It was supposed to be fun.
A circle of kids at recess.
One whispers a sentence to the next.
It travels around, warping with each retelling.
The final version is always wrong. Everyone laughs.
Harmless.
Silly.
Forgettable.
Until they played it in Room 13C.
The teacher had left for a phone call.
The substitute was asleep.
The lights were flickering — but no one cared.
They were bored.
So they formed a circle.
Twelve of them.
But when the game began, the count was off.
Thirteen voices.
Twelve kids.
"Who started the whisper?"
No one remembered.
But it was… strange.
Not a sentence.
A sound.
Low.
Cracked.
Too full of teeth.
The first kid flinched.
Covered her ears.
But she passed it along.
Each one changed a little.
Not just the whisper…
them.
Eyes less focused.
Movements slower.
Breaths deeper.
By the time it reached the last kid, Samir, he just froze.
Didn't laugh.
Didn't blink.
He looked up at the class and said:
"It didn't want to be misheard."
That night, one of the boys started speaking backwards in his sleep.
Another girl refused to open her mouth at all.
A third scratched something into her desk:
"It's listening now."
Parents were called.
Teachers panicked.
Counselors came in.
But none of them knew the rule:
🕯️ Once the whisper is correct… it doesn't leave.
It settles in.
Samir disappeared a week later.
No signs.
No struggle.
Just a small note on his pillow:
"I'm still in the circle."
The classroom was sealed.
They turned it into storage.
Covered the windows.
Changed the room number.
But sometimes…
when a teacher walks by late after school,
they hear it.
Thirteen voices.
Passing a message.
Getting clearer each time.
And one day,
when the whisper is perfect,
when it's exactly the same as the first…
The voice comes back.