The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure he never knows he’s in prison.
—Fyodor Dostoevsky
It arrived like fog: first a soft condensation on the edges of word and phrase, then a dampness that settled deep into the lungs. Like bankruptcy, it happened gradually, and then all at once.
“They say the water isn’t safe anymore.”
Margaret looked up from her newspaper, glancing at the two women at the neighboring table. One leaned forward conspiratorially, her voice barely audible above the ambient chatter. The words were cleverly inserted, like pins in a map that no one thought to remove.
“Who says?” Margaret wanted to ask, but she didn’t.
The question felt rude somehow, invasive—like shouting in a chapel. Instead, she found herself reaching for her phone, searching for news about water contamination. Nothing. Just the usual regulatory reports showing acceptable levels across the city.
But she bought bottled water on her way home anyway. It was easier than checking.
They say became the preface to everything. One day people still spoke in names and nouns; the next they were all citizens of the passive voice.
At work: “They say layoffs are coming.”
At the grocery store: “They say there’s going to be a shortage.”
On the evening news: “They say experts are concerned.”
But who were They?
The anchor never clarified.
The coworker shrugged when pressed.
The grocery clerk just repeated what he’d heard from someone else, who’d heard it from someone else, in an endless chain of anonymous authority.
Margaret began keeping a mental list.
They said interest rates would rise.
They said the new medicine was dangerous.
They said the election was rigged.
They said the election was secure.
They said everything and nothing, simultaneously.
They say was the new hearsay, but it had much more power and depth.
Hearsay at least acknowledged its secondhand nature; it wore its uncertainty like a warning label. But They say masqueraded as authority itself, dressed in the borrowed clothes of expertise, credentials, and jargon. There was no child brave enough to shout that the outfit was no more than tattered rags.
The strangest part was how quickly people acted on these pronouncements. How readily everyone accepted the word of this invisible parliament of voices. Margaret watched her neighbors stockpile canned goods based on They’s predictions of scarcity. She saw friends change their votes, their diets, their daily routines—all because They had spoken.
Like a vampire, the Party of They needed nothing but an invitation to cross a threshold. The invitation was a mouth forming the words to audibly spread the disease.
“It’s just common sense,” her sister explained over dinner. “You have to stay informed.”
“Informed by whom?” Margaret pressed. “When you say ‘they say the new mandate causes problems,’ who exactly is saying that?”
Linda’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. “You know…experts. Scientists. People who study these things.”
“Which experts? Which scientists? Can you name one?”
The silence stretched uncomfortably.
Linda’s eyes darted away, then back, carrying a flicker of something—annoyance? Fear? Asking who had the social feel of a transgression.
“Why are you being so difficult about this? Everyone knows…”
Everyone knows. Another phantom authority. Margaret realized she was watching the birth of something ancient and terrible: rule by consensus of the invisible.
The transformation accelerated.
They said people who asked too many questions were dangerous.
They said skepticism was a mental illness.
They said verification was for conspiracy theorists and extremists.
Over time, Margaret found herself isolated. Friends stopped returning her calls after she persisted in asking for sources, for names, for evidence.
At work, colleagues whispered that she was “one of those people”—the kind who didn’t trust the system, who thought she knew better than everyone else.
Margaret wasn’t claiming to know better. She was simply asking: How do we know?
But the question had become radioactive. And people were deathly afraid of exposure.
Late one night, scrolling through endless social media feeds, Margaret noticed the pattern. Every post, every share, every viral claim began the same way:
“They say…”
“Experts say…”
“Sources say…”
“Studies show…”
But click through to the sources, and you’d find other articles that also said “sources say.” Follow those sources, and you’d find more articles referencing “experts” who were never named. The entire information ecosystem had become a hall of mirrors, each reflection citing another reflection, until the original source—if it ever existed—was lost in infinite regress.
Instead of turtles, it was They Says all the way down.
They had built a perfect system.
News sprinted; truth limped; credibility took whatever car was idling at the curb.
Knowledge bounded ahead in gleeful leaps, clearing fences that careful proof could not.
They trusted before they verified and they forgot that order mattered. Trust first, and the checking never quite catches up.
They ruled absolutely because They ruled anonymously.
You couldn’t challenge Them because you couldn’t find Them.
You couldn’t vote Them out because They weren’t elected.
You couldn’t expose Them because They cast no shadow.
Margaret’s breaking point came during a town hall meeting about new public health measures. The mayor stood at the podium, explaining restrictions that would fundamentally alter daily life.
“This is based on the latest guidance,” he said. “The experts recommend—”
Margaret stood up. “Which experts?”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. The mayor blinked.
“The… the relevant experts. The authorities in the field.”
“Can you name them? Can we see their research? Can we question their methodology?”
The room grew cold. Hundreds of eyes turned toward Margaret, and she saw in them something that made her blood freeze: not curiosity, not solidarity, but hostility.
She was breaking the covenant. She was questioning Them.
“Ma’am,” the mayor said slowly, carefully, “I think we all need to trust the process here. These decisions aren’t made lightly.”
“But who makes them? Who are these people we’re trusting?”
A man in the front row turned around. “Lady, why don’t you just trust the science?”
Trust the science. Not examine it, not understand it, not verify it. Trust it. Like a dogma handed down from an invisible priesthood.
Margaret looked around the room one more time. Every face showed the same expression: the serene certainty of the faithful. The people had found their god, and it was They.
Walking home through empty streets, Margaret understood what she was witnessing. It wasn’t conspiracy—it was something far more insidious. It was the voluntary surrender of individual judgment to collective assumption. A mass hypnosis performed without a hypnotist.
They didn’t need to exist as an actual organization. They were everyone and no one.
They were the whispered rumor that became accepted fact through repetition.
They were the expert opinion that was never questioned because questioning expertise had become heresy.
They were the invisible hand that guided not only markets, but also minds.
There are seductions more powerful than pleasure. One is certainty at low personal cost.
Under They’s rule, you could be moral without being particular. You could condemn with a glance, not a gesture.
A long time ago, a man named Reagan had once said “trust, but verify.” Somehow, somewhere along the way, they’d forgotten the second part.
Now there was only trust. Trust in Them. Trust in the system. Trust in the process. Trust in the consensus of voices that could never be located, never be challenged, never be held accountable.
Margaret reached her front door and paused, key in hand. Tomorrow, she knew, her neighbors would wake up and check their phones for the latest pronouncements from They. They would share the news, discuss the implications, alter their behavior accordingly. The great machine of anonymous authority would continue its work.
And somewhere in the darkness between whispers and acceptance, between rumor and fact, They would smile, if They had faces to smile with.
They say the chains are too light to be felt until they’re too heavy to be broken.
Margaret was beginning to understand that she might be one of the last people who could still feel the weight.
They say this story isn’t real
They say it’s just fiction.
They say you shouldn’t worry about things like this.
They say a lot of things.
But who are They?
And who’s to say we ought to listen?
Nobody Knows Anything
It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so. —Mark Twain
Per my about page, White Noise is a work of experimentation. I view it as a sort of thinking aloud, a stress testing of my nascent ideas. Through it, I hope to sharpen my opinions against the whetstone of other people’s feedback, commentary, and input.
If you want to discuss any of the ideas or musings mentioned above or have any books, papers, or links that you think would be interesting to share on a future edition of White Noise, please reach out to me by replying to this email or following me on Twitter X.
With sincere gratitude,
Tom
How easy it is to let up on skepticism when summertime is here, and the living is, well, not exactly easy, but give or take a few threats of nuclear war, not so bad.
In a word, don't. Don't stop questioning, now or ever. Be a gadfly, but be one that does homework. If there's no information available when you want to do research, add a "why is that?" to your list.
Never take a vacation from seeking the truth.
Excellent story for this time in our history. VERY clever and well done and unfortunately people see what they want to see. Or in the words of the The Boxer from Simon and Garfunkel: "A man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest." Thanks for the story.