The bus is full of noise. Kids jabbering, seats squealing, a low hum of sugar and nerves, but as it rolls through the university campus, the sound begins to thin. The place is too clean, too watchful.

A river cuts through the middle of the campus like a black vein. On one side, the Old Capitol glows like a lantern of authority, while science buildings gleam cold and efficient, all white corridors and fluorescent calm, their windows catching light like scalpels.

The bus pulls into a half-empty parking lot. A few cars sit scattered, the color of old teeth. Alex and Charlie press their faces to the glass, unsure if they're arriving or being swallowed.

"Alright, children, pipe down." Maddie's voice sharpens the air. "Single file as you exit the bus. Quiet in the halls. Respectful." She looks at her clipboard as if it were scripture, lips counting heads, eyes not meeting a single face.

One by one, the children spill out, shoes thudding on the pavement, laughter collapsing under the weight of rules.

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Inside, the "speech-therapy classroom" waits like a trap disguised as school. Wooden desks lined in rows. Green chalkboard. A teacher's desk that smells faintly of metal and bleach. On each desk sits a gray headset clamped to a silver CD player. Little beetles waiting to crawl into ears.

Labels divide the room in tidy halves: Control and Experimental.

Alex and Charlie enter holding hands.

Along the back wall, a line of adults in white coats watch with laboratory stillness. Their smiles are polite to the point of being offensive. Something's clearly wrong with them.

A hand appears between the girls, snapping their fingers apart. "Separate sides, please." No explanation. No comfort. Just order.

The twins are placed at opposite ends of the room. The space between them feels miles wide.

One by one, a white coat selects a child and disappears with them through the far door. The sound of shoes against linoleum fades each time, swallowed by silence.

When the red-haired woman with the red shoes appears, she takes Charlie's hand.
Alex's heart won't stand for it. Her instincts scream louder than obedience. She reaches for her sister. For a heartbeat they are a chain of three, child, child, angel in white.

Then Professor Jennings materializes. "Oh, no," he says softly, that practiced softness that hides bruises and broken bones. He pries Alex's hand loose and gestures. "That one goes now."

A new white coat approaches: thick glasses, an 80's style mustache slick with sweat, the smell of coffee and something sour. He smiles too long. "Come on, sweetheart."

The hallway beyond the classroom stretches forever, like a maze, light dying with each step.
Posters about communication and care peel from the walls. The floor hums under buzzing fluorescent tubes that stutter overhead. On-off, on-off, like eyes trying to blink the bad away.

They stop at a rusted door. The handle squeals.

"Careful," he says, grin widening. "Wouldn't want you to get tetanus." The joke lands heavy as lead, not meant for Alex's amusement.

He locks the door behind them.

The room is sterile. The air tastes wrong, like something once rotten scrubbed clean. White tile. A square mirror that swallows more than it reflects. A cold steel table and chairs.

"Sit."

Alex obeys.

"That's a pretty bow you're wearing," he says, baiting.

"Thank you," she whispers.

He fishes a lollipop from his pocket. She takes it because refusing feels dangerous.

"I hear you're one of the bright ones. Popular, too."

She nods, licking the candy.

"Isn't that nice." His pen scratches a box on his clipboard. The sound is surgical.

_______________________________________

Winding down a corridor, a child cries. The sound slides under doors, thin and animal.

Behind this door is another white room, same tile, same mirror, but on this steel table sits a dead bird, feathers stuck to a smear of blood. A pair of tiny hands trembles beside it.

The red-haired white coat leans forward, her curls hanging like fire, her beauty has gone feral.

Charlie reluctantly looks up.

"What's wrong with you? They don't say good things about you at Ms. St. James's place. They say you're a menace. A bad, bad girl. Why do they say that? What's wrong with you?"

"I want out! Where's Alex? Please, missus, please!"

The woman's hand slams the table. The bird jumps once. She sneers. "No! Not until you tell me what's wrong with you!"

The lights buzz harder. Charlie's breath comes fast, ragged. Panic floods the room, hot and electric, and the mirror watches without mercy.

The children are brought back one by one, quiet now. Whatever happened behind the doors has taught them the value of silence. Their shoes squeak faintly on the tile as they return to their seats, faces blank as wiped slates.

Professor Jennings paces the front of the room with the precision of a man conducting an orchestra only he can hear. He hums, soft and tuneless, as if warming up the air.

"Today," he says, voice smooth as wax, "we're going to learn about words. Words can help people. Words can heal. Words can change the way you see yourself."

He gestures toward the gray headsets. "Please put these on."

The room fills with the plastic click of compliance.

Alex slips her headphones over her ears. The world collapses to a hum, then a chime, light, delicate, like a spoon tapping glass. A woman's voice follows, soft as sunlight.

You are light. You are joy. You bring warmth wherever you go.

The words bloom behind her eyes. Her shoulders loosen. Her heartbeat evens out. For a moment, the voice feels like her own.

Across the room, Charlie's headset hums too, but the sound is wrong. Low, rumbling, almost a growl hiding under static. Her voice isn't gentle. It's jagged.

You are darkness. You destroy joy. You take what isn't yours.

Charlie flinches. The voice continues, steady, methodical.

People fear what they cannot fix. You were born to be feared.

She tries to pull the headphones off, but the red-haired woman appears at her side, pressing them back over her ears with a smile that doesn't move her eyes. "Keep listening, sweetheart. Therapy only works if you finish your lesson."

Alex glances across the room. Charlie's lips are moving, whispering something Alex can't hear. Her face looks drained, like the words are pulling her blood out through her skin.

Professor Jennings watches both girls through the mirrored glass. He doesn't speak, doesn't blink. Only his reflection moves. A second man behind the first, smiling.

The recording keeps going.

You are light. You are joy.

You are darkness. You destroy joy.

Over and over.

Two voices in two heads.

Not science, but something older. Something hungry.

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OK, Ladies and Gents. I hope this gives you the creeps. These are 6 year old girls after all...mwhahahaha! Remember to tap that Star to show your love and I'll keep posting. Till next time!