The Muted Set

July 5, 2026

by Reta

Three weeks after the incident at the lake house, I thought we had left it behind. My brother, Marcus, had practically moved into his friend’s place, and my parents were buried in their work. So the house felt emptier than usual, which suited me fine. I was curled on the couch, the glow of the television painting the room in pale blues, a bowl of cereal balanced on my knee. It was one of those nights where the silence was comfortable, the kind you don’t want to break.

Then, a door slammed upstairs. Not a gentle click, but a full-bodied slam, like a gust of wind had caught it. I froze, spoon halfway to my mouth. Marcus was out. My parents were at a conference. I told myself it was the cat—a stray we’d been feeding—but I knew that cat was too smart to get trapped in a room. I shrugged it off. He must have come back early.

Fifteen minutes later, another slam, followed by a low, rapid chattering. Not human. It was like teeth chattering or the rapid beat of a snare drum. The noise clawed at my focus. I yelled, ‘Shut up!’ The sound stopped dead. I waited, but there was only the hum of the fridge. I turned back to the show, but my heart was hammering.

Then something thudded above—heavy, like a body hitting the floor. Then another thud, and a scraping sound. I imagined Marcus moving furniture, but he was a quiet kid. I cranked the volume to drown it out. The counter clicked to 54, and the noise seemed to swell in response, as if the sound was feeding the thing. The door swung open and Marcus stood there, his face pale.

‘Turn it down,’ he said, his voice tight. ‘You can hear it from the street.’ I killed the TV. In the sudden silence, I heard a steady drip from the kitchen, and a faint rustle like pages turning in the dark. Marcus looked at me, his eyes wide. ‘The book,’ he whispered.

The book was lying at the bottom of the staircase, open to a page I’d never seen. It was leather-bound, the cover embossed with a strange spiral. I hadn’t put it there. Marcus hadn’t either. As I approached, the pages fluttered on their own, settling on a drawing of a house that looked exactly like ours, but with all the windows blacked out. Below it, in an old script, were the words: ‘When the set is muted, the voices speak.’

I looked up at the landing. The door to the spare bedroom was ajar, and from inside, I heard a soft, rhythmic tapping, like fingers drumming on a desk. The tapping grew louder, more insistent, and then stopped. A voice, not quite human, croaked from the darkness: ‘We’ve been waiting for you to listen.’

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