The Voice of Morgan Hovland

Thought that by running away to an isolated island, Morgan would escape the sinister voice that never left, always whispering and taunting.

Part 1

The fog has rolled in, thick and grey and ominous, concealing the deadly tides. A woman stands on the cliffs above where the sea meets the shore. 

Every morning at dawn, she steps out of her weary cottage and walks to the cliffside to gaze at the sea, searching for a passing ship to reassure herself of the presence of human life. The faint glowing haze of the lighthouse would signal that ships are sailing through this territory. However, it has been three years since she last saw a ship. She wonders the point of keeping the light on and who has been maintaining it all these years. She imagines the caretaker as a tired, cranky retired sailor who prefers the company of silence.

Sometimes, she thinks the lighthouse might be haunted�"a silly thought she has entertained a few times.

The thin, near-translucent cloth of her dress clings to her damp skin. The tallgrass tickles her toes, sending bumps along her body. The temperature drops by the second, but her frozen fingers and purpling lips do not bother her. Her body is cold, but she feels no discomfort�"just numb.

The misty fog begins to fade, clearing her view of the bottom of the cliffs. The rocks look jagged and sharp. The violent waters would sweep her under, dragging her down, down, down. 

She breathes deeply. Her dark, foggy eyes wander down the cliff.

She knew how far the drop was. She knew that the fall would lead to imminent death. 

She wonders which way would be less painful. To die from the crushing impact where her bones would shatter into a million pieces, or to have the water fill her lungs, slowly suffocating her as she drowns. These thoughts have been wandering her mind these past few months. The isolation has been tearing away her sanity, day by day, piece by piece. Her soul has disconnected from her beating heart, and she has no idea how to save herself.

The troubles she has created in her head have convinced her that this must be her new reality. She cannot discern what is real and what is made up. The sinister Voice whispers in her ear, telling her she’s worthless and the world would be better off if she were dead, enticing her with deception concocted by lies. 

The burning resentment she has for herself grows deeper and deeper. She sees no way out�"no chance of hope to pull her away from the ledge, to free her from The Voice.

Jump, The Voice tells her.  Just jump, and all of this suffering will cease. Let me claim you. The Voice lacks empathy; its cold, heartless tone is dark and seductive.

She’s convinced herself that she’s on the verge of madness. She believes she created this Voice to keep her sane from the lack of company. To have someone to speak to. She did not expect it to respond. But now it’s turned on her. It’s telling her to commit atrocious acts. And she’s on the verge of caving into it.

A tear trickles down her cheek, merging with the condensation of her wet skin. Her long, inky-black hair stuck to her damp back.

Her pain was her armor. She thought that by wearing it, she would never be hurt again or experience the feelings of betrayal that stung like a thousand cuts. No one could break her because she was already broken. The only flaw in her plan was that broken things get tossed away into the trash, forgotten, and left behind. She came to this desolate place to escape her past. To find peace in the solitude. But her inner demon followed and latched itself onto her like a leech, sucking the life out of her. 

No, she says back to The Voice, I don’t want to die today. I can’t give up yet. There’s still hope. She’s now weeping, but she felt a flicker of strength appear inside of her just by resisting these urges.

Coward, It hisses, your soul will be mine soon enough. Your frail mind will collapse and fall into insanity. 

Her heartbeat rises, fear quickening her pulse.

The Voice senses her fear and feeds into it. It’s only just a matter of time before that happens. You might as well let me in before the madness consumes you. 

Her head begins to throb with pain.

That’s never going to happen, she lies; you are a figment of my imagination. You do not exist. She tries to convince herself, but a part of her believes The Voice indeed does exist. Leave my mind. She needs to block it out. Her desperation to be rid of this parasite intensifies. 

She takes a step back from the cliff’s edge, ready to return to her cottage, savoring a fresh cup of coffee and perhaps gathering the courage to pick up that paintbrush that has been collecting dust for the past three years. But as she turns to walk away, a gust of wind slams into her. The force is vital, so she tries to regain her balance, but her foot slips on the wet mud and falls off the ledge.

Her eyes are wide open, and she takes in the last few moments of her meaningless life. The sounds of the crashing waves become louder, but the Voice inside her head is absent. 

There’s an apparition of a man in a long, black trench coat, standing where she stood mere moments ago. She knew this was no man. It was a thing from her nightmares. He looks down at her as she’s falling, smiling wickedly. It was real.

Then, the snap of her spine echoes through the winds.

Part 2

Terror surges through her. She bolts upward, gasping for air.

Her throat feels like she swallowed shards of glass as she cries out in agony, clawing for breath. Her fingers feel like icicles, the pain prickling down and around, through her legs and back and neck.

Her eyes skidder frantically, desperate to know where she is. But all she sees is a world painted black. She is surrounded by this empty void of nothingness. 

There’s this pit in her stomach as panic begins to settle in.

“This isn't real,” she shudders, “This can't be real.”

She has always doubted the existence of an afterlife, but now, she's beginning to rethink the possibilities. She thought that all pain would cease once you have died. She felt that afterward, there would be nothing. Just a corpse rotting away in the cold soil as maggots feast on your decaying flesh. But here she is, unsure if she is alive or dead. However, one thing is certain: she did not jump off the cliffs. She was pushed.

Her heart plummets to the ground. Any glimmer of hope has evaporated from existence. She has been plucked from the Earth; no one to remember her, no one to mourn her. 

She lay there, sobbing for what felt like days�"weeks�"years. Any and all sense of time is lost in The Void. 

~

Hello, My Dear Morgan.

“Who-who’s there?” She jolts up, struggling to remember how to stand on two feet. 

Morgan. She hadn't heard her name spoken aloud by another in years; the name felt foreign.

Morgan's spine stiffens as a chilling breeze passes through her, sending bumps along her arms. This strange, discomforting presence looming near leaves a trail of scents: damp, cold soil, the sharp tang of iron, and the suffocating aromas of smoke and sulfur. Every broken bone in her body is screaming at her, telling her death must be near. 

Do you still not recognize my voice after all these years we spent together? Pity. And here I thought I chose an intelligent Vessel.

“What are you talking about?” What do you mean by Vessel? Its words creep up on her like a thousand insects crawling over and into her body�"violating and repulsive.

“Show yourself, demon!” She feels its presence lingering close by her, but it's too dark to see anything. “You will pay for what you did to me.” Her false courage cowers.

Oh, My Dear, I fear that it was you who paid the price. I was just the one to collect what was promised to me.

The demon’s cold touch grazes her shoulder, prickling her ghostly pale skin.

“Don’t you dare touch me, you vile creature.”

I've already done much more to you than that, My Dear. Its dark, slithering voice whispers in her mind.

Morgan's body trembles in fear. Her words catch her breath, and she begins to feel uneasy about what answers she will find.

Have you not figured it out yet? 

Without warning, an invisible hand wraps around her throat; its grip keeps firm like it's forcing itself to refrain from choking her to the point her neck will snap.

I am no longer just a voice in your head, Dearie. You gave me something that I have been grasping at for centuries. 

Its hand loosens its grip on her neck and swims upward to caress her cheek. Its soft, warm skin pulsed with life as if it were thawing her frost-bitten body.

“And what could I possibly have given you?” She tries to push its hand away, but it's too strong.

"You, my dear, have allowed me to walk this Earth once more. Thanks to the deal your old friend made three years ago, your soul now belongs to me." Its deep, husky voice caresses her mind like soft velvet, reaffirming the chilling certainty of this entity's existence. 

It is no longer trapped within Morgan's consciousness. This thing is telling the truth.

“What was the poor fellows' name? Alex? Aaron? Arthur?” It clicks its tongue, “Ah, you feeble humans are all the same to me.”

Is he talking about Adam? That scoundrel has already taken everything from me�"my career, my family, and now my soul? As difficult as it might be to hear, I need answers, and I need them now.

“If you are physically here, why can't I see you? Why is it dark?”

Its voice snickers and clicks its tongue, “There is, of course, a catch to every deal one makes with�"What was it you called me? Ah, yes �" a demon." Morgan pays close attention to where the demon places its hand next. 

Over her face, covering her eyes.

“It is said that the eyes are the windows to one's soul.” Morgan senses the demon's satisfactory grin growing wide,  “So I took yours.”

“Excuse me?” Morgan’s heart sinks to the floor. She struggles to fight off the denial, which is now the only thing keeping her from going mad. 

Her sight was her entire lifeline, making her who she was. It's been three years since Morgan painted something, anything really. Her career was over the minute she put her faith in him. She was betrayed by someone she thought she loved�"who she thought loved her back. 

Morgan never found the courage to paint again. She needed more time, but now it's too late.

As it gently lifts its hands from her eyes, the world around her remains shrouded in darkness, leaving her still unable to see and as vulnerable as ever.

“Does it look like I'm lying? Oh, wait�"” A deep chuckle rumbles in its throat, amused by its own wit. But for Morgan, there wasn't a trace of humor in the air.

Author's Note

a short story exercise.