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The whispers came to Adam in the night, as they so often did; catching him when his defenses were at their lowest. Low, lethal murmurs; dark and enticing voices susurrating promises of power and destruction.
You can do it, the voices told him, insistent and insidious. You can fix it. You can change it. You can end it—
No! Adam tried to shout at them, but his voice didn’t seem to be working. No, I don’t want to! I—
You want to, the voices hissed in his head, drowning out his own thoughts easily. The whispers swirled, dark and menacing mists that might have been his imagination or might have been his own creation, Adam couldn’t tell. The strength is yours, the power is yours, the time is yours, the world is yours—
But I don’t want it, he tried again: frantic, futile, throat sore yet still soundless. I don’t, I don’t—
But you DO, Adam. You do. You can. And you will. You will end it—
I said no! I like the world! I saved it! I don’t want to destroy it! I won’t! But Adam’s voice was gone, gone beyond any reach of his powers; he couldn’t manage even a whisper of his own, a syllable of protest.
And the other whispers were growing stronger, louder, clearer; more inescapable with every moment. You will. You must. You ARE.
And with helpless horror, Adam found that the reason he couldn’t speak was because his mouth was missing, the area where it should have a smooth sheet of skin. In front of him, through the trees, the Them stared at him, frozen and mouthless as well, eyes filled with mingled fear and censure.
The ground beneath his feet boiled; his friends fell away. Adam’s parents and sister were there too, falling with them, all looking afraid… so afraid, and, worse, betrayed. And the hissing voices grew to an all-encompassing crescendo of ruin and darkness and evil, and now Adam realized suddenly that the bellowing whispers were his own voice, the boiling his own fault. He tried to stop, tried to scream, but there was nothing he could do. It was too late.
And the voices came on at him, from him, through him; embodied now, grabbing at him, clinging to him, dragging damply across his face and whimpering, collar jingling—
Adam sat bolt upright in bed, all but knocking the small, furry weight on his chest to the floor.
Instead, Dog managed somehow to stay on the covers and promptly leapt up again, slurping anxiously at his boy’s face. Automatically, Adam reached to pet and soothe him, stroking and talking his dog down until the no-longer-Hellhound finally settled enough to curl up on the coverlet over his lap.
Adam took a deep breath, then, and stared around him, taking stock of his surroundings. The morning light filtering through the curtains. The tangled mass of bedclothes still cocooning him. The mess of clothes, toys, books, and who-even-knew-what littering his floor.
The world was still there, and not a whisper to be heard; only Dog’s steady breathing, and his dad’s familiar, comfortingly clunky footsteps in the hall outside his bedroom door.
It was a dream.
Just a dream — a regular dream, not the kind that changes reality.
Everything’s okay.
“Good boy,” Adam murmured, rubbing Dog’s belly. “Such a good boy. You did a good job waking me up.”
Dog panted proudly.
Adam shivered, yawned, and then got out of bed to dig some clothes off the floor. The Them were meeting at their hideout after breakfast. He didn’t want to be late.