The Static in the Stems

The house on Mulberry Lane had always been too quiet. That’s why I bought the speakers. After my grandmother passed, I inherited the place—a creaking Victorian with peeling wallpaper and a cellar that smelled of wet earth. The silence was deafening, pressing against my ears like a physical weight. So I set up my computer in the parlor, plugged in the new speakers I’d gotten for my birthday, and filled the rooms with music.

It started three weeks ago. I’d play my usual playlist—old jazz, classical, some ambient stuff—at half volume, just enough to feel the bass thrum through the floorboards. The speakers were a gift from my friend Lena, sleek black towers with a small remote that had only one button for power and a scroll wheel for volume. The green LED on the speakers blinked to life every time I pressed it, a tiny emerald eye in the gloom.

At first, the music was soothing. But then, around week two, I began to notice something odd. Between tracks, in the quiet gaps, I’d hear whispers. Not intelligible words, just soft, sibilant murmurs, like the rustle of dry leaves. I chalked it up to my imagination, or maybe the old wiring in the walls. But one night, as a piano sonata faded out, I distinctly heard a woman’s voice say, “Turn it off.”

I froze. The voice had come from the speakers, I was sure of it. I fumbled for the remote, pressed the power button. The green light went dark. The room fell into silence, but now the silence felt alive, like something was listening. I told myself it was a radio signal bleed, some pirate broadcast interfering with the speaker’s receiver. But the speakers were wired, not wireless.

The next evening, I decided to test something. I played a track I knew well—a song by a French band I loved, with no lyrics. Midway through, I heard a man’s voice, low and gravelly, saying, “She’s coming down the stairs.” I spun around, but the staircase was empty. The music continued, oblivious. My heart hammered. I hit the remote off, but the music kept playing. I had to pull the plug from the wall.

After that, the phenomena escalated. I’d wake up at 3 AM to the sound of static hissing from the speakers, though they were unplugged. I’d see the green light flicker from the corner of my eye, but when I looked, it was off. I became paranoid. I covered the speakers with a thick quilt, but the whispers only grew clearer. They no longer seemed random. They seemed to respond to my actions.

One night, I decided to confront it. I sat in the parlor, the speakers bare, the remote in my hand. I pressed the power button. The green light glowed. I turned the volume to halfway and played a track. As the first chords rang out, a chorus of voices surged from the speakers, layered and overlapping, all saying in unison, “Get out.”

The music distorted, bending into a dissonant wail. I covered my ears, but the sound seemed to bypass my hands, drilling into my skull. Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped. The green light flickered and died on its own. In the silence, I heard a slow, deliberate creak from the hallway—the sound of footsteps, heavy and dragging, coming toward the parlor door.

I ran. I grabbed my coat and keys, dashed out the front door, and drove to a motel ten miles away. I spent the night there, shaking, the image of those speakers burned into my mind. When I returned the next morning, the house was quiet. The speakers were still there, unplugged, the quilt draped over them. I decided to get rid of them. I carried them to the curb, hoping a junk collector would take them.

But as I set them down, the remote fell out of my pocket. Without thinking, I pressed the power button. The green light flashed once, and a voice—clear and cold, not muffled—said, “Thank you for bringing us home.”

I look at my hands. I’m still holding the remote. The speakers are back in my living room, plugged in, even though I never brought them inside. The green light is on. And I can hear music, faint, from somewhere deep within the house. Only it’s not my playlist. It’s a lullaby, sung by my grandmother’s voice, along with a dozen others I don’t recognize. And they’re all singing my name.