We got the house for almost nothing. The agent said the price was low for a reason, then waited until we'd signed to explain. Every family who lived here stopped talking eventually. "Not moved away," she said. "Stopped speaking. All of them." That first night, my sister Mara and I sat in the empty living room. Whenever we spoke, the house went very still. Like it was leaning in to hear.

I wanted answers, so the next morning I drove to the library to dig up records on the house. The old clerk knew the address before I finished saying it. She slid a thick folder across the desk and whispered, "Read it here. Don't read it out loud."

Tucked in the folder was a faded photo of the house being built. A man stood out front holding a brass cone, like an old hearing trumpet. On the back someone had written: "He buried his listening machine under the floor so it would never go deaf." My stomach dropped. The thing wasn't the house. It was under it.

I reached for the machine, and the second my fingers touched the cold brass, every sound in the house stopped, even my own breathing in my ears. I yanked my hand back. Mara was shouting at me, I could see her mouth moving, but no sound reached me at all. The machine had taken my hearing instead of my voice. It always finds something to keep.