They called it The Whisper. First heard in Ole yellar — just a drunken slur about a starship buried beneath the saloon. A ship with tech so old, so forbidden, it could unmake a man.

Nobody believed it… until folks started dying.

Townsfolk said it traveled ear to ear, like wildfire across dry plains. You didn’t even need to say it out loud—just knowingthe rumor could rot your brain. Sheriff Clay went first. Then his deputy. Their eyes turned black like scorched glass.

Now, no one speaks above a murmur in these parts.

Bartenders pretend not to know. Drifters ride in and vanish by morning. Even the outlaws stay away.

I heard it last night. A girl whispered it in my sleep.

She smiled.
“You know it now,” she said.

And I do.
And I feel it crawling behind my eyes.