They Hear You When You Speak"

Sound of Silence

The village of Daryabad was like any other — quiet, forgotten, and shrouded in fog more often than not. But something unspoken lurked within its silence. People didn’t talk about it, not aloud at least. They knew better.

Years ago, an old radio tower deep in the woods had suddenly started broadcasting — even though it had been abandoned for decades. The signal was faint, but those who listened… changed.

And then they vanished.

No screams. No struggle. Just… gone.

---

Aanya, a curious young journalist, heard whispers of Daryabad and its disappearing people. She was tired of chasing social stories in the city. She wanted something real — something horrifying.

So, one cold morning, she packed her bag, camera, recorder, and flashlight — and boarded a bus to Daryabad.

When she arrived, the town was deathly still. No cars. No market. Just closed shutters, cracked windows, and eyes peeking through curtains. No one greeted her. No one smiled. But everyone looked afraid.

She knocked on the door of a local schoolteacher, Ms. Razia, one of the few names she had found online.

Ms. Razia looked pale, her voice barely audible. “You shouldn’t have come here, child. The silence here isn’t empty. It’s listening.”

Aanya laughed nervously. “What do you mean?”

The woman stared into her eyes. “Don’t talk. Don’t scream. Don’t play music. If you make noise, they hear you.”

---

That night, Aanya couldn’t sleep. The small guesthouse room she had rented creaked with every gust of wind. She opened her recorder and whispered, “Day one — the people are paranoid. There's talk of voices and silence. Likely folklore... or maybe something darker.”

Suddenly, she heard static.

Her recorder — though switched off — buzzed faintly. Then a voice, warped and whispering:

> "We hear you."

She dropped it. Her heart pounded.

The radio in the room — old and unplugged — came to life.

> “Ssssshhh... Don't run. Just listen.”

Aanya backed into the wall, eyes wide. The air grew cold, her breath visible. She grabbed the recorder, turned it off, and shoved it in her bag.

But it was too late.

---

The next morning, she found claw marks outside her door. Blood smeared on the handle. And a single word scratched into the wood:

> “QUIET.”

Terrified but determined, she ran to Ms. Razia’s house.

“They’ve marked you,” the old woman said, trembling. “They only need to hear you once. They are not ghosts. They’re… echoes. Forgotten voices of the dead. Anyone who breaks the silence — even a whisper — wakes them.”

Aanya’s hands shook. “What can I do?”

“Leave. Before the sun sets.”

But Aanya had made the mistake already — she had spoken, she had recorded, she had been heard.

---

At dusk, she packed her things and rushed into the woods toward the old radio tower. She needed proof. If she could get a recording of the frequency, maybe someone would believe her. Maybe it would matter.

The deeper she went, the quieter the world became.

No birds. No wind. Just… pressure. Like being underwater.

And then, she saw it — the tower, rusted and overgrown. At its base was an old radio console, dusty and still… until she stepped closer.

Suddenly, the speakers crackled. Her name echoed, distorted:

> “Aaaan–yaaaa… you talked… you woke us…”

She screamed.

It was a mistake.

The silence shattered.

---

From the shadows, twisted figures began to emerge — not walking, but drifting, as if sound itself carried them. Their faces were blank, their mouths open as if stuck in a forever scream, yet they made no noise.

Only the air screamed.

Aanya ran, heart hammering. Branches clawed her arms, her face. Her shirt soaked in blood. She tripped, fell, and gasped — and again, her voice broke the air.

They were right behind her.

She crawled toward the road, eyes wide, lips trembling.

And then — silence.

---

They didn’t drag her away. They didn’t tear her apart.

They just took her voice.

The next morning, a villager found her sitting at the edge of the woods, staring blankly, blood on her hands.

Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Not even a breath.

She was alive — but unheard.

---

Back in the city, her story was never told. Her camera had no footage. Her recorder — erased. All that remained was a single, torn page from her journal, found near the tower:

> “The Sound of Silence isn’t quiet.

It listens.

And when you speak… it answers.”