The Archive of Whispers

Bennett’s fingernails dug into the narrow crevice behind the rusted locker, pulling with a force that made his knuckles pop. Dust cascaded down like a thick shroud over the three friends in the derelict corridor before a heavy object hit the concrete floor. Zach scooped it up quickly, wiping a layer of ash from a frayed leather cover that bore no name, only a geometric engraving of a compass with a broken needle. It was past four in the afternoon, and the distant, rhythmic echo of the janitor’s footsteps on the floor below was the only sound breaking the stillness of the old wing. They peeled ...