The rain falls on the slate roof of the abbey. It sounds like bones breaking.

You stand in the corridor. The stone is cold. Your fingers are cold. You are the Keeper. You hold the key.

The door opens. Brother Julian enters. He is tall. He is thin. His eyes are wet.

"Margaret," he says.

You do not speak. You look at his hands. They tremble. You know why. The Whisper is in him. It has eaten his sleep. It has eaten his mind.

"Show me," you say.

He steps forward. He kneels. The floor is hard. He groans. You lift his robe. You look at his back.

The marks are there. They are black. They are like vines. They crawl from his spine to his shoulders. You have seen this before. You have seen it in others. They all end the same way.

"It hurts," he whispers.

"I know," you say.

You reach for the knife. It is silver. It is blessed. It is cold. You cut the flesh. You cut the mark.

The blood is black. It smells of rot.

Julian screams. He bites your hand. You pull away. You hold the knife. You do not let go.

"Why?" he asks.

"Because," you say. "It must end."

You cut deeper. You cut the core. The mark dissolves. The pain stops. Julian gasps. He looks at you. He looks at the knife.

"You saved me," he says.

"No," you say. "I am a fool."

He looks confused. He stands up. He brushes the dust from his knees.

"Go," you say. "Leave before I change my mind."

He leaves. The door closes. The rain continues.

You look at your hand. There is blood on it. It is his blood. It is black. You wash it in the basin. The water turns dark.

You are not a healer. You are a jailer.

***

The Abbot comes next. His name is Thomas. He is old. He is kind. He believes in you. He has always believed in you.

He stands in the doorway. He holds a candle. The light is small. The shadows are large.

"Margaret," he says.

You turn. You wipe your hands. You hide the blood.

"Father," you say. "I have news."

"Speak."

"Julian is cured. The mark is gone."

Thomas smiles. It is a sad smile.

"Good," he says. "He will sleep tonight."

"He will not sleep," you say. "The Whisper is gone. It is in the air. It is in the stone. It is in us."

Thomas frowns. He steps closer. He smells of incense. He smells of fear.

"You are tired," he says. "You have been working too hard. The novices say strange things. They say you cut them. They say you burn them."

"I do what is necessary," you say.

"Necessary?" Thomas asks. "For what?"

"For the silence," you say.

"There is no silence, Margaret. There is only noise. We are a house of prayer. Not a house of pain."

You look at him. You see the truth. You have seen it for years. You have hidden it. You have buried it.

"You know," you say.

He does not answer. He looks at the floor.

"You know the Whisper is real," you say.

"It is a metaphor," he says. "For sin. For doubt. For the darkness in the heart. We exorcise it with prayer. Not with knives."

"Prayer does not work," you say. "I have tried. I have knelt. I have begged. The Whisper did not stop. It grew. It ate the brothers. It ate the sisters. It ate the children."

Thomas steps back. He looks afraid.

"You are ill," he says. "You must rest. You must stop cutting. You must stop the violence."

"I am not violent," you say. "I am clean. I am the only one who sees."

"You are the only one who lies," he says.

The words hit you. They are hard. They are sharp.

"Lies?" you ask.

"Yes. You have created a monster. You have fed it. You have given it power. You told them it was real. You told them it was in the walls. You told them it was in the blood. And they believed you. And they suffered. And you enjoyed it."

You feel the heat. It rises in your chest. It is the Whisper. It is the rage. It is the hunger.

"I did this for them," you say.

"You did this for yourself," he says. "You are a seer, Margaret. Or you think you are. But you are a tyrant. You are a butcher. You are a lie."

He leaves. The door slams. The candle falls. The light dies.

You are alone.

You look at your hands. They are clean. They are pale. They are empty.

You go to the chapel. It is dark. You light a candle. You kneel. You pray.

The Whisper is there. It is in the corners. It is in the shadows. It whispers your name.

*Margaret. Margaret. Margaret.*

It sounds like your mother. It sounds like your lover. It sounds like your own voice.

You close your eyes. You listen.

You wait for the pain. You wait for the cut. You wait for the blood.

But there is nothing.

There is only the rain. There is only the stone. There is only the silence.

***

Three days pass. You do not eat. You do not sleep. You sit in the cellar. The air is damp. The air is cold.

You hear footsteps. They are slow. They are heavy.

You look up.

It is Brother Julian. He is not alone. He is with Thomas. They stand in the doorway. They hold lanterns. The light is bright. It hurts your eyes.

"Margaret," Thomas says. "We have come for you."

"I am not going anywhere," you say.

"You are going to the infirmary," Julian says. His voice is flat. His face is empty.

"I am not sick," you say.

"You are insane," Thomas says. "You have harmed many. You have terrified many. You must be stopped."

"Stop me?" you laugh. It is a dry sound. "You cannot stop the Whisper. It is inside. It is in the walls. It is in the soul."

"There is no Whisper," Julian says. "There is only you."

He steps forward. He holds a rope. It is thick. It is rough.

He ties your wrists. The rope burns. The pain is sharp.

Thomas holds your shoulders. He looks at you. His eyes are wet. He is sorry. He is afraid.

"I am sorry," he says.

"You are a fool," you say. "You will die. They will all die. The Whisper is coming. It is at the door."

The wind howls. The door rattles. The stone cracks.

Julian pulls you up. You stumble. You fall. You get up. You fall again.

They drag you to the surface. The rain is heavy. It soaks your clothes. It soaks your skin.

They put you in the cart. The cart is wooden. It is cold. It smells of hay.

They drive you out of the abbey. The gates close behind you. The iron bars slam.

You look back. The abbey is a shadow. The towers are black. The windows are dark.

There is no light. There is no fire. There is no prayer.

There is only the rain.

***

The road is long. The horse is tired. The wheels creak.

You sit in the corner. The rope is tight. Your wrists bleed.

Julian sits in front. He does not look back. Thomas drives. He does not speak.

The rain stops. The clouds break. The sun comes out. It is pale. It is weak.

You see the fields. They are green. They are wet. They are alive.

You see the trees. They are bare. They are black. They are still.

You see the sky. It is blue. It is vast. It is empty.

You realize something.

The Whisper is not outside. It is not in the walls. It is not in the stone.

It is in you.

It has always been in you.

You have been listening to your own madness. You have been feeding it. You have been giving it a shape. You have been giving it a name.

And now you are free.

Or are you?

The cart stops. The gates open.

You are brought in. The room is white. The walls are smooth. The floor is stone.

There is no key. There is no lock.

The door opens. A nurse enters. She is young. She is kind. She holds a towel.

"You are safe," she says. "You are clean."

You look at her. You look at her hands. They are soft. They are warm.

You want to cut them. You want to see the blood. You want to see the black.

But you do not move.

You sit. You breathe. You wait.

The Whisper is quiet. It is gone. Or it is sleeping.

You close your eyes. You feel the stone. You feel the cold. You feel the life.

You are Margaret. You are the Keeper.

But the key is gone.

The door closes.

The rain begins again.