What Talks Back

Fred was always a talkative sort.

Ever since his first word, “me.” When that was the only word he knew, he chirped and burbled over and over, “me, me, me, me, me.” His Mother would parrot back at him, “you, you, you, you, you,”as she fed him squashed cream and corn. He didn’t remember of course, being barely a toddler at the time, but his Mother had told him plenty of times. She seemed to run out of things to say a lot, always repeating the same stories, and fancies, and fears. Fred didn’t mind so long as she talked, some people refused to speak at all!

That really boggled Fred’s mind, how could one have nothing to say? There was so much to discuss, for example: gum, and cushions, and birds, and movies, and caves. He worked at a local pharmacy ringing customers up, and some people wouldn’t say a word, just fork over the money, and yank away their goods. Fred felt bad for them, they must have been so bored all the time.

Fred even talked to himself, when no one was around. He didn’t think he was crazy, he just liked the sound of words flowing through his ears, regardless of weight, composition, or source. Sometimes they were pleasant thoughts that he would think out loud, sometimes they were tiny daggers aimed at himself, but always they kept up.

Until one moonless night, as he settled into bed and turned off his light, he opened a drowsy dialogue with himself as he usually did: with a rhetorical question.

“What do you think I should do?”

To his shock and horror, he received a reply, dry and wheezing from the dark corner of his room, “I think you should keep it to yourself.”

Fred’s heartbeat skyrocketed in an instant and he let loose a shivering yell as the hairs along the length of his body stood up like thin needles. He flicked on the bedside light to reveal... nothing.

His rectangular box of a room was bare, it’s white walls empty save for the few posters he had hung. In the corner, where he had heard the voice, was just as barren as when he had first turned out the lights. His door slammed open, and his roommate burst in, “WHATS GOING ON, WHO’S INSIDE?!”

The short, skinny lad, barely out of his teenage years was wearing nothing but boxer shorts and waving around an umbrella like a sword, warding off any would be intruders.

Fred, his heart still racing, cleared his throat, “er- sorry Mike, I didn’t… I don’t know what came over me. Night terror I think.”

Mike looked at him with tired, bloodshot, eyes, “Oh… okay then.” He hiked up his boxers which were starting to droop a bit low and lowered his umbrella sheepishly, “well goodnight. Uh Fred, no more yelling please, I’ve got work tomorrow.”

Fred, thoroughly embarrassed, nodded agreement, “right, goodnight. I promise, no more yelling.”

As Mike left the way he had come, closing the door behind him, Fred’s terror rose again. He was sure he had heard a voice, but it might have just been tiredness. He tried to tell himself over and over that it didn’t happen, that it was just his imagination, but he slept with the lights on, and without any words.

That next day was his quietest ever, since that first day that he learned his words. He spoke only when it was necessary, and avoided talking to himself at all. He was paralyzed by the potential of hearing another body-less voice. Worse than that he was petrified of losing his mind.

It’s commonly assumed that those talking to themselves are insane, Fred had always known hewasn’t crazy, now though… He had been afflicted with a terrible thought: what if talking to oneself wasn’t a symptom of madness but a cause. Perhaps by speaking ceaselessly he had driven himself into the throes of some insanity.

By the day’s end Fred was thoroughly depressed. He had barely had a conversation all day, and his thoughts prowled around his mind like a caged cat. He constantly circled back to the voice he had heard, and his own voice, begging to be let out of his mouth.

All too soon night was falling, and Fred, still tired from the night before, couldn’t avoid his bed any longer. As he eased himself in, he tried to calm himself but he couldn’t stop his heartbeat from climbing higher with every minute.

For awhile he lay there, in the harsh yellow light, heart drumming, trying to find some rest, but the brightness burned against his eyelids, causing his head to throb. Eventually he couldn’t stand it anymore, and he angrily threw out the lights.

At first, Fred lay very still, breathing as quietly as he could. When nothing spoke, his breathing got easier and he found himself drifting invariably towards unconsciousness. As his mind circled the drain, the mental discipline which had been keeping him silent all day waned, and he burbled.

“So tired, couldn’t talk all day...”

The darkness answered again, “must have been a boring day, eh. Hehe.” The same wheezing, crackling voice as before, from the same empty corner of his room.

Fred’s eyes snapped open, revealing only blackness, his mind raced into his throat, and he spoke into the dark of his room, his voice hoarse with fright, “who’s there?”

For a second, silence, then, “who do you think?” The wheezing voice chuckled at its own cleverness and Fred was overcome with annoyance.

“Well just be quiet then, if you’re so mysterious,” Fred whispered into night.

“I will if you will,” it whispered back.

“Fine,” said Fred.

“Fine,” said darkness.

“Good,” said Fred.

“Hey, I’m happy,” said nothing.

Fred was very confused now, and suddenly refreshed with annoyance, so he sat up and flicked on the light.

Again, there was nobody besides Fred. Nothing except for four white walls, a couple of posters, and some laundry that needed doing.

“I’m going insane...” Fred moaned. throwing himself back. He lay like that for a moment, then said, “well, just don’t talk to it.” He turned the lamp off again, and buried himself under the covers. He refused to speak the rest of the night and wasn’t pestered by the voice in his room, allowing Fred to sleep the night away, waking up feeling still anxious, scared, and a little vexed.

That day at work, he spoke more than the day before, somewhat back to his old self, but Fred noticed now, that some people treated him like he treated the voice, as something to minimize contact with. Others though, still wanted to engage, they implored him eagerly with their eyes and their words, but Fred couldn’t bring himself to talk more than was necessary. When he was alone, waiting for customers, his mind would drift back to his room, and the odd exchange from the night before.

Tonight, he determined, he would get to the bottom of it.

So Fred, fighting to keep his calm, climbed into bed right as night fell, eager to be done with the voice.

Just as before he turned out the lights and spoke clearly, “hello.”

From somewhere deep in the corner, a wheeze, then, “hello.”

Fred felt suddenly like he always did when he jabbered, his mouth opened and he spat a series of questions at the thing without pause, “who are you? Why are you talking to me? Am I going insane?”

Silence for a moment, perhaps that had done it. Then the voice replied, “no idea. You’re the one talking to me. Maybe.”

Fred lay still for a moment, licking his dry lips with a spongy tongue before talking again, “are you going to kill me?”

The dry wheezing voice laughed, a hacking dry laugh, like twigs scraping together, “Hehehee, kill you? With what? My sharp wit?” It laughed again, and Fred couldn’t help but chuckle along with it.

That was all it took, one chuckle, and Fred’s fear evaporated like mist before the afternoon sun, and he found conversing with the darkness surprisingly easy. He couldn’t stop speaking. Now that the floodgates were opened, Fred let loose with a never-ending torrent of things. All the questions, comments, witticisms, and conundrums he had accrued over the past days came spilling out of his mouth.

The voice in the dark kept up with Fred well, for every quip a quibble, every jest received a retort, no serve was left bouncing into the net. Fred talked for so long that he barely noticed as his eyes begin to droop, his speech began to slacken, and his breathing came slower and slower. The voice never seemed to tire though, it spoke with the same dry wheezing bursts as it always had, Fred found himself calmer than ever.

The last thing he remembered saying was a quick mumble, “I’m not insane I’m just dubuduh…” The voice said something in response, but Fred had already gone into a dreamful slumber.

The next morning, Fred woke more refreshed than he had in years. He sprang out of bed like a cork, and charged into the kitchenette, immediately starting a pot of coffee for the day. He was finishing his second mug and preparing to bathe when Mike emerged from his own room knuckling yellow grit out of his eyes.

“Morning, good morning, eh?” Fred said with a motion to the coffee maker, “coffee’s ready, I’ve had mine, the rest is yours.”

Mike grunted in response, fumbling for a mug in the chipped white cabinet they kept glasses in, as Fred left to shower.

When he emerged Mike was looking much fresher, there was only a little speck of crusty grime around one eye. He took a look at Fred and grinned, “no more night terrors huh?” Fred chuckled and nodded, “so far so good. That was just a… bad night. Um last night, you heard me talking?”

Mike nodded while sipping, “sure,” he shrugged, “you’re always talking.” Fred scratched behind his ear awkwardly, “I suppose that’s true. You, uh, didn’t hear anyone else last night? Did you?”

The gangling lad gave Fred an odd look, like he hadn’t quite heard him correctly. Fred threw his hands up quickly in surrender, “never mind, I just... Nothing.” He retreated into his room, and thankfully Mike never asked him any follow-up questions.

That day was one of Fred’s most pleasant. Talk came easily, but it didn’t overwhelm him, his thoughts were a tame current rather than a series of roaring rapids, and Fred found it less painful to allow silence to exist. Those who needed a friend, Fred found himself back to his old tricks, saying anything for a smile, but those to whom themselves were kept, Fred left alone.

That night Fred was eager, and excited for bed. He practically jumped into the covers and yanked off the lights. Sure enough, as soon as he asked a question of the night, there was a reply. Fred spilled his guts out, that night, and every night after. The voice was always ready to talk, it never begrudged Fred his babble, and it was forever eager to experience the daytime.