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Elias lived for silence, which was why he bought the house at the end of Blackwood Lane. It was a crumbling Victorian, miles from the nearest neighbor. His only companion was an antique shortwave radio he’d found in the attic, its mahogany casing thick with dust.

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Heart hammering, Elias grabbed a flashlight and headed to the basement, where the main chimney flue ran. He pressed his ear to the brickwork. Silence. He returned to the radio, but the static was gone. In its place was a clear, live feed of his own heavy breathing. Click. Click. Click. Elias lived for silence, which was why he