You hear voices. Whispered, slithering words that climb over each other as they crawl across dirt and dead grass to get to you.
You can’t remember the last time you heard a human voice, but you know these aren’t human. These are the sounds of the dead, buried under your field. Fertilizing the seeds you planted last year.
They live inside your gut and your mind. They are your sanity and your madness.
Can you hear what they say? Survive, they whisper. Survive.