Stonemouth High was a block of red brick that seemed to absorb Maine’s gray light rather than reflect it. More than a school, it looked like a fortress built to keep reality outside the gates. Or maybe to keep the kids inside.

  ?Tony found Cristy standing near the old oak in the courtyard, where the asphalt was buckled by roots.

  She wasn't looking at her phone. She was staring into the void, arms crossed tightly over her chest as if she were cold, despite the leather jacket.

  When Tony approached her, he noticed immediately that something was wrong. It wasn't the usual tiredness. Her eyes were red, circled by shadows that foundation couldn't hide.

  ?"Hey," Tony said, slowing his pace. "Everything okay? You look..."

  He stopped. Destroyed wasn't the right word. She looked hollowed out.

  ?Cristy spun around, as if waking from a nightmare. For a second Tony saw naked desperation in her gaze, then the shutters came down. Cristy straightened her back and put on her usual mask, even if it was full of cracks.

  ?"Don't ask," she cut him short, voice raspy. "Let's just say diplomacy isn't my mother's strong suit. It's been a morning from hell."

  ?"Want to talk about it?"

  ?"No. Not now," she replied, running a nervous hand through her hair. "We have bigger problems than my mother playing financial dictator. And we're late."

  ?Tony nodded. He knew insisting was useless; Cristy handled pain by locking it in airtight boxes.

  "Let's go. Mr. Jhons will kill us if we walk in after the bell."

  ?The hallway smelled of floor wax and old books.

  When they entered the History classroom, thirty heads turned toward them. Professor Jhons, a man who seemed to dress only in tweed and pipe tobacco, stopped mid-sentence, chalk suspended over a map of 1944 Europe.

  ?"Mr. Flint. Miss Harrington," he said, lowering his glasses on his nose. "How kind of you to join us. We were just discussing supply logistics in the Ardennes. Please, sit. Quietly."

  ?They slipped into the back desks. Tony opened his notebook, but his mind was still three hundred feet underground. Cristy, however, didn't even open her book. She stared at the map on the board with feverish intensity. Her eyes darted from one date to another, calculating.

  Suddenly, she raised her hand.

  ?Jhons sighed, putting down the chalk. "Yes, Christina? I hope it's relevant."

  ?Cristy stood up. That wasn't like her. Usually, she answered sitting down, almost bored. But today she was trembling slightly.

  "Professor, regarding the domestic war effort. Here in Stonemouth. During World War II... were there expansion works in the graphite mines?"

  ?Someone snickered. "Nerd," a voice whispered in the front row.

  Tony stiffened in his chair. He understood immediately where she was going. The Tower. If that thing existed, someone had to have built it. And they needed a perfect cover.

  ?Professor Jhons arched an eyebrow, perplexed. He took off his glasses and cleaned them with his tie, buying time.

  "That is an unusual question, Christina," he admitted. "The answer is no."

  ?Cristy clenched her fists on the desk. "Are you sure? No expansion? No secret government extraction projects?"

  ?"Absolutely not," Jhons replied with a definitive tone. "On the contrary. In 1942, after a landslide, the entire mining complex was declared unstable. It was closed and sealed by federal order. No one entered or left those tunnels for the duration of the conflict. Those were years of total silence."

  ?Cristy sat down slowly, as if someone had removed her skeleton.

  Closed.

  The word clashed violently against the reality of the Tower. A structure like that doesn't grow like a mushroom in the dark. It requires men, materials, energy.

  If the mine was sealed in '42, then Stonemouth was sitting on a geological lie the size of a city.

  ?Professor Jhons leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. The air of a bored academic vanished, replaced by sudden gravity.

  ?"While we're on the subject, everyone," he said, lowering his voice. "Consider the mines and surrounding woods off limits."

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose, tired.

  "I assume you've read about Mr. Grant. The police haven't released statements, but it's clear it wasn't an accident. There is someone, or something, very dangerous out there. Until the area is cleared, stay away."

  ?A cold shiver ran down Tony's spine. Cleared. The professor was thinking of a human killer, but Tony thought of Grant's imploded eardrums and the hum he had heard in the clinic. The police were looking for a madman with a knife; they would never find what really killed the janitor.

  ?Jhons pointed to a stack of forms on his desk.

  "As for your historical curiosity, Christina," he added. "If your intention to participate in the Founders' Legacy Award is serious, registration grants a pass to the Historical Section of the library. Non-digitized paper records. If you're looking for answers about excavations, you'll find them there. Or you won't find them at all."

  ?When the bell rang, tearing the stale air, Tony and Cristy let themselves be dragged by the current to an alcove in the hallway.

  Tony pulled out his phone. His hands were still tingling, a phantom echo of the quartz.

  ?[T]: News? How are you?

  ?The three dots danced on the screen for an eternity.

  [A]: Bad. It's all quiet. Too quiet.

  ?Cristy read the message over Tony's shoulder. She pursed her lips. There was no time for grief. She took the phone from Tony's hands.

  ?[C]: The Haven. This afternoon. Bring everything. We need to line up what we know before we go crazy.

  ?[A]: Ok.

  ?"The library," Cristy murmured, handing back the phone. "Jhons said non-digitized records. Paper, Tony. You can't hack paper."

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  ?"Do you think we'll find who built the Tower?"

  ?"I think we'll find who lied," she replied, pushing off the wall. "And I have a feeling the list will be very long."

  ?A roar of coarse laughter interrupted their thoughts.

  Turning the corner, they saw Caleb Thompson backed against the wall. Around him, Billy Miller and his court were laughing.

  Paper balls hit Caleb's face with humiliating snaps.

  "Want some meatballs, Caleb?" Billy barked. "Huh? You hungry?"

  ?Tony’s hand snapped toward his right pocket.

  It was an involuntary reflex, fast as a snake bite. His fingers sought the irregular cold of the quartz. They sought the discharge. They sought the power to shut off that annoying noise.

  Fingers found only empty cloth.

  Tony froze, breath freezing in his throat. The quartz was at home.

  But the instinct was there.

  He looked at his empty hand with horror. For a fraction of a second, he hadn't thought of intervening. He had thought of using it. His body had sought the weapon before the word.

  ?Billy shoulder-checked a locker and walked away laughing, not noticing them.

  Caleb was picking up the paper balls, humiliated.

  "Caleb," Cristy said, approaching. "You okay?"

  The boy lifted a red face. "Yeah. Yeah, sure. They were just joking. Billy's like that, right?"

  Lying to himself to survive.

  "I gotta go," he said, and ran off without looking back.

  ?"Piece of shit," Cristy hissed.

  "Yeah," Tony murmured. But his anger was diluted by fear. He closed his hand into a fist, still feeling the phantom echo of the crystal. He was changing. And he didn't know if he liked it.

  ?The sun was a purplish bruise on the horizon when they reached City Hall Square.

  The skeleton of the old Majestic Cinema loomed dark against the sky. Alex was already there, sitting on the edge of the dry fountain. He didn't smile. Just a tired nod. The rigidity of his posture screamed that something inside him had died along with his dog.

  ?They moved toward the Majestic like a single organism, fast and silent.

  The service door was welded shut, but the ventilation grate was their secret passage.

  They slipped inside one after another.

  ?The belly of the Majestic welcomed them with its stale breath of old carpet. They crossed the deserted lobby, moved the false wall in the bathroom, and climbed the ladder into the dark.

  Cristy pushed the hatch in the ceiling.

  The air changed. No longer rot, but heated dust and secrecy.

  They were inside. The Haven.

  ?Tony closed the hatch, sealing out the world.

  Alex flipped the switch. Three strings of Christmas lights hung from the pipes came to life.

  The sanctuary was intact. In the center, the old Cinemeccanica Victoria 5 projector, polished to a mirror shine, reigned under its bluish LED light.

  On the walls, RoboCop posters, happy Polaroids, stolen velvet armchairs.

  On the shelf, the dock station played the low notes of Arctic Monkeys.

  ?But the real power was the slit.

  Tony looked out. From up there they dominated the square. They saw everything, but couldn't be seen. They were untouchable.

  ?The silence in the Haven lasted too little. Or maybe too long. It was a heavy silence, made of dead dogs and disappointing parents.

  Cristy shot up from the armchair. She couldn't stand that funereal static.

  "No," she said, shaking her head. "Absolutely not. Not tonight."

  ?She went to the dock station. Hit skip. Cranked the volume to max.

  The drum intro of R U Mine? exploded in the cramped room like a grenade.

  Cristy stood in front of Alex, pulling him up from the pouf with force.

  "We dance," she yelled over the music.

  ?"Cristy, I don't wanna..."

  ?"I said dance, Alex!"

  Cristy started jumping. It wasn't a dance, it was a violent nervous discharge. She stomped her heavy boots as if she wanted to smash through the floor.

  Alex remained rigid for three seconds.

  Then he looked at Tony. And Tony was laughing. A soundless laugh, lost in the rock noise. He got up too and started moving jerkily, mimicking an imaginary solo.

  ?Something broke inside Alex. The dam of pain gave way.

  He closed his eyes and let go.

  They danced like three maniacs suspended over nothing. Jumping, shoving each other, screaming the chorus at the top of their lungs, ferociously off-key. The bluish light cut their silhouettes creating monstrous shadows on the walls.

  It was an exorcism. They were sweating out the fear of the mine and the silence of Argo's death.

  ?Then Cristy grabbed the acid-green pillow.

  She threw it with perfect aim into Tony's face.

  Poof.

  Tony staggered laughing. He grabbed the red velvet pillow and hurled it at Alex, hitting Cristy in the side instead.

  ?It was war.

  Pillows flying, bodies crashing onto sofas raising clouds of golden dust. Alex was genuinely laughing, mouth open and glasses crooked, while Cristy tried to friendly-smother him.

  In that stuffy room, they were immortal. Not targets. Just three alive kids.

  ?The song ended.

  They collapsed on the floor, a tangle of legs and sweaty hoodies.

  No one spoke. Only the reassuring sound of their ragged breathing.

  For the first time in two days, fear had stayed outside the door.

  ?Cristy sat up, brushing sweaty hair from her forehead. The joy vanished from her face in an instant.

  "Okay," she said. "Recess is over. To work."

  ?She went to her backpack and dumped the contents onto the black metal of the projector.

  The photos from the underground.

  Grainy images of a cyclopean copper structure disappearing into the dark.

  "Look at it," she whispered. "We don't even know what to call it. It's alien."

  ?Tony stepped forward. He added his pieces to the mosaic.

  The leather journal open to the 1901 photo.

  The 1942 photo found in the trunk.

  The torn metal. ENWO.

  "1901. 1942," Cristy listed. "And then silence. There's a seventy-year hole where that thing kept humming under our feet while we went to school."

  ?Tony reached into his pocket and pulled out the last piece.

  The quartz pendant.

  He placed it on the metal. The crystal shone cold in the blue light.

  ?"It was this," Tony said quietly. "In the clinic... that sound was killing us. It didn't stop on its own, guys. I made it stop. When I gripped this thing... the pain vanished. And the sound died."

  ?Alex stared at the quartz. There was no enthusiasm in his eyes, only dread.

  "You closed the circuit," he murmured. "That stone isn't jewelry, Tony. It's a key. Or a switch."

  ?Cristy looked at the city map on the wall.

  "Grant," she said.

  The name fell between them like a stone.

  "The police are looking for a psycho with a knife," Tony said. "But Grant was intact. His eardrums had exploded inwards."

  "Sound pressure," Alex confirmed, pale. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "The same pressure we felt. If Tony hadn't killed that hum, we'd be lying next to Grant."

  ?They looked at each other. The truth was there, horrible. There was no serial killer. There was a frequency.

  ?"TerraCore knows what to look for," Tony said. "Those contractors were looking for the box or access to the tower."

  ?"We're alive by a miracle," Alex whispered.

  ?Cristy took the contest forms and slammed them on the table.

  "We can't go to the police. They'd think we're crazy or hand us over to TerraCore. Only one road left."

  She handed the pen to Tony.

  "We have to figure out what Ravenwood is. We have to figure out who these 1942 people are. And if Jhons is right, the answers are in the library's paper records. Where TerraCore's servers can't reach."

  Tony took the pen. "We're about to become official historians."

  ?"Wait. There's a piece missing," Alex whispered.

  He touched his temple, as if it hurt.

  "I didn't record down there. We were too busy not dying. But I have it here."

  ?Cristy and Tony stayed silent, struck by the tone of his voice.

  Alex breathed deeply, trembling.

  "The voice... the one that came out of the Void-Box. It wasn't human, guys. It was... an analysis."

  He swallowed.

  "It said: Threat analysis. Critical level. Then it talked about memory. Mnemonic decryption initiated. It said the barrier is falling and exposure will be global."

  ?Tony felt his blood freeze. Global.

  "Mnemonic decryption," Tony repeated, looking at the journal on the table. "They're trying to read someone's memories. Maybe whoever wrote this."

  ?Cristy reached for the leather-bound journal.

  "If the voice warned us the barrier is falling, maybe it means Ravenwood is the target," she said. "And the answer is in here."

  ?Tony nodded. He placed his hand on the journal's cold cover. The leather was rough, ancient under his fingertips.

  His fingers lifted the edge of the hard cover.

  ?Squee-clack.

  ?The sound didn't come from the journal.

  And it didn't come from the hallway under the hatch.

  It came from much farther away. Beyond the back wall of the Haven. From the Grand Hall.

  From the seven-hundred-seat auditorium lying in the dark, three floors below them.

  ?Tony's hands froze in mid-air.

  Cristy stopped with her mouth half-open.

  Alex turned the color of ash.

  ?They knew that sound by heart.

  It was the unmistakable noise of one of the old front-row velvet armchairs. A rusted spring screeching when the seat was lowered.

  Someone had just sat down in the abandoned cinema auditorium.

  In front of the dead screen.

  ?Tony killed the power strip switch with a frantic slap.

  The Christmas lights died. The blue LED went out.

  Darkness swallowed the Haven, total, thick as oil.

  ?They remained motionless, petrified, hearts beating so loud in their ears they drowned out any other noise.

  The Majestic was sealed. No one had entered in years, except them. Rats don't lower theater seats. Wind has no weight.

  Down there, in the vast, dusty darkness of the movie theater, there was something.

  And it wasn't watching a movie.

  It was listening.

  Just like them.

  Author’s Note ??