A Silent Fire Still Burns

Here, the waves do not crash.

The wind does not howl.

Not even a breath is taken.

Here, at the edge of everything.

I fall.

Quick reread of my case notes. John snores far too loud to even contemplate sleep. Instead, I'm treated to my own ambient mix of apnea induced wheezing, perfect for these twilight hours.

Entry 11

Preliminary reports indicate an "auditory absence" in a picturesque coastal cottage. Seems a little ill-defined, but hopefully I'll be able to shed some light on the anomaly once I arrive. Bunch of case names thrown about. "Pindrop". "Soundhole". "Creation's maw". The kind of stuff that would make pre-teens giggle. Think they settled on "The Furnham Void". Named after the literal location. Bit mundane if you ask me, especially seeing as they completely ignored my personal favourite "Who accidentally pressed the mute button on my house?".

Got me thinking... what if the sound is being transmuted into something else entirely? I should investigate signs of energy conversion.

On that note, I am slightly wary of what it could be feeding...

Ample amounts of drone footage. My in-flight entertainment. Pages of analysis regarding objects recovered from the scene. Nothing of substance. Atomic structure maintained, no foreign elements detected. A laundry list of the unremarkable. For all intents and purposes this is a normal house, physically speaking.

Deliberate obfuscation to detract focus? From what? Tech malfunction is easily explained, but that presents an issue on the human end... Possible biological component? A sensory response to a trace chemical agent? Psychosomatic even?

I'm abuzz with excitement.

Entry 12

Sentry records a constant hotspot. About 38 °C. In a room furnished like a nursery. The temperature of the human body. Wonder if I'll find a giant heart in the lounge, before the walls stream red.

First hand account of the anomaly's discovery from two 14 year old males recovered at the scene. Opportunists enticed by an unlocked door. Back and forth of the youths calling out, producing no sound at all. Mildly incoherent due to panic? Illegible handwriting? Follow up with PC. Phenomenon unable to be replicated exterior to the cottage. Caused enough distress for them to contact the police (no doubt against their predisposed inclinations) who then reached out to us. Lucky me, at least I get to share this particular headache.

External report.

[Initial observations of civilian duo (P. Smithson, A. Laghari) and PC M. Cole - No adverse effects. The picture of health. The picture. Remain in medical isolation until advisement.]

Unable to ascertain the exact length of time regarding anomaly occurrence. Whilst waiting for my arrival, John interviewed nearby residents, all assured there is simply no cottage at the cliff's edge. Perimeter established to ensure anomaly is not compromised, no discernible risk presented to local populace.

Satellite imagery confirms interview testimony, this place did not exist some 5 months ago. Sheer cliff, lapping waves, no manmade structures whatsoever. Honestly, it'd make a good screensaver.

Then out of the blue, dated Jan 11, visual evidence recorded by LAND-NAV 9. John did some more background... Apparently, there was a cottage here. This exact spot. But it fell into the sea decades prior. December 89. Made the news. Hazy footage. Hairspray and a brilliant white smile. Safety warning advising everyone to stay away. Remnants of the cottage are visible in the background, a few errant bricks, undetermined detritus. Like land flotsam. Unsure if it's the result of some sort of... cosmic joke, but even the door frame remained, perched on the edge of the cliff. Like a surrealist art piece. Fell in days later, succumbed to the pull.

Incident is even referenced in the "Furnham Echo" Newspaper archive. Apparently the place had gotten quite popular as a love nest for local delinquents, something about the view that got the fires burning. Spend a night philosophizing over life's dualities in an abandoned, unheated deathtrap of a cottage. Perfect date if you ask me. Public interest piece claiming it was lucky that no one had died.

Not like they searched the depths, so how would they know?

Entry 13

Today's the day. Get to experience this trickery for myself. Few hours observation, doubtful anything more is warranted.\\

END OF LOG

I pace back and forth, checking my suit seals and gear for what must be the tenth time. Tether is maintained. John's on the other end, reading data. My super smart, 250 pound baby. I give the cord a good lead.

Knock knock.

Can confirm the door remains open. No locks on either side.

Muffled reassurance ceases entirely upon crossover of the threshold, profound distinction from where I came from, to where I am now.

Comms are dark. We knew that going in. Still, the sensation of speech being robbed, feels deeply alien. Brief shake from the vocal cords, tension in the ears. Evoking the numbness of a prolonged stint underwater. A drowning, stretched over hours. So long you wouldn't even know you were dying.

It's quant. Homely even. The type of domain an elderly shut-in could obsess over. Wood grain and pastel tones. Inoffensive. Dare I say... neutered. Instinctual glance at the grandfather clock in the hallway. Time's stopped, or rather the recording of its passing did. All within read 23:59. Fear the midnight hour.

There are no visible signs of life.

No occupants, system reads no documentation filed to signal ownership.

No food in the fridge. No plants or pets. No pictures on the walls.

The table is made. Expectantly. Empty plates... Am I the meal?

Along the window, an assembly of ceramic figures. The virgin mother beset by a backdrop of rolling hills. Part of me wants to turn their dead eyes away.

This is the image of a thing, a conveyance of a reality shaped, but not lived. It is an inherently cold visitation, laden with the artifice of a stage. Could one rope pull force the facade to collapse? In any case, I'd need to find it...

I turn to a bookshelf. Gripped by curiosity I silently flip through the leather bound volume. No words. No text at all. Entirely blank, like uncovered bone. I hold the book out and shake it, falsely expecting a few motes of dust. I let it fall to the floor, waiting for a thud that never arrives. Place would make a fortune as a library... Pending a restock of course...

This building just shouldn't be.

It's ripples on a surface, no depth beyond that dancing reflection. I wonder, could I still drown?

Who presents this corpse, painted for its final showing? Wheeled before my eyes. In my soul alone is this dread induced? There's no change in atmosphere, composition, pressure or any other metric that would signal an immediate threat to my security... So why am I rapt in worry?

I'm surrounded by this perfect recreation, as if pulled from a photograph. Transcribed even. Lacking of any emotional resonance. A deeply dead thing... The auditory vacuum is no accident or quirk of nature, it's the considered erasure of our intrinsic expression. But where does the sound go? And worse, what hears it? This testament to erosion. Not of the time weathered cliff face, pocked by salt. But of barriers once thought eternal. Thrown from time's first churning, in collisions of atomic wonder. Cooled, coalesced, tempered by the unseen and the unknown.

Into the immovable.

The immutable constraints that hold reality together.

Torn asunder by... something powerful...

I climb the stairs. Greeted by fluffy lambs with impossibly large eyes painted on the door. The Nursery. Sterile in the silence. Frozen. I check my equipment. The exothermic reaction increases. Nothing exponential, but a noted rise. 2-3 degrees every 45 seconds.

Then. A rock of the cradle.

I follow the slats down.

My cord is cut.

No idea when that happened.

The mobile starts to spin. The gentle sway of stars. Moisture increases in my suit. Beads of sweat follow the curves of my face. I can taste the salt...

I bound down the stairs, to find the door closed. My tether pooling underneath, the cut clean.

Movement, out the corner of my eye. The swing of the grandfather clock's pendulum.

The midnight lie arrives.

Everything begins to fall away. Paint is peeled back like skin. Bricks break and crumble, releasing clouds of pale red. Pages plucked from their spine, twist aloft. The image is strangely benign. Triggering no sort of immediacy on my part, as the architecture deconstructs with a considered calm. Each individual element arranged as if featured on an exhaustively detailed instruction manual.

I have no need for speech. I do not know what I would even say.

Gravity lessens and I am lifted over loose floorboards. Visible vibration across the objects, myself included.

I am pulled towards the sea. Down. Past floating clumps of dirt, as scraps of cottage scrape and claw at the cliff face. I rush towards the crashing tide, held inches away from the tumult of its surface. I do not see my reflection. No. I see something else.

A silent fire, buried beneath the waves. Soft silver flicker, an impossible ignition of mercury.

Within the flames.

The unfurl of curious limbs.

A scream, not heard, but felt.