The Hushing Hour | Shiver Shot

The town of Holloway had rules, and Everett knew them all by heart. The most important rule: At 11:11 p.m., everything stops. Close your eyes. Do not listen.

He glanced at the dashboard clock as his old truck bounced along the dirt road, dust swirling in the beams of the headlights. 11:03 p.m. Eight minutes. He could make it to the cabin if he hurried, though the thought of spending a night there again churned unease in his chest.

The cabin belonged to his late grandmother, nestled deep in the woods that locals called "the Shush." As a kid, Everett had spent summers there, when her rules seemed eccentric rather than terrifying. Stay indoors after dark. Don’t whistle, don’t hum, don’t sing. Especially not at night.

At 11:06, the trees thickened, crowding the narrow road. The moon barely broke through the canopy, casting faint, skeletal shadows. Everett’s grip tightened on the steering wheel as a familiar sense of being watched prickled the back of his neck. It was the way the woods leaned in, like they were listening.

The cabin appeared suddenly, almost startling him. A single lantern burned on the porch, as if waiting. He parked the truck, grabbed his overnight bag, and jogged to the door. The night air had a heavy stillness to it, carrying no chirping crickets or rustling leaves. Only the crunch of his boots broke the silence.

He stepped inside, bolted the door, and turned on the small battery-powered radio his grandmother always kept on the mantel. Soft static filled the space—a comforting white noise in the stifling quiet.

11:09.

Everett moved to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, hands shaking more than he cared to admit. The air felt wrong, thick with an invisible charge. A single moth batted itself against the screen door.

11:10.

The glass slipped from his fingers and shattered in the sink. Everett froze, staring at the fragments as his pulse quickened. Somewhere outside, something rustled.

No, not yet.

He stepped away from the sink, careful not to disturb the shards. The rustling came again, louder this time, like branches scraping against the cabin. But there was no wind.

11:11.

The world hushed.

Everett stopped breathing, every muscle in his body locking tight. The radio’s static cut out, leaving the cabin in absolute silence. He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his fists until his nails bit into his palms.

The rules. Close your eyes. Do not listen.

A soft creak came from the porch, the weight of something stepping onto the boards. It was deliberate, slow, like it wanted him to hear. Everett’s heartbeat hammered in his ears, deafening in the stillness.

The doorknob rattled gently.

He pressed his back against the wall, forcing his breath into shallow, silent exhalations. Don’t open your eyes. The door didn’t open, but the creaking moved along the porch, past the windows. The sense of being watched burned into his skull.

The humming started then.

Low, tuneless, faint. It drifted in the air like mist, seeping through the walls, vibrating through the floor. Everett bit the inside of his cheek, willing himself to block it out. He could feel it burrowing into his thoughts, a maddening lullaby with no melody.

“Everett...” A voice. Soft, lilting, almost familiar. “Open your eyes.”

His hands flew to his ears, but it didn’t help. The voice came from inside his mind, curling around his thoughts like vines. It laughed softly, warm and coaxing. “You don’t have to hide. Just look. Don’t you want to see me?”

His jaw clenched. No. His grandmother had told him what happened if you opened your eyes.

The humming grew louder, more insistent, blending with the voice. It pressed against him, relentless. Everett dropped to his knees, eyes still tightly shut, rocking back and forth like a child.

“Come on now,” it crooned. “I’m not so bad. I’ve been waiting for you.”

The porch creaked again, closer this time. The screen door squealed, and Everett knew without looking that it was inside now. He felt it, a suffocating presence, its attention as heavy as a hand on his shoulder.

Something touched his cheek. Cold. Slimy. The smell of wet earth and decay filled his nostrils. “Just one look,” it whispered.

A single tear slipped down his face as his resolve cracked. His eyelids fluttered. No, don’t, don’t, don’t—

The world snapped back.

The clock read 11:12. Everett’s body shook uncontrollably as he opened his eyes, still crouched against the wall. The room was empty, quiet except for the soft crackle of the radio. The lantern on the porch still glowed faintly.

He stood slowly, his limbs like jelly, and moved to the sink. The shards of the broken glass remained, untouched. Everything looked as it should.

But something felt wrong. His limbs moved, but not quite how they should—his steps were too fluid, his arms too loose at the joints. It was like he was inside his body, but not in control. He gripped the edge of the counter, staring at the sink, trying to steady himself.

Then he looked up at the window.

His reflection stood there, but it wasn’t his. The Everett in the glass grinned, too wide, his teeth sharp and crooked. His eyes shimmered, black and wet, like the surface of a stagnant pond.

The thing in the mirror tilted its head, examining him as if he were the stranger now. It lifted a hand and waved slowly, mockingly, even though Everett hadn’t moved.

“No,” he whispered, stepping back, his voice trembling. “This isn’t real.”

The reflection grinned wider, stretching impossibly, before whispering back, its voice mingling with his own.  “It’s real. And now you’re mine.”

Everett’s hand rose involuntarily, mirroring the reflection’s wave. His breath hitched as the creature in the glass leaned forward and pressed a hand against the window, the glass rippling like water beneath its touch.

The creature’s voice purred from inside his head, and from the mirror at once: “You looked, Everett. You shouldn’t have looked.”

His vision darkened at the edges, his body no longer his own. His limbs moved without his consent, his feet turning toward the door. The lantern on the porch flickered, as though it sensed what had taken root inside him.

Outside, the woods beckoned.

Everett tried to scream, but the voice wasn’t his anymore. It was softer, darker, and full of cruel delight.

And then he walked into the night, the grin on his face stretching wider than it ever should.

It only takes one look.

©Genevieve Mazer, 2025