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.

Mara refused to be scared by a house. That night she stood in the hallway and shouted, "If you can hear me, do something!" The lights stayed on. Nothing moved. But the air went thick, and somewhere in the walls there was a soft sound, like a held breath being let out slowly.

Mara dared it again, louder. "Take my voice then! Try!" And the house answered, not by taking, but by giving. A whisper came from every wall at once, repeating her words back in her own voice. She went pale. "That's not me," she breathed. "I didn't say it twice."

Instead of running, Mara did the brave, stupid thing. She started talking over the whisper, louder and faster, telling it a long boring story about her day until the echo couldn't keep up. The whispering stumbled, then faded. "It can only copy," she panted. "It can't keep up if we never stop." So we didn't. We talked it to death.