Two months had passed since Damien's murder, and the town of Ever Thorne had quietly returned to its imitation of peace. The spring sun glazed the sidewalks in gentle gold, cafés buzzed with conversation, and students hurried between classes, pretending not to remember the blood that once stained those same streets. Only I couldn't forget.
Every morning, as I passed the alley near the old clock tower, I felt that cold pull again—a weight in my stomach, a whisper just out of reach. The police had no leads, the cameras had all failed, and the name "Halvern" had become a hushed curse. The world had moved on. I hadn't.
That afternoon, after track practice, I lingered in the locker room longer than usual. The metal benches were empty, the air thick with the smell of detergent and sweat. I dropped my duffel bag on the floor and began unzipping it, eager to shower and clear my head.
Then came the vibration.
My phone buzzed violently beneath my clothes. When I fished it out, a chill slid down my spine. The number flashing across the screen was unknown—no name, no region, just a string of shifting digits, as if the phone itself couldn't decide what it was showing me.
I hesitated before answering.
The moment I did, the screen flickered. A shape bloomed across the display—a triangle, upside down, enclosing a swirling spiral that turned in on itself. Three eyes, drawn with impossible precision, wept dark trails like ink or blood. A six-fingered handprint hovered around it, smeared as though pressed from the other side of the glass.
Then came the voice.
"Hi there, deary." It sang, high-pitched and playful, like a child playing dress-up with a microphone. "Ever since you came to Ever Thorne, you and a few of your friends caught my attention. You and I... we're going to have so much fun."
The phone's speaker crackled. My pulse jumped. "Who is this?" I demanded, backing into the locker. "This isn't funny!"
The laughter that followed was thin, synthetic—and wrong. "Not funny? Oh, I'm hurt. You sound just like the others who said that before they stopped playing. You know what happens when people hurt my feelings?"
The tone changed. The cheerful pitch fractured into something lower, colder. The voice seemed to crawl out from between the words themselves, vibrating through the metal lockers like something alive.
"When someone hurts my feelings," it hissed, "they learn how much it hurts to be forgotten."
A sound like breath brushed my ear, though the phone wasn't even pressed against it. "Just ask Damien. He stopped playing too."
My stomach turned. My voice came out barely above a whisper. "Wait... are you saying you killed Damien?"
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then a giggle—soft, lilting, unmistakably female.
"Oh, my dear Abby." The voice cooed, switching with unsettling ease. "Why so scared? Death isn't the enemy. You should be more like me. You should learn to embrace it."
Something inside me broke loose—rage, fear, disbelief, I didn't know which. "You're sick," I spat. "You took a life!"
The voice shifted again. The child vanished. What replaced it was calm, composed, almost professorial. "You misunderstand, my dear. Death is not cruelty—it's the path forward. Through famine, disease, and war, the weak perish and the strong evolve. It is the design of Azaqor, Deity of Disorder. Without death, there would be no progress. Without suffering, no self."
Each word felt rehearsed, like scripture recited by a zealot who'd memorized their bible in the dark.
I thumbed the side of my phone, starting a recording. "I'm saving this," I said flatly. "The police will hear every word."
A soft tutting sound came from the speaker. "Oh, dear Abby... such a bold little thing. Always so curious."
My blood ran cold. "How do you know my name?"
"Names are easy." It whispered. "Especially when I've known you longer than you think. Be careful not to touch my tail, little fox. The last one who did... well, you saw how Damien ended up."
Then the call died.
No beep, no click—just gone.
I stood there in the silence, shaking. The locker room suddenly felt colder, the hum of the fluorescent lights like a warning I couldn't interpret. Without thinking, I grabbed my bag and sprinted out.
---
Casey found me minutes later, still trembling by the vending machines. After hearing the entire story, she didn't hesitate. "You're not sitting on that recording. We're going straight to the police."
Lieutenant Detective Caleb listened to the file twice. He didn't interrupt once. His expression stayed neutral, but I caught the faint twitch of his jaw at the mention of Azaqor. He copied the audio, thanked us, and promised to "handle the rest."
That night, it hit the news.
> "Authorities have received an anonymous recording possibly linked to the unsolved murder of Damien Halvern," the anchor announced, her voice barely steady. "The caller, using a distorted voice, identifies as a follower—or embodiment—of an entity called Azaqor. The recording also references the victim directly."
Clips of the voice filled the screen, warped and inhuman. Households across Crestwood froze. For the first time in months, Ever Thorne wasn't pretending anymore—it was afraid.
---
The next morning, campus was chaos. Students crowded around phones and laptops, the story spreading like wildfire. Hashtags flooded every feed: #AzaqorCaller, #AbbyTheBrave, #CreepyVoiceKiller.
Casey scrolled through them while munching on an apple at our usual cafeteria table. "You're basically viral," she muttered, half in awe, half in pity. "Everyone's dissecting your voice, your name, even the symbols."
I leaned in. "The spiral? The handprint?"
She nodded, opening a thread. "People traced it back to the Vallerin Trench artifacts. Ancient stone tablets, over three hundred thousand years old. They mention Azaqor—a god of chaos worshiped by lost coastal tribes before they vanished beneath the sea. That spiral is a summoning mark."
A chill ran through me. "And the tablets?"
"They're in a museum. Public. Millions visit every year." She paused, her finger hovering over the screen. "If whoever called you saw them, they could've copied the design exactly."
That didn't comfort me. It only made it worse.
---
Later that evening, I washed my hands in the dorm restroom, trying to scrub away the feeling of invisible ink that seemed to cling to my skin. The mirror reflected my tired eyes, the faint tremor in my fingers.
Then the door slammed open.
Chloe stepped inside. Her eyes were red, her posture stiff with barely contained fury. "You have some explaining to do, Abby," she said flatly.
"Not now." I muttered. "Please."
She grabbed my wrist. "You think you're some kind of hero? Dragging the whole school into this?"
Something inside me snapped. Training instinct took over. I twisted her grip and stepped behind her, locking her arms in a controlled hold—firm but not cruel. She struggled, furious and humiliated.
"Chloe," I said quietly, my voice steadier than I felt, "some of us fight for things you never had to. You live in comfort, pretending the world bends for you. But some of us bleed for every scrap we get."
Her breathing hitched. For a moment, her defiance faltered. "Stop pretending you know me," she whispered.
"I don't," I admitted softly. "But I can see hurt when I look at it. You've lost someone too, haven't you?"
Her shoulders trembled. The fight drained out of her like water through cracked glass. Slowly, I released her arms. She sank to her knees, eyes glistening.
I crouched beside her and offered my hand. "Come on. Let's talk. Somewhere quiet."
For a heartbeat, she hesitated. Then she took my hand.
---
The world outside the restroom felt quieter somehow, the hallways still and distant. Yet as we walked, a faint vibration stirred in my pocket again.
I froze.
The screen lit up—not with a number this time, but a single word pulsing in crimson light:
Azaqor.