Hellin was not summoned. She was made.
Every time a voice was swallowed, she grew.
Every time a girl pressed her teeth together instead of speaking, Hellinβs grin sharpened.
Every time a truth was buried, another face bloomed across her body.
She is not one but many, a tower of silenced selves stacked high until the weight of them split her in two. Her eyes are never still β darting, circling, watching each corner of the room at once, because silence has taught her to be everywhere at once.
People say she comes at night.
But that is not true.
She comes whenever you try to lie to yourself.
You may not see her β only the shadow that tilts too far, the whisper that sounds like your own voice spoken back to you.
Hellin is not hunting.
She is waiting.
And when she finally catches your gaze, it will not be her face you see.
It will be the one you lost when you were told to be quiet.
