The plants in my apartment whisper countless warnings. It started small, a faint rustle, a breathy sound that I brushed off as the wind slipping through a cracked window. But soon, the whispers grew louder, clearer, until I could no longer pretend they weren’t speaking to me.
They are thirsty. They remind me of this often. Their leaves tremble when I pass by, and if I forget to water them, their whispers turn sharp, insistent. It’s not a harsh demand, though. More of a desperate plea. I’ve learned not to ignore them.
But tonight, their warnings are different. The usual thirst is there, yes, but there’s something else in the air, something that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“You are out of sugar,” they murmur, their voices curling around me like mist. I pause at the sink and open the cabinet door. I lift the empty sugar jar from its spot. They’re right. I meant to pick some up earlier today, but the grocery store felt impossibly far away, and I’ve been avoiding going out lately. The plants don’t seem to mind my retreat into solitude. In fact, I think they prefer it. When the apartment is quiet, it’s easier for them to speak.
I place the jar down, the absence of sugar feeling strangely significant, like a puzzle piece gone missing. I turn back toward the living room, where my ferns and spider plants and succulents sit in their usual places, watching.
And then, almost too softly to hear, they whisper again.
“An old god is watching the door.”
I freeze. The words sink in like cold water, chilling me from the inside out. I look toward the front door, half-expecting to see something—someone—a light, maybe, leaking in from the gap under the door. But there’s nothing. The hallway outside is as dark and empty as ever.
I step closer to the plants, their leaves shifting in the dim light. “What do you mean?” I whisper back, my voice cracking at the absurdity of speaking to them. But they don’t answer. Not directly. Instead, the air grows heavy, thick with an unseen presence, and the whispers rise again, urgent now, overlapping in a quiet cacophony.
“Do not open it.”
“Do not look.”
“He is waiting.”
I shudder and step back. My heart races, pounding in my chest like a warning drum. I hadn’t planned on leaving the apartment tonight, but now the idea of going anywhere feels impossibly dangerous, like stepping out would invite something in, something I couldn’t undo.
The plants fall silent. A quiet tension fills the room, as if the very air is holding its breath. I glance once more at the door. Nothing has changed. But the atmosphere has shifted. There’s a presence now, something ancient and still.
I pull a chair to the center of the room, facing the door, and sit down. I force myself to breathe, slow and steady, to listen. The plants say nothing more. The quiet wraps around me, thick and pressing.
I think back to the sugar jar on the counter, the empty space inside it. I don’t know why it feels important, but the plants had warned me for a reason. They’ve always known things before I did, whether it was a rainstorm coming, or a restless spirit drifting too close to my windowsill. Their warnings have kept me safe before. I trust them, even now.
The wind picks up outside, a soft howl rising and falling like a distant wail. I can’t shake the feeling that something is waiting beyond that door, something older than the world outside, something that knows I’m here. I’ve read stories about gods that wait at doorways, offering deals or demanding things best left unsaid. I never believed those stories before. Now, I’m not so sure.
The minutes stretch on, long and aching. The silence presses against my ears, until finally, I speak again. “What does it want?”
A single whisper drifts from the fern nearest the window. “Patience.”
I swallow hard. It’s not an answer, not really. But I take it for what it is: another warning. Another layer of mystery. The plants won’t tell me everything, and maybe that’s for the best.
I don’t know how long I sit there, eyes fixed on the far wall, listening to the quiet pulse of the apartment around me. Time seems to slip, unmeasured, as though the world outside has paused, waiting for something to happen. But nothing does. The door stays shut, the old god remains unseen, and the night presses on in uneasy stillness.
Eventually, I rise, feeling the weight of whatever presence lingers in the room with me. I water the plants, slow and careful, letting the water soak into the soil, their roots drinking it up gratefully. Their leaves flutter in response, though they remain silent.
When I’m done, I place the empty watering can down and walk toward the bedroom. I do not glance at the door.
Before I turn in for the night, I stop at the kitchen counter and place the sugar jar back on the shelf. It sits there, empty, waiting for something. Just like me.
The plants shift in their pots, a quiet rustle that sounds almost like approval. I leave them behind, slipping into the darkness of my bedroom. The whispers fade, but their warnings linger in the stillness, a gentle reminder of what waits beyond the door.
And whatever it is—old god, spirit, or something else—it can wait.
I have no plans to open the door.
...
The night wrapped itself around me like a heavy blanket as I slipped into bed, but sleep didn’t come easily. I could feel the presence outside the door, patient and watchful, its weight pressing against the edges of my awareness. The whispering of the plants had fallen silent, but the unease they had stirred within me lingered, gnawing at the corners of my mind.
I turned over, trying to shut it out. My thoughts drifted to the sugar jar, still sitting empty in the cabinet, and the strange importance the plants had placed on it. Why sugar?
Eventually, exhaustion took over, pulling me into a restless sleep.
When I woke, it was still dark. The air in the room felt different, thicker, charged with a quiet hum of energy that hadn’t been there before. I sat up, my heart pounding, and strained to listen.
A soft creaking came from the living room.
I froze.
For a moment, I considered the possibility that it was the wind. But the creak was too deliberate, too measured. Like footsteps, slow and steady, moving across the floor. My breath caught in my throat, and I glanced toward the door of my bedroom, half-expecting to see it swing open. But it remained closed, the thin sliver of light beneath it undisturbed.
The presence was in the apartment now.
The old god.
I stayed still, hardly daring to breathe. The footsteps stopped, replaced by a silence so thick it felt like it was pressing down on my chest. I could sense it—the god, or whatever it was—waiting, just beyond the door.
The plants had told me not to open the door. Not to look. But now, the barrier between us felt fragile, as though the boundary separating me from whatever waited outside was growing thin.
There was a soft rustle, a shift in the air, and suddenly, the plants began to whisper again. Not words this time, but a gentle, rhythmic sound, like leaves brushing together in a breeze. I felt a strange comfort in their presence, as if they were trying to reassure me, to remind me of their watchful vigilance.
I stood, my legs shaky, and moved quietly toward the door. I didn’t open it, just pressed my ear to the wood, listening. The apartment was deathly still, but that same quiet hum of energy remained. I could feel it pulsing through the air, a low vibration that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Then, from the other side of the door, a voice spoke.
“Patience,” it said, the same word the fern had whispered before. But this voice was different, deeper, older, as though it had traveled across eons just to reach me. It wasn’t threatening, but neither was it comforting. It was simply… there. Waiting.
I backed away from the door, my heart racing, and glanced toward the plants. Their leaves were trembling, as though in response to the presence, but their whispers had gone quiet again. I could sense their unease, their uncertainty. The god was inside now, and there was nothing more they could do.
“What do you want?” I asked softly, my voice barely above a whisper. I wasn’t sure if I was speaking to the plants or the presence beyond the door, but the question hung in the air, unanswered.
I felt drawn to the kitchen, as though something there was calling me. My feet moved without my consent, carrying me back to the cabinet where the empty sugar jar sat, its glass surface gleaming faintly in the dim light.
A thought flickered in my mind, unbidden: The god is waiting for an offering.
I picked up the jar, my hands shaking. I didn’t have sugar, didn’t have anything to offer, but the jar’s emptiness felt wrong, as though it needed to be filled, needed to be complete.
And then I understood.
The god wasn’t asking for sugar. It was asking for time.
I hesitated, the jar still in my hands, and turned back toward the door. The god had been patient, watching me for who knows how long. Waiting, not for sugar, but for an acknowledgment, for me to realize what it truly wanted. Time. A piece of my life, a small offering in exchange for its silent protection, its presence.
I don’t know how I knew. I don’t know how much time it wanted, or what it would do with it. But in that moment, it felt right. I opened the jar, placed it on the counter, and stood there, staring into its empty depths.
And then, I waited.
Seconds passed, or maybe minutes. I don’t know. But slowly, the humming in the air began to fade, the tension in the room easing, until the presence withdrew entirely. The god had received what it had come for.
The plants, too, fell silent, their whispers no longer frantic, but calm. Peaceful.
I closed the jar, feeling the weight of the empty air inside it, and left it on the counter.
The door remained closed, the apartment still and quiet once more.
And I knew, without needing to ask, that the god would return. Maybe not tomorrow, or next week, but one day. And when it did, I would be ready.
...
The next morning, the apartment was bathed in soft, early light, and for a moment, the strange events of the night before felt like a dream. But when I went into the kitchen to make coffee, I caught a glimpse of the sugar jar sitting untouched on the counter, and the weight of the previous night settled back in.
As I poured water into the kettle, the plants began whispering again. This time, the sound was different. Less frantic, more like a soft murmur, as though they were gossiping among themselves. I paused, waiting, listening. The kettle bubbled in the background, and the ferns by the window swayed ever so slightly, their leaves curling toward the light.
“Is it coming back?” I asked quietly, glancing over my shoulder at the door. No response. The plants continued their low murmuring, too quiet for me to make out any words.
I opened a cabinet, reaching for a mug, when the ivy hanging from the bookshelf stirred, its leaves rustling faintly. “You forgot to water us.” The voice was gentle, almost reproachful, a faint tickle at the edge of my thoughts.
I blinked and set the mug down, my hand hovering over the watering can nearby. “Right. Sorry,” I muttered, crossing the room to fill it.
As the water spilled into their pots, the plants seemed to sigh in relief, their whispers fading into a soft hum of contentment. For a moment, I smiled, feeling oddly at peace. Even if everything else was strange and unsettling, the plants’ needs were simple. They asked for water, and I could give it to them. There was something grounding in that.
But as I moved to water the last pot, a large peace lily near the door, its glossy leaves trembled slightly. “You should leave,” it whispered, its voice quieter than the others.“He's not done with you.”
I stopped, my fingers tightening around the handle of the watering can. The air in the apartment felt still, too still, like the calm before a storm. “Who?” I whispered back, though I already knew.
The peace lily didn’t answer, but its leaves remained curled inward, retreating from my touch. I stared at it for a long moment, feeling the weight of the warning settling in my chest. The god—or whatever it was—had retreated, but the plants knew it would return.
I finished watering the lily and put the can down, trying to shake off the feeling. The god had taken its time last night. Maybe that was enough. Maybe the apartment would be quiet now, and the plants’ whispers would stay focused on things like thirst and forgotten care. Maybe.
But as I sat at the table with my coffee, I couldn’t ignore the faint rustling that continued just out of earshot, like a reminder of something I couldn’t quite grasp.
