vox mortem; the conjuring

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The first time she had heard them speak, she was seven years old.

She had been playing in the backyard of her family's new summer residence when the whisper called her name from far away. The voice had woken her curiosity - and Jane never dared to miss out on adventure. She had followed the echo into the forest behind the house even though she had been explicitly told to not even set foot near the first trees.

The voice was soon joined by others. They led her through the maze of green, whispering to turn left, to turn right. Whispering for her to come and take a look. The child had obediently followed with excitement elating her steps and a bright grin plastered onto her face.

The whispers had led her to an old graveyard in the very middle of the woods. And once Jane had come to a halt between the overgrown and unkept gravestones, the whispers grew into normal speaking voices. They came from behind her and from next to her, from far and from close, but as much as Jane was turning and straining her eyes, there was no person visible.

That was when the fear had gotten a hold of her. In her vibrant imagination, she could picture the dangerous figures with crooked grimaces and wide opened eyes staring her down and approaching, despite not being able to see anything. She had realised she had made a mistake and as her legs seemed to take off back into the mass of trees again, she had realised she did not know the way back.

After that incident, Jane never dared to set foot into the forest again.

But times changed, and so has she. So as she now sat on her rusty bed in Sheffield's Behavioural Institute for Troubled Youth, Jane caught herself thinking back on her experience in the woods. Ten years later, she was no stranger to the voices anymore. Maybe if they had kept her, if she hadn't found her way back in the end - maybe her life would have played out differently.

Even surrounded by people close to her age and minds that at first glance, appeared to work the same as hers, Jane was alone. Neither was she liked by her peers, and not to even talk about the women working in the building - nurses, as they wanted to be called. They were middle-aged with vile personalities, cursing the entirety of their days for the way they had ended up going in life. They were just as grey as the building itself, and Jane had the luck to see their darkest sides.

And so when the door to her shabby room was ripped open without any warnings, Jane remained unmoving in her position, positively dreading what the nurse had to say. Whether she was about to be screamed at for giving one of the boys she despised a bloody nose again, or for stealing salt from the kitchen, the girl did not know. She did not move a muscle as footsteps approached.

"You have visitors."

Jane whirled around as though she was struck by lightning. Up until now, no one had even wanted to get close to her, even less to see her face. Even the nurse seemed taken aback as she spoke those words aloud, her usual displeased grimace replaced by a stunned expression. Jane barely spared her a glance, however, fixating her eyes on the doorway behind her instead. She could see the figures of a woman and a man standing huddled together, sneakily whispering things among each other as they looked into the room. Jane could see a hint of pity written on the woman's face.

The nurse finally motioned them inside and hurried out the moment they had fully stepped into the room. The door shut, leaving only stunned and heavy silence.

"... Who the hell are you?"

The words had escaped Jane's mouth before she could even think about them. It was evident that the pair had not expected such a distant welcome.

"My name's Lorraine Warren, this is my husband, Ed. We came to talk to you."

At the sound of their last name, something seemed to ring a bell. A distant memory flashed in the girl's mind, but she couldn't quite place where it belonged. She decided to continue watching them in question.