There are whispers in the shadows. When you turn off your lights and walk quietly down the hallway to your room, you hear the whispers. When it’s dark and you’re coming up the basement stairs, you can hear the whispers. When you cover yourself with blankets and close your eyes at night—again, the whispers.
We hear them too. Everyone hears them. Not everyone listens, though. What are they saying? I often wonder. The voices are so soft, there’s always some sound or noise, some dull din or static buzz, and I’m just on the verge of figuring it out—but I never do. I can never quite make out what they say. I’ll keep listening. I’m always listening.
They’re always whispering. In the shadows, in the darkness, they’re there, their silent voices just barely out of range. If we’d only listen, if only people would be quiet, if only there was a moment of silence in this busy world, then we’d find out.
So, are you going to listen? Tonight, when you’re going to bed, once you’ve turned off all the lights and are drifting away into your dreams, are you going to listen? You have heard them now; now listen. Maybe you’ll be the one who finally hears, who’ll finally tell us what is being whispered in the darkness.
Tale Told 