The tapes have become part of my morning routine.
I wake up—if I've slept at all—make coffee, and sit at the desk with that damn metal box. The hiss of old cassette reels has replaced music, news, silence. Each tape feels like peeling away another layer of rot that's been festering underneath the floorboards.
Today, I played the one marked only with a name:
> "Eli. April 12, 1994."
No warning. No preamble. Just a click, a brief silence, and then a boy's voice. Maybe twelve or thirteen. He sounded scared. Not just frightened—hunted.
> "It says my name now," the boy whispered. "Not Mom's. Not Dad's. Mine."
There was a pause. Then the voice returned, lower this time. So quiet I had to press the recorder to my ear.
> "I think it wants me to answer. If I do, I don't think I'll be me anymore."
The tape ended with the sound of sobbing. Not the kind that comes from pain—but the kind that comes from knowing you're already lost.
---
I wish I could tell you I stopped there. But you already know I didn't.
I pressed play on the next tape.
This one had no label. Just black marker scratched out like someone had tried to erase the words.
Static.
Then a woman's voice—older, raspy, breathing hard.
> "If you found these tapes, you need to burn them."
Her voice cracked like she hadn't spoken in years.
> "Don't try to understand it. Don't try to trace it. This house doesn't have a history. It writes it."
She coughed. Then something shifted in the background—wood creaking, wet dragging, like in the first tape.
> "It remembers every word you speak inside its walls. Every thought you think. It's listening when you dream. That's when it learns your voice."
Silence.
Then, so soft I almost missed it—
> "You can't hide from something that lives inside your story."
The tape stopped. Again, not by me.
---
I didn't realize I was crying until a tear hit the recorder.
The floor creaked behind me.
I turned around, heart lurching into my throat.
No one.
But the mirror across the room—the one I avoided ever since it smiled at me—was facing just slightly more toward the bed than I remembered.
Like it had shifted.
Like something wanted a better view.
---
I didn't go near it.
Instead, I went outside. I had to. I needed noise. Life. Wind. Even birdsong.
But outside the cabin, the woods felt… worse.
They looked the same, sure. Trees stretching tall and crooked. Dirt path winding into black nothing. But the silence was so unnatural it made my ears ring. Like the world was holding its breath.
And the smell.
I hadn't noticed it before—metallic, like old blood left in a rusty pan. It was faint, but it clung to the air like smoke.
I didn't go far. Just to the edge of the trees. I looked back at the cabin and felt it for the first time:
It was watching me.
Not the house. Not the windows. Something inside it.
Something with eyes that hadn't blinked in days.
---
I stayed outside until dusk. When I returned, the front door was open.
I was certain I'd locked it.
Inside, nothing looked touched. Nothing moved. Nothing broken.
But the recorder was playing. Even though I hadn't pressed anything.
It wasn't a tape.
It was just… a voice.
My voice.
> "I didn't go far. Just to the edge of the trees... I looked back at the cabin and felt it for the first time—it was watching me."
Exactly what I'd said in my head. Word for word.
It was playing my thoughts back to me.
I shut it off, but the lamp on the desk started flickering. Once. Twice.
Then I heard it.
Clear. Distinct.
A whisper, from right beneath the floorboards:
> "I know your name now."
---
I screamed.
Not loud. Not strong. Just a sound that cracked out of my throat like broken glass.
Then silence.
Not even a breeze.
The whisper didn't return.
But the floor felt… thinner.
Like something was pushing up.
---
I dragged the dresser over the trapdoor that night. Stacked the desk on top of it. I shoved everything I could over that board.
And yet, at 3:11 AM—exactly—the knocking returned.
But not three times.
Not the pattern I'd grown used to.
It knocked once.
Then silence.
Then, from somewhere behind the walls, a sound like paper tearing.
And I swear to God—I swear—I heard a voice say:
> "This chapter ends soon."
---
I didn't sleep. Again.
And when I looked at my notebook the next morning, I found a single sentence written on the last page:
> "Let me write with you."
Same handwriting. Not mine.
---
I've been trying to rationalize. I've gone through the possibilities:
Gas leak?
Sleep deprivation?
Auditory hallucination?
Old trauma resurfacing?
But I'm not insane.
And I'm not dreaming.
Because today, I turned on the recorder and didn't play a tape.
I spoke into it myself.
Just to test.
> "My name is—"
I stopped myself. Didn't finish the sentence.
But when I hit rewind and played it back, the tape said my full name.
Clearly. Calmly.
And then… another voice. Not mine. Not from the recording.
> "Thank you."
---
Something is using these tapes.
Or someone.
And the more I listen, the more it listens back.
The more I think, the more it knows.
It's been whispering to me for nights now.
But tonight?
It will speak.