1060: Story 1060: Banshee Protocol 1060: Story 1060: Banshee Protocol The ergency broadcast began at 3:33 a.m.
No sirens.
No evacuation orders.
Just a chanical voice, genderless, distorted by static:
“Initiating Banshee Protocol.
Remain indoors.
Seal all mirrors.
Do not answer the door.
If you hear her scream—pray she doesn’t see you.”
Then silence.
Then a hum.
Then we began to forget.
It started small.
Nas slipped.
Birthdays vanished.
Survivors we’d been traveling with for weeks were suddenly strangers to us.
Soone would walk into a room, and we’d swear we had no idea who they were—until the fog cleared, and we rembered.
But it wouldn’t last.
The fog always ca back.
Carn was the first to hear it.
A sound like shattered glass screaming.
Piercing.
Unnatural.
Not in the ears—in the bones.
She collapsed, blood pouring from her nose and ears.
She shook, convulsed, eyes rolled back as if sothing inside her was trying to claw its way out through her skull.
We couldn’t help her.
We couldn’t even rember why we were helping her.
We holed up in an abandoned bunker—steel doors, no windows.
The walls were lined with cryptic instructions scratched in blood and rust:
“Protocol is mory.
mory is protocol.”
“Don’t listen to her eyes.”
“Never say your own na out loud.”
We didn’t understand.
Until the cara feeds cut out one by one.
And then the last survivor of Glenridge Station appeared.
Her na had been Lieutenant Arlenne Voss—Special Containnt Operative, Sector 9.
The log files we found on her corpse described the Banshee, a psychic weapon unearthed beneath a ruin of impossible geotry, encoded with nas, powered by rembrance.
They tried to contain her with an experintal mnemonic scrambler—a device that fractured conscious thought.
The Banshee’s curse required focus to take hold.
But it worked too well.
Everyone forgot who they were.
Forgot what they were fighting.
Forgot what they unleashed.
Now, we see her between fras.
In reflections we forgot to cover.
She’s a blur of funeral silks, her mouth always open, never moving.
Her eyes are hollow—but if you recognize her, if you let the familiarity set in, if a single mory clicks—
—she screams.
And you cease to be.
Not just die.
You’re erased.
From ti.
From mory.
From the minds of everyone who ever loved you.
Milo’s gone.
There’s a gap in the group where he stood.
His bed is untouched.
His weapons remain.
But no one rembers his face.
Only the scream.
And the echo it left behind.
The only way to survive now is to forget faster than she can find you.
Never dwell.
Never look back.
Keep your mind moving like a skipping record.
We write each other’s nas on our arms now, every morning.
A fading chain of ink we hope will hold our souls in place a little longer.
The protocol is still active.
We are still forgetting.
And she is still screaming.
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