The sun did not rise gently over Morningside that morning. It bled into the sky like a wound, staining the low clouds crimson. For Daniel Mercer, sleep had never come; he had sat in the driver's seat at the gas station until his muscles ached, staring at the dead phone in his hand. Every few minutes, the screen had flickered on with new messages from the unknown number, though the battery should have died hours ago.
Do you remember the woods?
We heard you when you were a child.
Your father tried to keep you from us.
Each one had curdled his stomach further. He wanted to hurl the phone into the trash, drive until the tank ran dry, vanish into another nameless city. But the thought of Morningside rooted him here, as though the town itself refused to let him leave.
At seven in the morning, he turned the ignition and headed toward his childhood home.
The Mercer house stood near the edge of town, a squat two-story with chipped paint and a sagging porch. The yard was wild now, grass high enough to conceal the broken toys from his and Claire's childhood. He cut the engine and sat staring at it, his reflection staring back from the dusty windshield. For the first time in ten years, he saw himself as he had been here: a boy with dark hair like his father's, green eyes like his mother's, always listening too hard for things he couldn't explain.
The porch creaked under his boots. His key still fit, though the lock resisted like a clenched jaw. Inside, the air was stale, thick with the smell of dust and something faintly metallic. He almost called his sister's name before remembering—Claire had sold the house after their father's death. It should have been empty.
But a sound answered him anyway.
A low hum, muffled, coming from upstairs.
Daniel froze in the doorway, every instinct screaming to turn and leave. Yet his feet carried him upward, one step at a time, until he stood outside his father's old study. The door was half-open.
Inside, someone was sitting at the desk.
"Claire?" His voice cracked.
The woman turned. She was thinner than he remembered, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy knot, dark circles under her blue eyes. Claire Mercer looked at him as though she had expected him all along.
"You heard it too," she said simply.
Daniel's chest tightened. For a moment, the years between them vanished, and he was a boy again, clinging to his sister's hand in the dark while their father whispered not to answer the voices.
"Claire…" He stepped inside. "How long have you—"
"Since last week." Her gaze flicked to the corner of the room, where their father's old radio sat on the shelf. Its dial twitched, though no one touched it. "It started again. Just like before."
Daniel's throat went dry. "It never stopped."
Claire's expression hardened. "Then you know it's not just in our heads."
The radio crackled. They both turned as a hiss of static filled the room, followed by a faint voice, warping and dragging across frequencies.
"Claaaiiire. Daaannniieeelll."
The sound was wrong, like hearing their own names played backward underwater. Claire's face paled. Daniel gripped the edge of the desk, forcing himself not to cover his ears.
And then, clear and sharp as if whispered directly into his skull:
"We remember you."
The radio clicked off. Silence swallowed the room.
Neither of them spoke for a long time.
Across town, Emma Parker walked Caleb to school, though neither had slept. His small hand clung to hers, his eyes darting at every sound—the flap of a loose sign, the squeak of a swing in the breeze. Children's voices should have been a comfort, but the chatter outside the schoolyard sounded hollow, every laugh ringing with an undertone of something darker.
Emma crouched to face him. Her auburn hair fell into her eyes as she smoothed it back, forcing a smile. "You'll be okay here. I'll come get you at three."
Caleb bit his lip. "What if it talks again?"
Emma squeezed his hands. "Then don't answer. Promise me, Caleb."
He nodded, though his eyes shimmered with tears. She watched him walk into the building, her chest tight. A whisper tugged at her ear as she turned to leave—her name, too soft to be real. She spun. Nothing.
But across the street, Violet stood watching her.
The girl's raven hair was messy, her dark eyes rimmed red from crying. She wasn't supposed to be here—she should have been at home recovering from the night at the lake. Yet here she was, silent, staring at Emma as though she recognized her.
And then, without a word, Violet crossed the street.
At the same time, Jake Holloway slammed his locker shut at Morningside High, his jaw tight. He hadn't told his mother what happened. He couldn't. But the hum hadn't left his chest since the lake. Lila hovered beside him, pale, her freckles stark against her skin. Marcus leaned against the lockers nearby, arms crossed, watching everyone pass with sharp suspicion.
"Violet's not here," Lila whispered.
"She didn't answer my texts," Jake muttered. His broad shoulders slumped slightly. "We shouldn't have split up."
Marcus's eyes narrowed. "We didn't bring it with us. It was already here."
The bell rang, echoing too loudly down the halls. Jake winced. For a split second, he swore the ring wasn't mechanical at all but a voice shrieking through metal. He glanced at Marcus, who had gone rigid, confirming he had heard it too.
Morningside wasn't safe. Not the woods. Not their homes. Not even the school.
Somewhere deep beneath the town, under soil and stone and pipes that groaned with pressure, something stirred. It had waited long enough.
That night, their paths would converge.
And The Sound would no longer whisper.
It would speak.