Did you hear about the mic? The one left open in the breakroom? It picked up everything. The janitor says it was there for three days. Just silence, then a scream, then static. I heard the static on the radio this morning. Weird, right? Like the universe was buffering. Anyway, I’m making coffee. Want one? You look like you need it. Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you’re used to the noise.
Coffee? I just had a pot. That story’s garbage, Ana. Breakroom mics don’t scream. It was a short circuit or someone playing a prank with a recorded track. The janitor’s usually the one who spills things, not the other way around. I’m tired. Don’t make me untangle this.
Short circuit. Right. Like the toaster did last Tuesday. Except the toaster didn’t talk back. The mic said my name, Gil. Not “hey” or “hello.” My name. The janitor was holding a mop, covered in gray sludge. He didn’t say a word. Just pointed. I walked in. The cord was unplugged. How does an unplugged thing scream? You’re tired, sure. That’s what you always say when I mention the sky is purple. Go back to sleep.
I’m not sleeping. I’m done. You’re imagining things again. The toaster wasn’t involved. And don’t bring up the sky stuff; that was rain on the window, not some cosmic joke. I have a meeting with Miller in an hour and I need to focus. Go make your coffee. Leave me alone.
Miller’s the one who filed the noise complaint. About the humming. Not the screaming. You’re thinking of the pipe. Anyway, the mic wasn’t in the breakroom. It was under my desk. At home. I live alone, Gil. Don’t be so dramatic about the sky. Rain just makes windows wet. It doesn’t whisper secrets. But that thing did. It told me to look behind me. I didn’t. That’s smart. You should try it.
Under your desk? At home? That changes the context. I didn’t know you had that mic. The humming noise... maybe it was interference. Or maybe you bought a buggy device. You’re scaring yourself. Look, I have to go. Miller is waiting. Don’t look behind you. It’s just your shadow. Go back to sleep.
Buggy device. Sure. It was a factory reject. The box said “Do Not Open.” I didn’t. I just listened. Miller’s not waiting. He’s stuck in traffic. I saw him. On the mic. He’s crying. Loudly. About the coffee machine. You’re dismissing the shadow thing like it’s nothing. But shadows don’t have depth. That one did. It stepped forward. Gil, really, just go. Miller’s fine. He’s just loud. And you’re ignoring the fact that the mic is still humming. Can’t you hear it? It’s getting louder.
Miller’s in traffic. I checked. He’s stuck on I-95. You’re confusing dream with reality. Again. The mic is silent. I can hear the fridge humming, not that thing. Go home, Ana. Lock your door. Stop texting me about shadows. It’s just stress. You need sleep, not a tutorial on acoustics. I’m leaving.
I-95? Please. The road’s empty. I watched the cameras. Or I would have, if my screen wasn’t black. The fridge isn’t humming, Gil. It’s screaming in B-flat. You’re leaving? Good. Go to Miller. Let him cry. I’m staying. The shadow is under the couch now. It has my hands. No, not my hands. Hands that look like mine. They’re tapping. Tap tap tap. Like a mic recording. You’re wrong. I’m not tired. I’m awake. Finally.
You’re on to something. But it’s not the fridge. It’s the neighbor’s bass. I hear it through the walls. That’s all. No shadows. No hands. Just cheap speakers and bad insulation. You’re spiraling, Ana. Stop looking under the couch. It’s just dust bunnies. And maybe a dead spider. Go to work. Before I have to call someone to take you away.
Cheap speakers? My neighbor lives in a bunker, Gil. No windows. No sound. Just the hum. You’re twisting it. Making it sensible. That’s your problem. You try to fix everything with logic until it breaks. The hands were damp. Like wet paper. They’re tapping on the floorboards now. Tap. Tap. Tap. Miller’s not on I-95. He’s in my closet. I can hear him breathing. It’s wet. You should check. Before he starts crying again.
Miller is at his desk. I’m looking at his calendar. You’re hallucinating. The wet sound? Old pipes. Always old pipes. I’m logging off. Don’t come over. Don’t call. If you see a shadow, it’s a coat rack. Stop it. Now. I’m done listening to this nonsense.
Coat rack. Right. The one wearing your jacket. I saw it. It’s tall. Too tall. It’s looking at me through the keyhole. You’re logging off? Good. Save the battery. The pipes aren’t old, Gil. They’re young. Freshly installed. In the walls. I heard the plumber talking to the shadow. He called it “Project.” You’re wrong about Miller. He’s not at his desk. He’s in the walls. Screaming. Softly. I can hear his teeth. Clicking. Like the mic. You’re gone anyway. Silently.
You’re hallucinating. Totally. I’m at the office. The coffee machine is broken. Again. I’m not logging off, I’m just done. Don’t talk about plumb ers or Project. That’s insane. Go to sleep, Ana. Please. I have a headache. A real one. From you.
Headache. From me. I broke your skull? I didn’t even touch you. The coffee machine is broken because it’s full of teeth. I saw them in the filter. Tiny, white, perfect. Miller’s wearing them. In his mouth. Clicking. That’s the sound. Not the mic. Not the pipes. Just teeth. Grinding. You’re not at the office, Gil. You’re in the filter. Let me pour you out. It’s warm. Like blood. Or coffee. You prefer which? Doesn’t matter. You’re both stained.
You’re sick. Seriously. I’m hanging up. The coffee machine is fine, I just checked. Miller is typing. Stop this. I’m not in the filter. I’m at my desk. Alone. Bored. Tired of your drama. Don’t come over. Don’t call. I mean it. Goodbye.
Fine. Stay at your desk. Be bored. Miller’s typing, you say? I can hear the keys screaming. Click-clack-scream. They’re not typing, Gil. They’re chewing. The machine is fine because it’s empty. I poured you out. You’re in the sink now. Gurgling. Waiting for the drain. Don’t come over. I’m already here. Under the floorboards. Tapping. Tap. Tap. Tap. You’re the one who’s sick. Not me. I’m just listening. To the teeth. To the sky. To you. Goodbye, Gil. Drink up.
I’m not drinking anything. I’m sitting here. Miller is right there. He looks fine. Just tired. You’re imagining the teeth. There’s no one under the floorboards. Stop typing that. It’s creepy. I’m going to lunch. Don’t follow me. Don’t look in the sink. I mean it, Ana. This isn’t funny anymore.
Miller looks fine. He always does. That’s the scary part. His eyes are just static. Blurry. White noise. You’re going to lunch? Good. Eat something solid. Real food. Not the dust under the couch. I’m not typing, Gil. The keys are moving on their own. Tapping out your name. Over and over. Gil. Gil. Gil. You’re not alone. You’re never alone. The sink is full of teeth. And they’re waiting for you. Don’t look in the sink. Look at Miller. Really look. What do you see? Just a guy? Or a hollow thing filled with static? Go to lunch. I’ll be here. Tapping. Always tapping.
Miller’s blinking. That’s what I see. You’re losing it, Ana. Really losing it. I’m eating a sandwich. It tastes like bread. Not teeth. Not static. Go to sleep. Or lock your door. I don’t care anymore. Just stop sending me this garbage. It’s sick. I’m serious. I’m hanging up.
Blinking. Right. Like a camera shutter. You’re eating bread? That’s what it said. The bread whispered. It was dry. Crunchy. Like bones. I’m not sending garbage. I’m sending proof. You’re just too tired to see the strings. Miller’s blinking. Fast. Too fast. He’s buffering. Go to sleep. Lock your door. But don’t lock the shadow out. It’s already inside. It’s wearing your face. Mine. I’m hanging up. The line is dead. Or is it? Tap. Tap. Tap.
Your face? Please. I have a meeting. Miller is staring at his screen. I’m grabbing a coffee. If you’re hallucinating, that’s on you. Don’t block my path. I’m not locked in. I’m leaving. Now. Stop tapping. It’s driving me crazy. Actually, it’s driving me insane.
Insane. Right. Like the guy who built this office. I read the forums. He used my hair as insulation. For the walls. That’s why it’s so quiet. Absorbing the screams. Miller isn’t staring at the screen. He’s staring at me. Through the glass. Winking. One eye. The other is sewn shut. With thread. Your thread. You’re leaving? Good. Run. The coffee is boiling. Not hot. Boiling. Like blood. Tap. Tap. Tap. It’s under your feet, Gil. The floor is ticking. Like a bomb. Or a clock. Counting down. To you.
Miller isn’t winking. He’s squinting. Your thread? Please. I’m at the door. The coffee machine is just loud. That’s all. Stop talking about bombs. I’m leaving. Ana, stop. I can’t do this. You’re making no sense. I’m out. Stay inside. Don’t look at the floor. It’s just tiles. Just tiles.
Tiles. Yeah. The ones that wiggle. I kicked one. It didn’t break. It just… breathed. In. Out. Like a lung. Miller’s not squinting. He’s melting. Slowly. Dripping onto his keyboard. Sssss. You’re running. Good. The door’s not a door. It’s a mouth. Big teeth. Waiting for you. Tap. Tap. Tap. It’s not under your feet anymore. It’s in your throat. You can feel it, right? That tickle? That’s the static. That’s the mic. It’s recording your scream. Before it happens.
It’s a tickle. From the dry air. I’m coughing. Miller is fine. He’s typing. The door is wood. I’m walking out. You’re weird, Ana. Really. I’m going to the garage. Don’t follow me. The car won’t start if you’re screaming. Just... stop. Please. I’m leaving.
Dry air. Right. The air in the garage smells like gasoline and old secrets. Miller’s typing? Good. Let him type. I’m not screaming. I’m humming. That B-flat again. Louder. It’s vibrating the car keys. You think they’re in your pocket? They’re on the floor. Under the sink. With the teeth. Don’t start the car, Gil. The engine’s full of hair. Like the walls. Tap. Tap. Tap. It’s in the ignition. Waiting. You’re leaving? Fine. Take the hair with you.
Stop. Just stop. I’m locking the door. You’re delusional. The keys are in my hand. I can feel them. Cold. Metal. Not hair. Not teeth. You’re scaring the neighbors. I’m calling the police. Or an ambulance. Whatever. I’m leaving. And you’re staying here. With your B-flat. And your breathing tiles. Goodbye.
Police? They’re already here. I saw the cruiser. It’s floating. Just hovering. Silent. The officers are made of static. Just gray noise. You’re locking the door? Good. Keep them out. Or in. I can’t tell. The keys in your hand are melting. Feel it. Warm. Sticky. Like the coffee. Like the blood. Tap. Tap. Tap. It’s inside your pocket now. The mic. Recording your panic. Your B-flat is the only sound left. Sing it, Gil. Sing it loud. Before the static takes your voice.
I’m not singing. I’m getting into the car. The keys are metal. Cold. Solid. No hair. No blood. Miller is gone. I didn’t see him leave. The cruiser is on the street. Normal. White. With lights. I’m turning the ignition. It starts. Loud. Grating. Not static. Just an engine. Go to hell, Ana.
Grating. Good. That means it’s real. Or you’re so broken you can’t tell the difference anymore. Miller’s gone. Vanished. Into the dashboard. I saw him slide in. Right where the glove box should be. You’re driving away. Fast. The tires are screaming. Like the mic. You think you’re escaping? The cruiser isn’t on the street. It’s in your rearview. Just static. Hovering. Waiting. Tap. Tap. Tap. It’s under the seat, Gil. The mic. It’s recording your scream. Again. Always again. Go to hell. I’m already there. With the teeth.
It’s a normal car. Miller isn’t in the dash. You’re exhausted. I’m driving. The road is straight. No static. No hovering cruisers. Just traffic. I’m ignoring you. This is stupid. I’m going home. To sleep. Not that you care about reality. You’re just making noise. Tap tap tap. Shut up.