Who speaks.1

I'm just an ordinary woman—a wife, a mother, a da-ughter, a grandmother. So many roles, all folded into one quiet life.

I was born in a small town and never left. It's all I'v-e ever known. Our town had just one of everything:

One school.
One hospital.
One pharmacy.
One police station.

Everyone knew everyone.

My family was everything to me. They were my entire world.

It might sound small now maybe even a little sad. But back then, I wore it with pride. If I could keep my family safe, keep them close, I believed I had lived well.

But then we realized—

My son wasn’t well. Not in his body, but in his mind.

Today, people might understand. But back then, it was shameful—a curse, a silent, unbearable terror.

I did everything I could to hold us together, to protect the life we had. I made sure he stayed composed, taught him how to act in public, how to behave in front of others. Made sure no one ever saw his shadow.

But sometimes, the cracks showed. And when he changed—when something inside him slipped—we had no choice.

We locked him away.

In the basement, with real chains. Thick, heavy ones. Ropes. Towels. Anything we could use to keep him—and the rest of us—safe.

Once, I asked my husband if maybe our son was possessed. Should we go to the spiritualist? But how could we even say it out loud? How could we let anyone know? What would they think of us? That we were cursed? That we had birthed something wrong?

I didn’t want anyone to know. If they did, our whole life would collapse. So we buried it deep, kept the secret inside the walls of our home.

On good days, he would walk through town and greet the neighbors, laugh with friends, run off into the woods like other boys. But on the bad days, we locked the doors and kept him out of sight.

We had a daughter, too. Bright. Graceful. Impeccably mannered. We raised her to be the perfect wife—someone who could marry a good man, someone strong enough to help carry the weight of her brother.

This went on for years. So many years.

Until we could no longer do it.

He was no longer a little boy. He became a young man. Taller. Stronger. A man’s strength. And we—just the three of us—could no longer hold him back.

So we went to the spiritualist. We were desperate.

In our little town, the spiritualist was the one we believed in. He had a soft voice—low and steady—the kind that made you feel seen before you even spoke, as if he already knew, and made you want to tell him everything.

We invited him to dinner on a Thursday night.

I remember what I cooked: roast chicken, potatoes, and vegetables. My husband brought desserts from the market, as if we were preparing for a holiday.

That evening, I bathed my son, dressed him in his nicest clothes, sat him at the table. He looked perfect.

And for a moment, I saw a future—one where he might grow up, get married, have a family of his own. A beautiful, quiet life.

There were tears in my eyes.

But I didn’t let them fall.

I’m his mother. I must be strong. If I don’t protect him, who will?

Dinner was calm—pleasant, even. Everyone enjoyed the meal. We laughed. We shared a few stories, small joys, pieces of our lives. The spiritualist was kind. He didn’t ask why we had invited him. He waited and gave us space.

When the plates were cleared and silence settled in, he came to me. He held my hand gently.

“Is there something you want to share with me?” he asked.

I couldn’t speak. My hands trembled. The tears fell before any words could form.

But before I could say anything, my husband stepped beside me. He placed a hand on my shoulder—firm.

“It’s about my son,” he said. “By day he is fine. But at night... he walks along the edge. Something else passes through him. We believe... he may be possessed.”

I looked up at him, stunned. That wasn’t what we had agreed on. I had only wanted help—quiet understanding. Not this. Not turning our boy into something monstrous.

I tried to open my mouth to find my voice. But his grip tightened—a warning. Pain spread across my chest.

And then, my daughter stepped forward. She held her brother’s hand.

She said, “This is my brother. At night, he laughs and cries at nothing. Talks to shadows. Draw strange symbols on the walls. He... he speaks to things no one understands.”

I stared at her. My perfect, careful daughter. How could she say this to the spiritualist?

No. That wasn’t true.

He’s just sick. He needs help. He doesn’t understand what’s happening to him. He isn’t evil. He isn’t dangerous. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

The spiritualist rose slowly. His gaze passed over each of us.

“Do you understand the weight of what you’re saying?” he asked. “This is no small accusation.”

Then he turned to me.

I couldn’t speak.

I tried, but the words were gone.

My lips wouldn’t open.

He turned to my son. “And you?” he asked. “What do you believe?”

He answered, “I don’t know what’s true. But I believe you’ll help me. The Great One will show us.”

The spiritualist laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Pack your things,” he said. “Come with me. Once the rites are complete, if you are clean, you may return.”

My husband handed him a bag. It was already packed.

He told our son to be strong. To believe. To trust the spiritualist.

And they walked out the door.

I screamed and cried.

“No—no, come back!”

I ran to the window.

But they were already gone.

I cried until there was nothing left. My heart collapsed.

My husband lifted me from the floor and laid me on the bed.

The next day, I went to the place where the spiritualist lived.

I knocked.

He said he was in a ritual. He couldn’t see me.

I left the food I brought for my son at the door and went home afterward.

I came back the next day. And the next. And the next.

Four days.

Still no sign of my son.

My child...