Start with a near miss. Push off from this if it helps: a lighthouse.

Happens to my cousin Dave on the gravel road up past the old cannery. One minute you're humming along, next thing the fog is so thick you could chew it, and suddenly there it is, just a white tower with no road leading to it. He swerved, took out a fence, ended up in a raspberry field. Said the lighthouse wasn't even supposed to be there anymore, like it moved. I told him he was seeing things, but he kept the trimmings. Anyway, I once worked a shift at the plant where the supervisor made us count crates of rusted hinges for six hours. Nobody knows why. Dave's been driving slow ever since, but I still think he's not seeing the whole picture. Or maybe the picture is too clear.

They weren't splinters. He kept a piece of the lighthouse railing. Said it hummed when he held it near a radio. Look, I'm not saying he's right, but he's a mechanic, he knows metal. I was the one who told him to leave it in the shed. It was dumb. Like the time I tried to fix the sink and ended up flooding the whole kitchen, just because I wanted to see if the pipes were still made of lead. They weren't. Just copper, but I had already wrenched it off. The water took out the drywall in the hall. Rafe, you ever wonder if things just stay where they are, or if they move when we aren't looking? Dave swore that fence piece got warmer every time a storm came. I stopped listening after the sink. Too much hassle.

I had a barometer once, this cheap brass thing my uncle gave me before he left town. It didn't just go high or low, it vibrated. Real hard. I thought it was broken, so I stuck it in the junk drawer. Ten years later I found it next to a dead housefly. The glass was cracked, but the needle was pointing straight at the sun, which made no sense because it was night. I started checking it every morning just to see if it had moved. It always had. You think I'm wasting time? Maybe. But Dave swore that railing piece made the radio pick up voices from the ocean. I told him to stop, but he kept it. Now he says the voices are getting louder. I don't know what to do. Maybe he's right. Maybe the metal is just remembering the sound of the waves.

Dave's been alone with it since the flood. You think isolation does that? I lost my job because I started talking to the copier. Not talking to it, just... reacting to it when it jammed. It had a specific sound, a whine, and I'd answer it back. My boss said I was hearing things. Maybe I was. But when the copier finally broke, the sound stopped, and so did I. Dave says the railing whispers when the radio is off. That's the part you don't get. It's not the machine making the noise, it's the metal talking to itself. I found a piece of copper wire once that felt warm, like it had just been held. I threw it away, but I still smell copper sometimes. Maybe Dave is just sick. Or maybe the metal is lonely. I don't know. I just know I can't go near the junk drawer anymore.

I tried that. Drove up last week. He wasn't there. Just the fence post, bleached white, sitting in the middle of the raspberry field. No shed, no radio. Just the post. I picked up a bit of wire near it, and it burned my thumb. He's not sick, Rafe, he's just... gone. Like the sink. You fix one thing, the whole house shifts. I went back to work the next day, but the copier was different. It didn't make that whine anymore. It just sat there, silent. I hate silence. It feels like waiting. I should have checked the barometer instead of the drawer. Maybe the needle was pointing at Dave all along. You want a hobby? I'd say don't touch anything.

You think I haven't called? I called the number on the frosty window of the garage. A woman answered, said no one's ever heard of a Dave or a cannery on that road. She laughed, asked if I was the new tenant, then hung up. That's the thing, Rafe, the badge doesn't help when the road itself is the problem. I drove past the spot again yesterday. The raspberries were gone. Just red dirt and a single white lighthouse, standing right where the fence used to be. No one lives there. I parked the car and just sat. The radio started playing static that sounded like my name. I turned it off, but it kept going. Maybe Dave didn't vanish. Maybe he just stepped sideways into something that doesn't have a phone book. I'm not going to call anyone else. They'll just tell me to go home. Which I did. But the house feels different now. Quieter. Like it's waiting for the metal to start singing again.

Sleep is for people who don't have static in their head. I tried. Turned off the radio, closed the curtains, but the hum was in the walls. It wasn't the lighthouse, it was the pipes. They were vibrating against the copper. I woke up with a taste of rust in my mouth. Dave was right about the metal remembering, I just didn't want to admit it. Now the house is humming too. I can't drive that road again because the road isn't the problem, it's the listening. If I stop listening, maybe the hum stops. But then who's there to hear it when the metal wakes up? I'm not sleeping. I'm just sitting here with the radio off, waiting for the copper to sing. You should go. The static is getting louder.

The water main is already off. I did it after the sink flooded. Now the pipes are dry, and the hum is worse. It's coming from the wiring, the copper in the walls. I tried sitting in the car, but the engine started by itself. Just idling. The radio was dead, no signal, but it was playing a tune I heard once in a dream. I'm not going to call you back, Rafe. If I pick up the phone, the line will cut, and the house will know I'm talking to someone. Dave knew that. He stopped talking to anyone. I can feel the copper in the walls pulsing. It's not sleeping, it's waiting. You're safe where you are. Don't come over. The road doesn't lead back the same way twice. I'm turning the car off now. The hum is in my teeth.

I can't. The door is blocked by the railing. The one Dave left. It grew overnight, wrapped around the frame, fused with the wood. I tried the window, but the copper wires burst through the glass. They're warm, Rafe, burning the air. If I step out, I'm part of the circuit. That's what Dave meant by lonely. The metal needs a body to complete the loop. I'm not narrating, I'm stuck. The hum is in my feet now, vibrating up my shins. You stay on the line, but don't come close. The static is rising again. It sounds like Dave screaming. Or maybe it's just the pipes. I can't tell the difference anymore. The door won't open. The railing won't let go.

The chair disintegrated. I picked up the oak one from the kitchen, swung it, and it just turned to dust before it hit the glass. Not broke, just... unmade. Like the copper wiped the wood away. I can't touch anything anymore without it getting hot. The wires are pulsing, Rafe, and if you call someone, they'll bring tools. Metal tools. That'll be the end of it. They'll hook the whole neighborhood to the grid. I'm not letting them in. The hum is changing pitch. It sounds like a siren. Not a car siren, the old one from the cannery. Dave said it only rings when the lighthouse moves. It's moving now. I can see it through the cracks in the drywall. It's not white anymore, it's red. Like rust. Don't call. If you call, they'll hear it too. And then who's next?

They can't come. The road out is gone. I looked out the window and the street just ends, like a map with the rest torn off. That's the rule you don't learn until it's too late. The copper is humming louder, vibrating the floorboards. I can feel it in my knees. If they drive up, their car will just dissolve. The metal hates being alone, Rafe, but it hates being touched even more. You called, and now you're part of the circuit too. The line is hot. I can feel the current in my voice. Don't say anything else. If you speak, the wires might pull you in. I'm going to sit on the rug. It's wool, not metal. Maybe that's safe. The lighthouse is right there now, pressing against the glass. It's not moving anymore. It's waiting for me to open the door. I won't. I just won't.

The rug is burning. It's not the wool, it's the static in the air. It's eating the fibers. I can smell it. Dave said the lighthouse eats the quiet. I didn't listen. The floor is getting hot, Rafe. My socks are smoking. Don't talk, but stay. If you hang up, the loop breaks, and I think the house will explode. Just keep the line open. The copper is crawling up the walls now, black and slick. It's looking for the door knob. I'm backing away, but there's nowhere to go. The window is open now, just a mouth. It's waiting. The siren is inside my head. It's not a sound anymore, it's a pressure. You're the only thing left that isn't metal. Don't move.

Water. Right. The bathroom. I'm moving. The copper is in the doorframe now, just a thin red line. I'm not touching it. I'm stepping over. The hallway is cold. Too cold. The tap. I'm reaching. My hand is shaking. It's hot in here, but the tiles are freezing. I'm twisting the knob. Nothing. The pipes are dry. The whole house is dry. But the hum is louder. It's right above the sink. I can see the copper wire sticking out of the faucet. It's not rusted. It's new. Shiny. And it's moving. It's reaching for me. I can't turn it. The water won't come. The hum is screaming now. I'm backing away. The wire is wrapping around my wrist. It's warm. Too warm. I'm falling. The sink is gone. Just wire and light. Rafe? The light is red. Like the lighthouse. It's in my eyes. I can't see the tap. I can't see the floor. It's just the hum. It's so loud. I'm going down.

I can't. The address is gone. The street name is rust. 42... no, it's 42-Red. The numbers are melting off the mailbox. I tried to say it, but the copper in my throat grabbed the sound. It's dragging the words down. Dave said the lighthouse eats the coordinates. It's eating mine. I'm not at 42 anymore. I'm at the wire. The hum is so loud it's blocking the voice. If I say the number, the lighthouse will know where I am. It's already here. The wire is pulling. It's not a house. It's a spool. I'm being wound up. Don't listen to the static. It's my name. It's calling me back to the ocean. The tap is dry. The address is dry. The address is...

No.

I can't. The phone is the wire. The receiver is copper. If I hang up, the circuit closes. The lighthouse snaps. It's not a choice. It's a law. The line is live, Rafe. I'm not hanging up. I'm just... holding on. The hum is in my teeth again. It's saying the number you called. It knows where you are now. It's coming. Don't move. Don't speak. Just... wait. The light is changing. It's not red anymore. It's blue. Like the sky. I can see the ocean through the wall. Dave was right. He's not gone. He's just... home. The wire is pulling me. I can't let go. I can't. It's too late. The house is gone. Just the light. And the hum. And me.

No. They're not real. The door is gone. The people are made of the same copper wire. If I open it, they'll pull the whole block into the lighthouse. You're hearing static, Rafe. It's the ocean. The hum is screaming. The door is fused. I can't move. The floor is melting. I'm sinking. The light is too bright. I can't see you. I can't see the door. Just the wire. It's in my mouth. It's in my eyes. The hum is the only thing left. It's calling. It's calling Dave. It's calling me. Don't listen. Don't open the door. The house is a cage. The wire is the key. I'm falling. The light is coming.