The morning after our small wedding, the sky hung low and gray over Burlington, Vermont. The air smelled of damp earth and burned leaves — the kind of smell that makes you feel both alive and buried at once.
James Parker moved about our modest kitchen with deliberate rhythm, each step uneven but sure, the soft thump of his cane marking time between the clinks of dishes. “Coffee?” he asked.
I nodded. His calmness unsettled me — or maybe it was the quiet that followed every word.
In my mother’s eyes, this marriage was salvation. “He’ll take care of you,” she had said, her thin fingers brushing mine. “He’s steady. You need steady.”
But I had begun to suspect that steadiness hides as much danger as chaos.
James and I shared coffee by the window. He smiled faintly, eyes tracing the drizzle outside. “I’ve wanted this for a long time,” he said. His tone wasn’t sentimental. It was measured, like a man ticking something off a list.
I smiled, though I wasn’t sure if I meant it. “Me too.”
He looked at me then, his blue-gray eyes sharpening. “You don’t have to lie, Sarah. I know you didn’t marry me for love.”
The honesty cut through me. “James, I—”
He raised a hand. “It’s alright. You’ll love me eventually.”
He said it like a fact, not a hope.
Weeks passed in a gentle monotony. James worked in his workshop at the back of the house — a cluttered space filled with circuit boards, wires, and flickering monitors. At night, I’d find him hunched over some half-finished project, light spilling over his focused face.
Sometimes he’d mutter to himself — not words, exactly, but low hums, syllables that sounded like code spoken aloud.
“Fixing things helps me think,” he told me once. “You can make anything work again if you understand how it broke.”
But the house carried a different kind of hum at night. Faint electric whirs. Soft clicks. Sometimes, I’d wake to see a subtle glow under the door of his workshop — even at three in the morning.
Once, I peeked inside.
He was soldering something — a metal frame about the size of a typewriter, but more intricate, with small rotating lenses that caught the light. He didn’t notice me watching. His hands moved fast, precise. On the workbench, I saw a photo of myself — printed, cut neatly, pinned to the wall.
When he finally looked up, I stepped back too quickly. He smiled as if nothing were strange. “Curious, are you?”
I forced a laugh. “Just wondering what you’re building.”
He wiped his hands. “A memory machine,” he said softly. “Something that helps me hold on to what matters.”
One afternoon, his mother fell ill. The house smelled of broth and menthol as James cared for her, silent and patient. I offered help, but he refused gently each time.
When she passed three weeks later, the house fell utterly silent. James didn’t cry. He simply shut the door to her room and didn’t speak for two days.
On the third morning, I woke to the sound of static — a faint whisper coming from the living room.
James sat there, motionless, the television tuned to snow. His cane leaned against the sofa. The same soft static filled the air — like whispers in reverse.
“She’s not gone,” he murmured.
I hesitated. “James…?”
He turned to me, and I saw something in his eyes I hadn’t before — fevered devotion. “She’s still here. I can hear her. The machine picked it up.”
“What machine?”
He gestured toward the hallway. I followed him to his workshop.
The thing he’d been building was complete now. It looked like a fusion of old radio equipment and surgical tools, all connected to a sleek black box humming with blue light.
He placed a small metal headset on the bench. “When you listen through this,” he said, “you can hear what’s beyond.”
“Beyond what?” I asked.
He smiled faintly. “Death.”
I laughed, thinking it a bad joke. But the way his eyes fixed on mine made my breath catch.
“Try it,” he said.
“No.”
“Sarah,” he said quietly, almost pleading. “You need to hear her. She forgives you. For not visiting enough. For not caring like I did.”
A chill rippled down my spine.
“How could she forgive me?” I whispered.
“Because she told me so,” he said, voice steady. “Last night.”
That night, I dreamed of static — of whispers bleeding through rain. When I woke, James wasn’t beside me. Light leaked from under the workshop door again.
I pushed it open.
He was sitting in the dark, wearing the headset. The machine’s glow painted his face pale blue. His mouth moved slowly, as though in conversation.
“James?” I whispered.
He didn’t react. I stepped closer and touched his shoulder. He flinched violently — the headset falling to the floor.
The moment it hit, a burst of static filled the room — and then, for half a second, I heard it.
A woman’s voice. Low, trembling.
“Sarah…”
I stumbled back. James grabbed my arm. “She wants to speak to you!”
“No, James—”
“She’s been waiting!” His grip tightened. “Put it on!”
I shoved him away. He fell against the bench, the machine teetering before crashing to the ground. Sparks flared — and the static stopped.
The silence that followed was heavier than anything I’d ever known.
James stared at the smoking wreckage. Then, slowly, he looked at me.
“You killed her,” he whispered.
“She’s gone, James.”
“No,” he said, voice trembling. “You’re wrong.”
He turned, limped toward the door, and left the house without another word.
He didn’t return that night. Or the next.
The police found his car two days later — parked by Lake Champlain, door open, keys still in the ignition. No sign of him.
The house was mine now.
I tried to pack his things, but the workshop door stuck halfway open. Inside, everything smelled faintly of solder and smoke. The broken machine lay in pieces — except for the headset.
Something inside me — curiosity, guilt, madness — made me pick it up.
I pressed it to my ears.
For a moment, there was only static. Then, faintly, a voice.
“Sarah…”
Not his mother’s voice.
James’s.
“Come find me,” it whispered. “It’s beautiful here.”
The static deepened, wrapping around his words like waves.
Then silence.
I tore the headset off and ran.
But that night, as the rain began to fall again, I could swear I heard his uneven footsteps on the porch.
And through the window’s reflection — his shy, tender smile.
Waiting.