The Coins Speak

November 15, 1871

The coins whisper when I sleep.

At first, I thought it was the rain — that soft percussion against the windows, the kind that lulls the house into restless dreams. But when I woke, the rain had stopped, and the whisper remained.

They scrape against one another inside the pouch, not chaotically, but in rhythm. The sound is delicate, deliberate — like teeth chattering in the cold, or bones knocking together beneath the floor. I laid the pouch beside my bed, certain it would cease when touched by light.

It didn’t.

When I held one coin to my ear, I heard them. Not a single voice, but a chorus. Layered, distant, each speaking over the other, syllables folding in on themselves like echoes from a well. Their cadence matched my pulse — faster when I grew afraid, slower when I tried to still my breath. I realized then: they were listening to me, adjusting their rhythm to the beating of my heart.

I set one on the table and demanded it stop. My voice shook, but the coin responded. It rolled away from my hand — not falling, not clattering, but moving with eerie precision until it stood on its edge. It spun once, twice, three times before falling flat, face up.

The sigil was new.

Not one I’d ever seen before.

An open hand, etched in thin, spidery lines — an eye carved into the center of the palm. The mark gleamed faintly, the same color as the light that burns beneath my own skin. I pressed my wrist against it, and the coin pulsed once, as if recognizing its kin.

The Kentucky book called such symbols “mirrors of exchange.” It warned: Do not let them learn your rhythm. Too late.

I wrote the verse meant to silence them — one scrawled in the margins beside the chapter on containment:

“Em’sha vul drath, silence the silver tongues.”

But the moment I spoke the words aloud, the whisper turned to music. Soft at first, then rising — a chant carried by dozens of unseen throats. The sound filled the room, vibrating through the glass, through the floor, through me.

I buried the pouch before dawn, deep in the earth behind the inn, beneath the crooked elm. I whispered the verse again and pressed my palm to the soil until it stilled.

When I woke, the pouch lay beneath my bed — clean, dry, and heavier than before.

And now, when I listen, the whispers are not behind the fabric.

They are beneath my skin.