready for the next soul brave enough—or foolish enough—to listen.