There's constant whispering here when Enoch DeStiy is at home. It's there all the time. Only the telly papers over it.
Sometimes he wonders if it is spirits. His dead wife? Maybe his kids had died, who knew? The ghosts of previous residents? Something supernatural in amongst the magazines? He discounted that last one. If it was, it was- but it obviously meant no harm or it would have killed him years ago.
And all this time his lips move and small words hiss and spin around this confining space, hiss and spin and fall like bitterness and neglected memories.