The voice starts as a low rumble, barely audible, coming from somewhere under the floorboards. You have to check to be sure you really heard something. But then it starts to grow, to swell; objects on your shelves start to shake. Books fall from their shelves. You're nervous now. But the noise only grows.

Just before your eardrums rupture, you realize there's a bit of language buried inside the now near-deafening roar. A message from somewhere, someone. You strain to hear it.

"Toot," it says