Whispers Between Worlds

Ayaka dreamt of bells.

They rang softly at first—like the kind used in morning prayer—but the sound warped, deepened, turned hollow. Each chime echoed through a dark forest she didn’t recognize. The trees bled into shadows, and in the distance stood a man with crimson eyes and a half-smile that was both amused and cruel.

“Still dreaming about me?” he said.

Ayaka stepped back. “You—! Get out of my head!”

He tilted his head, mockingly polite. “You’re the one who opened the door, shrine girl. I’m merely being a gracious guest.”

Her hands clenched into fists. “If you’re a guest, then leave.”

“I would,” he said, walking toward her, each step echoing louder than it should. “But you touched something that belongs to me. That feather was part of my essence. Now, a thread connects us.”

“I didn’t mean to!” she snapped.

He smiled faintly. “Intent doesn’t matter. Contact does.”

The world around them rippled. The ground shifted into shrine steps drowned in darkness. Even the stars flickered out.

Ayaka could feel her heartbeat pounding in her ears. “What do you want?”

He leaned close, his voice soft as silk. “To see which will break first—your faith or your fear.”

And then, just like that, the bells rang again, and she woke up—gasping.

She sat upright in her futon, chest heaving, sweat beading her forehead. Kitsura was perched by her bedside, eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight.

“You screamed,” he said. “Twice.”

“I did not,” she muttered.

“You did. Once at the demon, and once when you realized it wasn’t a dream.”

Ayaka groaned, running a shaky hand through her hair. “He talked to me again, Kitsura. He said something about… threads.”

Kitsura’s gaze darkened. “Then the connection is deeper than I thought.”

She blinked. “You knew about this?”

“I suspected,” he said, stretching his paws. “When two auras touch—especially one as unstable as yours—it can create a bridge. Most vanish in time. Unless, of course, the other side keeps pulling.”

Ayaka’s stomach dropped. “So he can reach me whenever he wants?”

Kitsura gave her a look that said, I’d rather not answer that.

The next day, everything felt slightly off.

The air around the shrine shimmered with faint static, like unseen eyes were watching. Paper talismans trembled without wind. The prayer bells would jingle softly on their own, even when no one stood beneath them.

“Maybe I’m imagining things,” Ayaka muttered as she swept the courtyard.

“You’re not,” Kitsura replied from her shoulder. “The veil is thinner now. His presence lingers here.”

“Wonderful,” she sighed. “I always wanted a demonic roommate.”

By afternoon, she was trying to distract herself with chores—hauling water, trimming the garden—when Yukino appeared again, carrying a tray of offerings.

“You look awful,” Yukino said bluntly.

“Thanks, that’s what every little sister loves to hear,” Ayaka shot back.

Yukino set the tray down and studied her face carefully. “You’ve been trembling since morning. What happened?”

Ayaka hesitated. She could lie. Say it was fatigue, or nerves. But Yukino’s eyes—sharp, steady—were the kind that peeled away layers.

“There’s… something following me,” she said quietly. “From last night.”

Yukino’s expression didn’t change. “Explain.”

Ayaka took a deep breath, describing the dream, the feather, and the voice that slipped into her mind. She half-expected her sister to scoff.

Instead, Yukino’s face went pale.

“That feather was his anchor,” she said. “You’ve tied yourself to a demon’s essence.”

“So, what do I do?”

Yukino’s tone hardened. “You don’t do anything. You let me handle it. You stay within the shrine grounds. Do not invoke him again. Do not think his name. And for the gods’ sake—do not let him speak through you.”

Ayaka blinked. “Speak through me?”

But Yukino was already turning away. “I’ll prepare a barrier tonight.”

That night, the shrine was quiet except for the rain. Candles flickered inside the main hall where Yukino chanted softly, tracing sigils of light through the air. Kitsura stood beside her, ears flat, tail twitching.

Ayaka watched from the doorway, hands clasped around the feather inside her sleeve. She could feel it faintly pulsing again, like a heartbeat that wasn’t hers.

Her sister’s voice rose. “By the seal of Ame-no-Koyane—let no spirit trespass, no shadow cross this line—”

The air shivered. For a moment, the sigils glowed bright gold.

Then something cracked.

The light snapped inward, exploding into sparks. Ayaka stumbled back as the candles blew out. Yukino gasped, clutching her chest. Kitsura hissed.

“Impossible,” Yukino whispered. “The barrier—he shattered it from the other side.”

Ayaka’s pulse spiked. “He’s here?”

“No,” Kitsura said grimly. “Not here… but closer than before.”

A laugh drifted through the rain, faint but unmistakable.

Soft. Cold. Familiar.

“You shouldn’t try to block me out, Ayaka. It’s rude.”

Yukino spun, eyes wide. “He’s speaking through the connection!”

Ayaka’s knees wobbled. The voice echoed in her head, every word a whisper she could feel inside her bones.

“You keep trying to fight what’s already inside you. The more you resist, the more I’ll stay.”

“Shut up,” she hissed aloud.

“Make me.”

The world tilted. The rain outside fell slower, the air thickening around her. For a split second, she saw him standing at the edge of the torii gate—just a silhouette against lightning.

And then he was gone.

Ayaka fell to her knees. The feather dropped from her sleeve, sizzling against the floor before fading into ash.

Silence. Only the rain remained.

Yukino knelt beside her, gripping her shoulders. “Ayaka—look at me.”

Ayaka’s breath came in short bursts. “He said… he’ll stay if I resist.”

“Then you don’t resist alone,” Yukino said fiercely. “Do you understand me?”

Ayaka met her sister’s gaze and nodded weakly. “Yeah. I understand.”

Kitsura exhaled. “He’s marked her, all right. But it’s not just corruption—it’s curiosity. He’s testing her limits.”

Yukino’s eyes hardened. “Then we make sure she doesn’t break.”

Outside, thunder rolled across the sky.

Ayaka glanced toward the gate again, where lightning had burned the silhouette into her mind.

She didn’t know whether it was warning her—or calling her.