Rigging the Sound

Competence is a rhythm you never truly unlearn, even when you’re being hunted by your own reflection. I sat in the center of the dark Foley pit, the smell of rotting cabbage and wet soil serving as my only reality in a world made of projections. Graham was upstairs, playing the part of the grieving saint for the Sylvan Hills Preservation Committee, and the neighbors were on the lawn, clutching their candles like they were waiting for a miracle. Or a snuff film.

I didn't have time for their script.

I moved to the sound booth, my bare feet silent on the gravel. The red paint from Gavin’s tripwire was dry on my skin, a crusty reminder that I was supposed to be the casualty. I ignored the monitors showing the "vigil" on the lawn. I ignored the way Sarah was preening in the guest room, adjusting her white silk dress to match the Merritt the world wanted to bury.

I reached for the soundboard.

It was a custom-built SSL Origin, a piece of high-end kit that Graham had bought me during our "honeymoon" period—the first calibration. I ran my fingers over the faders. They felt cool, solid, and undeniably mine. This was my domain. In this booth, I wasn't transparent. I was the architect of every breath, every footstep, every snap of a dry branch.

I bypassed the local lockout. Toby had taught me how to do it during a long night of recording "haunted house" ambiences. *Bypassing the administrator.* I felt a jolt of pride that Graham’s digital net was only as strong as the person who wired it. And he had hired me to do the wiring.

"Tell me, Merritt," Graham’s voice whispered from the monitors, the Director’s voice from the recording I’d hidden in the dead plant. "Do you want to know who really started the fire?"

I didn't answer. I just dragged the file into the DAW.

*Graham_Eulogy_Practice_Take_4.wav*

It was a recording I’d made inadvertently months ago, back when I thought the "voice in the walls" was just my anxiety. It was Graham, sitting in his home office, practicing his performance for tonight.

*"She was always so fragile,"* his recorded voice murmured, perfectly modulated, dripping with a fake, sandalwood-scented grief. *"A ghost in our own home. I tried to anchor her, but the darkness was just... too heavy."*

I isolated the track. I cleaned the noise. I boosted the gain until the levels were hitting the red.

I set it on a loop.

Then I accessed the smart-home audio hub. Sylvan Hills was a conservation subdivision, which meant every house was equipped with high-fidelity, integrated exterior speakers for "emergency broadcasts" and "nature soundscapes."

I patched the loop into the main output for the neighborhood Safety Watch app.

I didn't stop there. I found the other files. The raw logs from the server room. The audio of Graham talking to Dr. Aris about the "restorative blend." The sound of him counting the trust fund payout while I was in the shower.

I mixed them together into a cacophony of betrayal. It was my best work. A soundscape of a meticulously managed murder.

I checked the time on the tablet Sarah had left me.

*00:03.*

*00:02.*

The neighborly vigil on the lawn was reaching its peak. I could see Lorna through the Clear Glass of the kitchen, her mouth moving in a silent prayer for my soul. Or for her mortgage payment.

I looked at the "on" light of the espresso machine.

I reached for the master fader.

"Time for your evaluation, Graham," I whispered.

I slammed the fader to the top.

The house didn't just play the sound. It screamed.

The integrated speakers erupted with Graham’s voice, 120 decibels of architectural grief blasted across the perfectly manicured lawns and into the AirPods of every live-tweeting neighbor.

*"...it’s a simple titration,"* Graham’s voice boomed, drowning out the soft jazz. *"By the time they find her in the cistern, the samples will show she was non-compliant. Aris has the affidavit ready."*

I watched the neighbors on the lawn. The candles wavered. Hands dropped GoPro sticks. Lorna froze, her white cast a stark mark against her black coat.

I looked at the kitchen monitor.

Graham—the real one, the tuxedo-clad monster with the eye patch—dropped his glass of Chablis. It shattered on the heated tile, a sound effect I didn't need to dub.

He looked at the ceiling. He looked at the speakers. He looked like a man who had just realized the call was coming from inside the house.

Sarah—the Replacement—burst into the kitchen. She was holding a Curved Blade, her face a mask of pure, astronomical audacity.

"Gavin!" she screamed. "Turn it off!"

But Gavin—or Graham, or whichever brother was currently failing the audition—couldn't. I had locked the system from the Foley booth. I was the administrator now.

I picked up the red metal truck from the floor of the pit.

I walked toward the basement stairs.

The house was vibrating with the sound of its own secrets. The hum of the ward was gone, replaced by the roar of the truth.

I reached the kitchen door. I pushed it open.

Graham and Sarah were standing in the middle of the room, silhouetted against the Clear Glass and the horrified faces of the neighborhood committee.

Graham turned toward me. His one good eye was wild, bloodshot, and full of a realization that was lowkey satisfying.

"Merritt," he rasped.

I didn't say anything. I didn't open my mouth. I just held up the box of matches.

I struck one.

The flame was bright, steady, and undeniably visible.

"The show is cancelled, Graham," I said, my voice finally breaking through the silence, sounding like the note that had shattered Northlake’s window. "And the sponsors are pulling their funding."

I pointed toward the front gate.

Through the black Smart Glass of the foyer, I saw the lights.

Not the red and blue of Vance’s patrol.

White lights. Heavy, industrial beams.

A fleet of black SUVs was pulling into the driveway, the logo of the Federal Bureau of Investigation visible on the lead vehicle.

"Toby didn't just upload to the news," I whispered, the adrenaline making my hand perfectly steady. "He uploaded to the SEC. And the DOJ. Turns out, Plot 4B Holdings was a bit of a communist parade of money laundering."

Graham took a step toward me, his hands reaching for the truck.

"Give it to me, Merritt. We can still fix this. We can spin it."

"There’s no more spin, Graham," I said. "There’s only the sound of the truth."

I looked at Sarah. She was backing away, the Curved Blade trembling in her hand.

"Tell me, Merritt," she whispered, her voice a cracked imitation of mine. "If you're the survivor... then who is the woman currently standing in the attic?"

I looked up at the ceiling, at the vent where Leo used to hide, and I heard it.

A sound.

A rhythmic, heavy thudding.

Like a heart beating.

Or a foot kicking against a wooden door.

I turned back to the manila folder Elena had dropped. I knelt down and picked up the photograph of the girl in the closet.

I flipped it over.

There was a coordinate written on the back.

*47.6062° N, 122.3321° W.*

I looked at the TV screen as it flickered one last time before Sarah slammed her blade into it.

It showed the linen closet. The door was open.

Inside, sitting on a pile of money and holding a curved blade to her own throat, was a woman.

She was wearing a white silk dress.

And she had my face.

But she also had a third eye, tattooed in the center of her forehead.

The Director’s voice boomed through the speakers, a final, visceral hook.

"Tell me, Merritt... do you want to meet the woman who bought the matches?"

The front door exploded.

The FBI flooded the foyer.

But as the officers reached for Graham, I saw him smile.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a remote.

"Season 2," he whispered.

He pressed the button.

The floor beneath me vanished.

I was falling.

Into the dark.

Toward the coordinate.

And as the water of the cistern rushed up to meet me, I heard the sound of the closet door clicking shut.

Behind me.

In the dark.

I reached out my hand and felt the cold, wet fabric of a white silk dress.

And then I felt the blade.

At my throat.

"Welcome home, Sister," a voice whispered in the dark.

The footsteps stopped above me. The hatch began to turn.