The town of Morningside had always been quiet at night. Too quiet. It was the kind of place where silence was not a relief but a weight, pressing down until you noticed the smallest sound: the drip of rain in gutters, the whine of a refrigerator, the sigh of wood settling in old houses. It was a silence that noticed you noticing it, as though the town itself held its breath and waited.
Tonight, the quiet was not empty. It was listening.
Daniel Mercer drove under the canopy of maple trees that arched across the road into Morningside, their branches black silhouettes against the smothered moon. As a boy, he had thought the trees whispered when the wind moved through them. His father had told him not to listen too closely. Now there was no wind, but the leaves still shivered as though stirred by invisible hands, and the sound they made was not whispering. It was humming.
His chest throbbed with every vibration. His hands gripped the wheel too tightly, his palms slick with sweat. He hadn't planned to come back here. He had promised himself he never would. But where else could he go? He had no one in the city, no one to call at this hour. He hadn't spoken to his sister in years. Yet when the voice had come through the static, when it had called his name, when the audio file had screamed with his own voice—he had driven on instinct. Instinct had dragged him back to Morningside.
He thought of his father. Joseph Mercer had been steady, hardworking, always with oil on his hands and sawdust in his clothes. But the last year of his life he had changed. He had muttered warnings to himself. He had refused to let Daniel or Claire sleep with radios on. He had locked the windows at night even in summer heat, his hands trembling when Daniel asked why. "Don't listen too hard," Joseph had whispered once. "If it calls you, don't look. Don't answer. Never answer."
Daniel had thought it was alcohol. Or madness. Then Joseph was gone. The obituary had said heart failure. Daniel had never believed it.
The road opened into town. The Morningside water tower loomed, the faded name barely visible in the dark. The high school field's lights glowed faintly though no one had played there in hours. The diner by the roadside slumped into itself, windows boarded, sign half-fallen. It looked the same as when he'd left ten years ago, as though the town was stuck in amber. But something else pulsed beneath the surface now. Something waiting.
The hum deepened. Daniel felt it through the steering column, through his seat, into his spine. He clenched his jaw, refusing to look in the rearview mirror. He knew what he'd see there. Or worse, what he wouldn't.
His phone lit up on the floor where he had thrown it.
Unknown Number
Do you remember us?
He pressed harder on the gas.
Across town, Emma Parker sat on her bed with her arms wrapped around Caleb. He was shaking, his small body pressed into her shoulder, his breath hitching as he tried to swallow sobs. Emma stroked his hair, whispering, though her own hands trembled.
"It's okay. It's okay, I'm here."
Caleb's head shook violently, his sandy hair brushing against her chin. "It's not gone," he whispered. His blue eyes darted to the corner of the room. "It was waiting. It was waiting for me."
Emma's stomach twisted. She wanted to tell him he'd imagined it, that it had been a nightmare. But the memory of the whisper in her ear—her name spoken when she was alone—stopped her. She had heard it too.
The house around them groaned. Every sound seemed too sharp. Their father's snores carried from downstairs, heavy and uneven. The stench of old beer drifted up the hall. Emma remembered how their mother used to hum while folding laundry, a soft tune that had made the house feel alive. Since she had died, silence had filled every corner. Tonight the silence was different. Tonight it wasn't empty—it was inhabited.
Emma pressed her forehead to Caleb's. "You're sleeping in my room tonight." She didn't add where it's safer. Because she wasn't sure anywhere was.
At the lake, Jake Holloway's lungs burned as he dragged Lila by the hand. His legs pumped through underbrush, branches whipping his arms. Behind them, Marcus half-carried Violet, who stumbled, sobbing, her raven hair clinging to her wet face. The hum followed them, not fading with distance but swelling, vibrating inside their ribs.
They burst onto the cracked asphalt near the ranger station, collapsing against the doorway. Jake bent double, his broad chest heaving, sweat dripping onto the road. His brown skin gleamed under the thin moonlight. He clenched his fists until his nails cut his palms.
"What the hell was that?" His voice cracked.
Marcus didn't answer right away. His sharp eyes flicked across the tree line, scanning for movement. His chest rose and fell quickly, but his mind remained precise. "Not human."
Lila pressed herself to Jake's arm, her freckles lost against pale, firelit skin. Her green eyes swam. "It looked at us. You saw that? It looked right at us."
Violet trembled in Marcus's grip, her fingernails digging into his arm. Her voice cracked when it came. "It wanted me to talk. It was in my head. It wanted me to answer."
Jake pulled her against him with the other arm, his voice firm though his hands shook. "Nobody's answering anything."
The night hushed. The hum subsided. But the silence was worse.
In the neighborhoods closer to town center, people stirred. Mrs. Holloway, Jake's mother, stood barefoot on her porch in her robe, clutching the fabric at her throat. Every dog on the block barked in unison, their howls rising like an orchestra. She stared toward the woods. She couldn't see the lake, but something in her gut twisted. Jake hadn't come home. Her chest tightened with an instinct only a mother had: something is wrong.
Blocks away, Harold Whitman sat up in bed, his hearing aid buzzing. He tugged it out, frowning at the faint hiss, but then froze. A voice rose from the tiny speaker. His wife's voice. His wife who had been dead seven years.
"Harry," it whispered.
At Morningside General, machines malfunctioned. Heart monitors flatlined and then spiked, recording impossible rhythms. A nurse named Allison, twenty-four with tired eyes and hair escaping her bun, swore she heard her name whispered through the intercom. No one had paged her. She looked up at the fluorescent light as it flickered. She thought she saw something move inside the glass.
In the morgue, the refrigeration units hummed louder, the sound rattling metal doors. The night orderly, Raymond, dropped his clipboard as one of the gurneys shifted though no one had touched it. His breath fogged though the room was warm. He whispered a prayer, though his voice shook so badly it barely left his lips.
Back at the gas station on Main Street, Daniel shut off his engine and sat slumped over the wheel. The fluorescent lights above the lot buzzed, moths batting themselves senseless against the glass. The place hadn't changed in a decade. The same yellowed posters for lottery tickets, the same greasy stains on the pavement. For a moment, normalcy steadied him.
Then his chest vibrated. He pressed a hand against his sternum as though he could hold it down. The hum was inside him now, deeper than sound, deeper than marrow.
His phone lit up on the floor.
Unknown Number
You brought us back.
His vision blurred with sweat. He remembered his father again, remembered him drunk and muttering. Don't answer. Never answer. Had Joseph Mercer fought this too? Had it killed him?
Daniel closed his eyes and pressed his palms against his ears. But even with silence forced on himself, even in the dark behind his lids, the hum lived. It was not outside. It was in him.
In her room, Emma Parker lay awake beside Caleb, both of them staring at the ceiling, afraid to sleep. At the ranger station, Jake, Lila, Marcus, and Violet huddled in the doorway, too terrified to move. On porches, in bedrooms, in the sterile hospital corridors, Morningside was awake.
The Sound had returned.
And this time, it wanted to be heard.