The Glass-Tongued Man

I’ve always collected people like others collect seashells—picking up the strange and the broken along the dusty roads of my travels. In a sun-bleached town called Marrawah, on the wild edge of Tasmania, I found a man who outshone them all. His name was Dilan, and he had eyes the color of storm clouds and a smile that didn’t quite reach them.

We met at a roadside stall where he sold hand-carved wooden charms. I was drawn by his stillness, the way he watched the horizon as if waiting for a ship that never came. We fell into conversation easily, and by dusk, I had agreed to accompany him to a small coastal inn he recommended, promising tales of his homeland that would ‘curl your hair and chill your marrow.’

The inn was called The Gull’s Rest, a crooked building of gray stone and Salt-bleached timbers. We took a room with a view of the churning sea, and as the wind rattled the windowpanes, Dilan began to speak. He told me of his village in the highlands of Sri Lanka, where he was not just a man but a conduit—someone who could summon the departed, mend ailments with a touch, and cast out the clinging darkness that sometimes latched onto the living.

He paused, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. ‘But I do none of this by my own power,’ he said, his voice barely a murmur. ‘There are… others. They speak to me, sing to me in a language older than the stars. They lend me their strength, their sight. But they demand a price, always a price.’

I leaned forward, hungry for more. ‘What kind of price?’

Dilan shook his head, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. ‘I cannot say. To speak of them too freely is to invite their gaze. They have rules, and they punish those who break them. You must never speak of what I tell you tonight, not to anyone. Swear it.’

I swore, my heart thrumming with excitement and a strange unease. He continued, his stories weaving a tapestry of graceful beings with wings of glass and voices like wind chimes, who could heal a fever with a touch or drive a demon into the earth with a single word. But they were also fickle, jealous, and cruel to those who misused their gifts. ‘They are not angels as your scriptures describe them,’ he said, ‘but something far older, far stranger.’

As the night deepened, Dilan’s manner shifted. He began to glance at the window, then at the door, as if expecting someone. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘They are here now,’ he said. ‘They are listening. They are always listening.’

A cold draft swept through the room, and the candle flames flickered. I laughed nervously, but Dilan’s face was pale and serious. He stood abruptly and walked to the window, peering out into the darkness. ‘They are displeased,’ he whispered. ‘I have said too much.’

I tried to reassure him, to tell him it was just the wind, but he shook his head. ‘No, I must leave. You must not follow.’ He grabbed his coat and fled into the night, leaving me alone with the sound of the sea and a growing dread.

I didn’t sleep. I lay in the narrow bed, replaying his words, trying to convince myself it was all a performance. But as dawn broke, I noticed something on the windowsill—a small carving of a bird, its beak open as if mid-song. It hadn’t been there before. I picked it up. It was warm, almost feverish to the touch, and in the light I saw intricate lines etched into its body, like veins or cracks.

I left Marrawah that morning, but the carving came with me. Over the next weeks, strange things began to happen. I would wake with the taste of salt in my mouth and the faint sound of wind chimes in my ears. I dreamt of a vast, glassy plain beneath a sky of swirling colors, and a voice that spoke in a language I somehow understood, saying, ‘You have heard our name. You have broken the silence.’

I tried to ignore it, but the dreams grew more vivid. Objects in my room would shift on their own. Once, I saw a shadow pass across the wall that had no source. I became obsessed with finding Dilan again, to demand answers. I traced his steps, but he had vanished—no one in Marrawah recalled him, and the inn had no record of our stay.

Then, a letter arrived. It was unsigned, but written in a delicate, spidery hand: ‘You sought the truth. Now you must face the price. We are coming to collect.’

That was three weeks ago. I have not slept peacefully since. And tonight, as I write this, I hear a sound outside my door—a soft scratching, like talons on wood, and the faintest tinkling of glass. I know now that Dilan wasn’t lying. He was a storyteller, yes, but the story was true. And I, fool that I am, whispered his secrets into the night, and now the glass-tongued ones have come for me.

I can see their forms gathering in the shadows—tall, shimmering, their wings folded like folded mirrors. They are patient. They have all the time in the world. And I have only this last moment to write these words, to warn you, whoever you are: do not seek the strange and the broken, for they come with a price, and once you hear their song, you can never un-hear it.

The scratching grows louder. The air is cold. I think they are about to speak.