June 14th.
Mila Greaves buried her husband.
Three months married. Drunk driver. Open casket. Closed heart.
Everyone told her she was “so strong.” That she’d “heal in time.” That “he’s in a better place.”
They didn’t hear the knocking.
The Notes
It started on night seven.
Scratching behind the wall. Just once. Then silence. Next night, again—closer.
By week two, she found the first note under her pillow:
You don’t have to be alone.
The handwriting was his. Ink smudged from the way he held pens—left thumb dragging always. She wept. She slept.
But the next note came from inside her mirror.
You just have to listen. They know how to help.
The Holloway Recordings
Late one night, chasing the whispers, she ended up on a forum post with no title. Just a video: _”Holloway_01.mp4.”
A man with sunken eyes. In a bare room. He spoke softly:
“If you found this… you’ve heard them too. The echoes. They’re not ghosts. Not spirits. They’re memory-shaped teeth.”
“Don’t speak names. Especially not theirs. Especially not if you loved them.”
He looked over his shoulder.
“I thought she was my daughter. I was wrong. She wears my name now.”
Then static. Screaming. A child’s voice saying “Let’s trade.”
Mila watched it ten times.
And then she whispered, “Elias Greaves.”
The Bargain
She didn’t find a well.
She didn’t need to.
Her grief was deep enough.
She followed the notes.
Brought a photo. His wedding ring. His favorite hoodie. Left them in the bathtub—filled to the brim. Cold. Silent.
The lights flickered.
And he called her name from the drain.
“Mila… I’m here.”
She fell to her knees.
But he didn’t say where he was.
The Holloway Warning
That night, she dreamed of a man with broken fingers and a mouth stitched shut.
He sat in the corner of her bedroom. Weeping. Writing into the floorboards.
She opened the door to ask him who he was.
He looked up. No eyes. Just raw hollows.
Carved into his chest: DAVID.
He whispered through the stitches:
“It’s wearing him.”
“You brought it back wrong.”
“It remembers being human. It wants to forget.”
The Face
She woke up choking on water.
The tub was empty.
The photo, the ring, the hoodie—gone.
But Elias was in the kitchen. Making toast.
He looked… close.
Same eyes. Same laugh.
Except he winced when she said their cat’s name.
Didn’t remember the cabin.
Didn’t sleep.
Didn’t cast a reflection.
The Choice
Mila confronted him.
He smiled sadly.
“You called. So I came.”
“You gave me pieces. You can give more.”
“Let me wear you. Just for a while. Let’s be in love again.”
The Ending
They say Mila went missing.
Friends said she’d been acting odd. Talking to herself. Asking people if they believed memories had weight.
No one knows what happened.
But if you go to her house now, there’s always a bath drawn.
And if you listen closely, sometimes you’ll hear it:
“Please. My name is Elias Greaves. That’s not my wife. It’s wearing her skin.”
“Please… remember me.”
The Updated Rule
Never speak a name in grief.
Never search for them in water.
Never answer a voice you loved—unless you’re ready to be forgotten.