The Suncrest Silence

Suncrest is perfect. The lawns are a uniform, emerald green. The hedges are sculpted into polite, geometric shapes. The houses, all in varying shades of beige and grey, look like they were grown, not built. Everyone is friendly. *Too* friendly. They smile with all their teeth, their eyes never quite catching up. They ask about your day and don’t listen to the answer.

And every single night, without fail, the same rule echoes through the streets at 8:55 PM from the community loudspeakers: “The Quiet Place Protocol commences in five minutes. Please conclude all activities. A restful night to all.”

From 9:01 PM to 6:59 AM, absolute silence reigns.

I’ve lived here my whole sixteen years. We’re taught the Protocol from the crib. No crying. Walk on the balls of your feet to avoid creaky floors. Swallow your sneezes. Whisper only if you must, and even then, directly into someone’s ear. The story is that the developers discovered a rare, sound-sensitive shale deep underground. Too much noise at night could trigger a catastrophic landslide, swallowing the entire community.

I used to believe it. Every kid does. It’s the bedrock of our existence, more solid than the fake adobe walls of our homes.

But lately, the perfection has started to feel like a cage. The silence doesn’t feel protective; it feels predatory.

My parents change at 9:01 PM. Their pleasant, vacant smiles vanish, replaced by a tense, listening alertness. They don’t read or watch silent movies. They just sit in the dark, living room, their heads cocked, waiting. For what?

I think the shale story is a lie.

### [ENTRY: SEPTEMBER 20TH]

I’ve started testing the edges.

Last week, I dropped a spoon in the kitchen at 10:23 PM. The *clang* was so violently loud in the dead air it felt like I’d set off a bomb. My parents were in the living room in an instant. They didn’t look angry. They looked terrified. Their faces were white, their eyes wide.

“Elara,” my father whispered, his voice a strained, papery thing. “What have you done?”

“It was an accident,” I whispered back, my heart hammering.

They didn’t yell. They just stood there, frozen, listening to the silence that had rushed back in to fill the space left by the sound. They listened for a full five minutes, barely breathing. When nothing happened, the tension drained from their shoulders, replaced by a profound, weary disappointment.

“Be more careful,” my mother said, her voice flat. “The Protocol keeps us safe.”

Safe from what? They never say.

### [ENTRY: SEPTEMBER 28TH]

I’ve seen them leave.

Two nights ago, I couldn’t sleep. At 2:17 AM, I heard the faintest click of the front door. I crept to my window and peeled back the corner of the blackout blind.

My parents were outside, dressed in their dark bathrobes. They weren’t alone. Mr. and Mrs. Henderson from next door were there too. And the Millers from across the street. They moved in a silent, single-file procession down the sidewalk, their footsteps making no sound on the pavement. Their faces were blank, utterly empty. They looked like sleepwalkers.

Where were they going? The Protocol forbids being outside after 9:01 PM. The rule is drilled into us. It’s the one absolute.

My curiosity is now a burning coal in my chest. I have to know.

Tonight, I’m going to follow them.

### [ENTRY: SEPTEMBER 29TH – 2:45 AM]

I did it. I broke the Protocol.

I waited until I heard the click of my parents’ door. I pulled on black clothes and slipped my feet into soft-soled shoes. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs, so loud I was sure it would violate the silence all on its own.

I eased my window open, millimeter by millimeter, wincing at every tiny sigh of the frame. I dropped onto the dew-wet grass, freezing again, listening. Nothing.

I saw them then, a river of dark robes flowing down the center of the street. Dozens of them. Every adult in Suncrest. They moved with a unified, eerie purpose. I followed, sticking to the shadows of the porches, my breathing shallow.

They weren’t heading for the unstable cliffs on the north side, where the supposed shale is. They were moving inward, toward the community’s heart: the town square, with its manicured garden and pointless, ornate clock tower.

I ducked behind a large ornamental shrub at the edge of the square and looked out.

The scene I witnessed will be burned into my mind forever.

The entire adult population of Suncrest was gathered there, standing in neat, orderly rows. They weren’t talking. They weren’t interacting at all. They were just… standing. Their faces were tilted up toward the night sky, their features slack, their eyes open but unseeing. They were utterly motionless. Waiting.

This wasn’t a ritual. It wasn’t a meeting. It was an absence. It was as if their minds had been switched off and their bodies had been left on standby, pointed at the sky.

What were they waiting for? A signal? A judgment? A sign?

The sheer wrongness of it, the silent, mass conformity, made me feel sick. This was the secret. This was the price of our perfect, quiet safety. The adults surrendered themselves every night. They became a community of vacant shells, staring at the stars.

A cold dread, deeper than any fear of a landslide, washed over me. I took a step back. My foot came down on a brittle twig.

The *snap* was like a gunshot in the profound silence.

Every single head in the square snapped down in perfect unison. Hundreds of blank, empty faces turned toward my hiding spot. The movement was so sudden, so mechanical, it wasn’t human.

There was no shouting. No anger. Just a silent, collective focus. I was a flaw in their perfect, quiet pattern. An error to be corrected.

I ran.

I didn’t look back. I flew across lawns, my soft shoes skidding on the damp grass. I could hear them behind me. Not the sound of pursuit—there was no pounding of feet, no cries of alarm. That would break the Protocol. It was the sound of rustling robes, a sinister, whispering tide flowing through the streets, cutting off my escape routes. They were herding me.

I scrambled through a backyard, vaulted a low fence, and saw the one place they might not follow: the old Anderson place on the corner. It’s been empty for a month, since the Andersons “moved to be closer to family.” The For Sale sign is still out front.

I wrenched open the patio door (why was it unlocked?) and fell inside, slamming it shut behind me. I crouched in the dark, empty living room, peering through the blinds.

They were outside. A silent ring of my neighbors, my teachers, my parents, standing shoulder-to-shoulder around the property. Just standing. Waiting. Their faces were no longer blank. Now, they held a patient, terrible purpose. They didn’t need to break in. They knew I had nowhere to go. They would wait until 6:59 AM, when the Protocol ended and they could become “themselves” again and come in to retrieve me.

What will they do then? Will I become like the Andersons? Will I be “moved away”? Or will I be taken to the square to stand with them, to have whatever makes me *me* quietly, efficiently erased so I can become another placid, sky-facing shell?

The silence is absolute. I can hear the blood roaring in my own ears. I am writing this by the light of my phone, hidden in this empty house. I am a single, loud heartbeat in a town of perfect, quiet stillness.

I thought the silence was something we maintained. I was wrong. The silence is something that *maintains us*. It’s a alive thing, and we are its prisoners. And I have just become its primary focus.

The clock on the wall ticks. It’s 4:32 AM.

Two hours and twenty-seven minutes until the silence ends.

And my world ends with it.