The Quiet Ones (A short horror story)

They didn’t scream when they took her.

No forced entry. No shattered glass. Just the soft click of the front door opening — a sound she knew too well. Her husband used to make it every night when he came home. Except he’s been dead for seven months.

She was in the bathroom, brushing her teeth, when she felt it — the shift in air. The kind of stillness that doesn’t belong. Like the house had stopped breathing.

Then, the whisper.

"We’re here for the quiet ones."

Not loud. Not close. But inside her head, like a thought that wasn’t hers.

She dropped the toothbrush, turned off the light, and crept down the hall. The bedroom door was open. The bed — made. Her daughter’s stuffed rabbit on the pillow. But no Emma.

Just the baby monitor, glowing green.

And a voice — not static, not a cry — but a low, wet gurgle, like a throat full of blood trying to speak.

She snatched the monitor, pressed it to her ear.

"Mommy… they’re wearing our faces."

Then silence.

She ran to the closet, pulled out the shotgun — loaded, just like he taught her. She didn’t believe in ghosts. She believed in bullets.

She stormed through the house. Kitchen. Living room. Basement. Nothing.

Then she saw it.

On the back porch.

Three figures.

Standing in the rain.

All wearing pajamas.

All the same height.

All facing the woods.

And all with Emma’s hair.

One turned.

Smiled.

It had her daughter’s eyes.

But the mouth… too wide. Teeth like needles. Jaw unhinged like a snake’s.

It didn’t speak.

It vomited.

Not blood. Not bile.

A voice.

Her husband’s voice.

"You should’ve stayed in the bathroom, baby. They don’t like witnesses."

She raised the gun.

The thing tilted its head.

Then, from behind her — a giggle.

She turned.

Emma stood there, in the hallway.

Smiling.

But her neck… twisted. Broken.

And behind her, something wearing her face, grinning with too many teeth, whispering:

"We don’t take the loud ones. We take the quiet ones. Because they don’t fight. They don’t scream. They just… go away."

The gun fell.

The house went dark.

And the last thing she heard — three little girls, giggling in the woods. 

Not one of them real.