It started with a strange phone call, one that everyone in the small town of Darville received at exactly midnight. The voice on the other end was static-laced, garbled, and yet the message was unmistakable:
“You have 340 words left to live.”
No one understood what it meant—at first. Some thought it was a prank, others a glitch in the phone lines. But the following morning, the first victim was found: an elderly woman who had been ranting about strange visions before she died in her sleep. When they opened her journal, her last entry ended abruptly, at word 340.
As the days went by, more deaths followed. People became frantic, trying to control their conversations, their writing, even their thoughts, fearing that every spoken or written word was a step closer to their demise. Every word they spoke or wrote seemed to count down an invisible clock over their lives.
Then came the whispers: a curse, a malevolent force that had infected the town, feeding off the energy of language itself. People grew silent, communicating only with glances and gestures, hoarding their words like precious gold. Yet, the deaths did not stop. The number remained the same. Everyone knew it—340 words, and then…nothing.
One by one, the town grew quieter, until Darville was a place of silence. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, as though every sound carried weight, as though the air itself feared the curse.
Then, a final broadcast came through: a single voice, trembling, whispering, “This is my last word. I hope you… understand…” before silence swallowed the town whole.
No one ever heard from Darville again.