Chapter 1: The First Note

Chapter 1: The First Note

The air in the house was thick with the ghosts of forgotten decades—stale cigarette smoke, mildew, and the faint, sweet smell of rot. Leo Vance stood in the center of what would be his living room, a smear of white plaster on his cheek like a tribal marking. Around him, the tools of his new life lay scattered: a gleaming crowbar, unopened boxes of spackle, and a brand-new level that seemed to mock the slanted floorboards.

This was it. All his savings, every penny scraped together from years of freelance editing, sunk into this decaying slice of the American Dream on Wallace Street. From the outside, it was just another box in a row of identical, forgotten houses, a monument to a 1950s optimism that had long since curdled. The lawn was a tangle of brown weeds, the paint was peeling in leprous flakes, but it was his. His foundation. His escape from the instability of renting and the quiet judgment of his family, who saw his purchase as a fool's errand.

He just wanted stability. A place to put down roots, to finally feel the quiet pride of ownership. He ran a hand through his disheveled dark hair, the grit under his fingernails a satisfying testament to his labor. He could do this. He could beat the decay back, nail by nail, and build a home from this carcass.

A low groan echoed through the structure, the sound of old wood settling. Or something else. He’d been telling himself it was just the house’s age, but the sounds were becoming… idiosyncratic. Sometimes it was a low hum, like a distant generator. Other times, a wet, sighing sound from the pipes. He chose to ignore it. He was a rational man. Houses made noises. End of story.

He worked for an hour, prying a long, warped piece of baseboard from a wall. The wood came away with a splintering shriek, revealing wallpaper underneath depicting cheerful, faded sailboats. Beneath that, the plaster was dark with a moisture stain that looked unpleasantly like a bruise. He made a mental note: Check for leaks in the east wall.

The rhythmic thud of his hammer was a comfort, a proclamation of his presence. He was imposing his will on this place. With every nail he drove, he was claiming it. The work was grueling, and sweat dripped from his brow, but it was honest. It was real.

Eventually, thirst drove him outside. The afternoon sun was weak, casting long, distorted shadows down the empty street. Most of the houses on Wallace Street were boarded up, their windows like vacant eyes. A few, like his, showed signs of reluctant life, but he hadn’t seen a single neighbor. The quiet was absolute, broken only by the whisper of wind through the dead lawns. It was an unnerving stillness, the kind that follows a catastrophe.

His gaze fell on the mailbox at the curb. A rusty, black tin box on a leaning post. He hadn’t set up mail forwarding yet, so he wasn’t expecting anything. Probably just junk mail for the previous owner, a Mr. Miller, who the realtor had vaguely described as having been ‘moved to a facility.’

He flipped open the squealing lid. Inside, nestled in a bed of cobwebs and dead leaves, was a single, folded piece of paper. Not an envelope. Just a note. It was yellowed, the edges soft as cloth, as if it had been there for fifty years. His brows furrowed. He was certain the box had been empty when he’d first inspected the property.

He unfolded it. The handwriting was a spidery, frantic scrawl in faded black ink.

IT HEARS THE HAMMER. IT FEELS THE NAILS. MAKE IT STOP.

Leo’s blood went cold for a second before his rationalism kicked in, a familiar defense mechanism. A prank. Had to be. Some local kids messing with the new guy who was foolish enough to buy a house in their ghost town. Still, his heart was thumping a little too hard. He read the last line, three words scrawled at the bottom, separate from the rest.

CLINK. CLINK. CLINK.

What the hell did that mean? He stared at the empty houses across the street, looking for any sign of movement, any giggling teenagers hiding in the overgrown shrubs. Nothing. The silence was absolute. He cracked his knuckles, a nervous habit he couldn’t shake. Annoyed, he crumpled the note into a tight ball and shoved it into his pocket, the crinkle of the old paper unnervingly loud.

“Get a grip, Vance,” he muttered, his voice sounding small in the vast quiet. It was just a stupid note. He had real work to do.

He went back inside, slamming the door a little too hard. The sound was swallowed by the house, absorbed into its strange silence. He tried to get back into the rhythm of his work, to focus on the tangible reality of wood and plaster. But the words from the note echoed in his head. IT HEARS THE HAMMER. IT FEELS THE NAILS. He picked up the hammer, its weight suddenly feeling different, more consequential. He hesitated, then slammed a nail home with three sharp, defiant blows.

The house answered.

CRASH!

The sound came from directly above him. It wasn't the groan of settling wood or the sigh of old pipes. It was the sharp, violent sound of something heavy hitting the floor. A visceral, definitive impact that vibrated through the soles of his boots.

Leo froze, hammer still in hand. His first thought was that a squatter had been hiding in the attic. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden, ringing silence. He was alone out here. No neighbors to call for help.

“Hello?” he shouted, his voice cracking. “Is someone up there?”

Only the dust motes dancing in the slanted light answered him.

Fear warred with the angry, protective instinct of a new homeowner. This was his house. He grabbed the heavy crowbar, its cold steel a small comfort. He crept towards the narrow staircase, each creak of the floorboards under his weight sounding like a gunshot.

The upstairs was a mirror of the downstairs: small, boxy rooms and peeling paint. The crash had come from the master bedroom at the end of the hall. The door was ajar. He nudged it open with the tip of the crowbar.

The room was empty, just as he’d left it. Bare floors, a single window looking out over the dead backyard. No broken shelves, no fallen fixtures. Nothing out of place.

Except for the thing in the middle of the floor.

It was a radio. An old, hulking tabletop model from the 1950s, with a dark, polished bakelite shell and a large, fabric-covered speaker grille that looked like a screaming mouth. It sat perfectly centered in the room, as if it had been placed there for display.

Leo stared, his mind refusing to process what he was seeing. He hadn’t brought a radio like this into the house. All his belongings were still in sealed boxes downstairs. This thing was an antique, heavy and solid. It hadn’t been here an hour ago. He was sure of it. He had swept this very room himself.

He cautiously approached it, his eyes darting to the ceiling. The only way into this room, other than the door, was a small, square hatch leading to the attic. He looked from the radio to the hatch and back again. The radio was a good two feet wide. The attic hatch couldn’t be more than eighteen inches.

It was impossible.

There was no physical way for this object to be in this room. It hadn't fallen from the attic. It hadn’t been carried through the door. It had simply… appeared.

He reached out a trembling hand and touched the bakelite casing. It wasn't dusty. It was clean, and cool to the touch. In his pocket, he felt the sharp edges of the crumpled note. The silence of the house pressed in on him, no longer empty, but watchful and intelligent. He looked at the impossible radio, then at the hammer in his other hand.

IT HEARS THE HAMMER.

He was no longer just renovating a house. He was trespassing in something else's territory. And it was starting to communicate.