Elena didn't trust herself to drive.
She walked through the gray dawn, hood pulled low, eyes scanning every shadow. The town felt hollowed out—curtains drawn, doors locked, silence so thick it pressed against her eardrums like cotton. But beneath it, she could feel them: the stolen voices, waiting in the wires, the walls, the wind.
The Historical Society was dark. Locked.
She pounded on the door until her fists ached.
Finally, a sliver of light appeared. The door cracked open just enough for Thorne's bloodshot eye to peer out.
"Go away, Elena," he rasped.
"I know you're hiding something," she said, voice raw from disuse. "About your family. About 1893."
He hesitated. Then, with a sigh that sounded like surrender, he let her in.
Inside, the place was a ruin. Shelves overturned. Glass cases shattered. Papers scattered like fallen leaves. And in the center of the room, a single chair faced a wall covered in newspaper clippings, maps, and photographs—all connected by red string, just like Maya's attic.
But this web was older. Denser. And at its heart hung a faded daguerreotype of a stern-faced man in a doctor's coat.
"My great-grandfather," Thorne said quietly. "Silas Thorne."
Elena stepped closer. Beneath the photo, pinned like a confession, was a handwritten letter:
"I did not fail to trap the Voice. I failed to kill it. And in my mercy, I gave it a name."
Thorne poured two glasses of whiskey—his hands shaking. "Sit. You need to hear this."
He sank into the chair, staring at the wall as if it might answer him.
"In 1893, Blackwater wasn't just a town—it was a hub for the new Edison phonograph. Traveling salesmen brought cylinders. Families recorded their voices for the first time. And one night… a farmer named Eli Gable—yes, that Gable—played a cylinder he'd bought from a 'collector' passing through."
Elena's breath caught. Mrs. Gable's ancestor.
"The recording was blank," Thorne continued. "But when played backward… it spoke. In the voices of people who'd vanished years before. Eli played it again. And again. Until the thing inside it learned his voice—and walked out of his parlor wearing his skin."
He took a long drink. "Silas tried to stop it. He built the Resonance Cage. But he made a mistake. He thought the entity was a spirit—a ghost of the dead. But it wasn't."
Thorne turned to her, eyes burning.
"It's a hunger. A void that learned to mimic life because life is loud, and noise is how it feeds. And Silas… he didn't trap it. He fed it."
"How?" Elena whispered.
"He used his own daughter as bait." Thorne's voice broke. "Lillian. Twelve years old. Pure voice—untouched by grief, untouched by lies. He believed her innocence would draw the entity into the Cage… and hold it there."
He looked away. "It worked. For a moment. The Cage hummed. The static stilled. But then Lillian screamed. Not in fear—in recognition. Because the thing inside the static… it spoke back in her mother's voice. And she answered."
Elena felt sick. "It took her."
"It didn't just take her voice," Thorne said hollowly. "It took her obedience. Her love. Her trust. And when Silas opened the Cage to pull her out… she walked out smiling. And behind her, the static followed."
He stood, walking to a locked drawer. From it, he withdrew a small, rusted locket. Inside, a curl of blonde hair. Engraved on the back: Lillian, 1881–10/17/1893.
"Every generation, a Thorne tries to fix it," he said. "My father in '37. Me in '79. Maya… she was the first outsider who saw the pattern clearly." He met Elena's eyes. "She believed you were the key."
"Me?" Elena recoiled. "Why?"
"Because you're the only one who's ever refused to speak to it," Thorne said. "Not out of fear. Out of guilt. And guilt… is the purest silence of all."
Outside, a car engine growled to life.
Thorne went rigid. "They're coming for you."
"Who?"
"The town council. They've heard the recordings. They think you're dangerous. Or possessed." He grabbed her arm, urgent. "Listen to me, Elena. The Cage can work. But not with copper and quartz alone. It needs a voice that chooses silence—not because it's afraid to speak, but because it knows some truths are too loud to survive."
He pressed the locket into her hand. "Lillian's hair is woven into the original Cage's core. Maya found it buried under the stone circle. She was rebuilding it… for you."
Suddenly, headlights swept across the windows.
Thorne shoved her toward the back door. "Go! Through the woods! Don't let them take you—not while you still have a voice to lose!"
As she slipped into the alley, she heard the front door burst open.
And Thorne's voice—calm, resigned—greeting them:
"She's not here. But she will be. They always come back."
Elena ran.
Behind her, the Historical Society's lights flickered once—
—then died.
And from within, a child's voice began to sing:
"Hush now, little sparrow…"
Her mother's lullaby.
But this time, it was sung in perfect harmony… by dozens of voices at once.
End of Chapter 12