I left the recorder off last night.
I wrapped it in two towels, stuffed it inside the metal box, and sealed the lid with duct tape. Then I slid it under the bed—far from arm's reach—and moved the dresser back over the trapdoor.
No more tapes. No more whispers.
Just me. A locked door. And enough fear coiled in my chest to strangle a man.
It didn't help.
At 3:11 AM, the lights went out.
Not a flicker. Not a slow fade.
Just gone.
Pitch black.
My body was frozen before I even heard the first creak. It wasn't beneath me this time—it was across the room, near the mirror.
That mirror.
I keep trying to forget it exists. I keep turning it toward the wall, but it always ends up angled perfectly again—just enough to catch me walking past. Just enough to catch me not moving when I'm supposed to.
I sat there in the dark, heart thudding so loud I could barely hear.
Then, from across the room, it spoke.
My voice.
> "You left me in the dark."
I didn't move.
> "That's where I came from."
I clenched my eyes shut. Prayed I was dreaming. Counted my breaths. Tried every damn trick in the book.
> "You can close your eyes all you want. I'm still watching."
There was a soft laugh after that. Dry. Mocking. Exactly like mine.
No—worse. Like mine, if it had no soul left in it.
And then came the sentence that shattered any doubt:
> "You should've finished the story."
---
I didn't sleep at all.
When the sun came up, the mirror was back to its original position.
And the metal box was open.
The tape recorder was on my pillow.
No tape inside. Just the machine, humming softly.
A note rested beside it. Not handwritten—typed. Old typewriter ink, slightly smudged:
> "You talk in your sleep. We recorded it for you."
---
I've spent the entire day trying not to lose my mind.
I took a walk deep into the woods, further than I've gone since I arrived. I needed to convince myself I was in control. That I could leave. That the world still existed outside this cursed cabin.
I walked for two hours in one direction, phone in my pocket, compass app on the screen.
At the end of two hours, I found myself…
…back at the cabin.
Same broken porch step. Same wind-chime that doesn't chime. Same trail of disturbed pine needles leading back to the front door.
Either the woods looped… or I never left at all.
---
When I went back inside, there was a new cassette tape on the desk.
Label:
"Tonight's Draft"
I didn't put it there.
The recorder was already set to play.
I backed away.
I was halfway to the door when it started on its own.
My voice, again. But not a recording I remembered making.
> "Chapter Four. It Speaks in My Voice."
> "It's not just copying me now. It's writing me. Every word I think. Every step I take. It knew I'd find this tape. It knew I'd listen. It knew I'd sit down at the desk to write the next chapter—just like this."
I stood there, frozen.
The voice on the tape kept going.
> "Right now, I'm standing. Just like you are. Still trying to convince myself it's all coincidence. That maybe I'm tired. That maybe this is still my story."
> "But it isn't."
Then the voice paused.
> "You're going to turn around now."
I didn't want to.
But my body moved.
Turned slowly, like something else had taken over.
There was nothing behind me.
Just the mirror.
But this time, I didn't see myself.
I saw it.
Something wearing me like skin.
A perfect mimic, standing in my reflection with a smile that split its face too wide.
It mouthed the words before I heard them on the tape:
> "You should've let me finish."
---
I broke the mirror.
Grabbed a chair and smashed it with every ounce of strength I had.
Glass exploded across the floor.
Shards in the rug. In the wall. In my hand.
Blood dripped onto the wood.
The voice didn't stop.
It was laughing now.
The recorder played on:
> "You think breaking glass ends this? You're still here, aren't you? And the chapter's not over yet."
I ripped the batteries out of the recorder. Threw it across the room. It hit the bookshelf and clattered to the floor.
Silence.
Finally.
---
I bandaged my hand with an old shirt.
Then I went to the window.
Still no birds. No wind. No color. Just dead, gray light filtering through the trees like fog on film.
I looked down—and saw footprints in the dirt.
Barefoot.
Mine.
But they were walking away from the cabin. Not toward it.
And they didn't fade.
They just ended.
Mid-step.
Like I'd vanished right there.
---
I went back inside, sat on the bed, and stared at the door.
I didn't want to look at the mirror again. I didn't want to see if the recorder had moved.
I didn't want to know what was under the floor now.
But I could feel it.
It wasn't just beneath me anymore.
It was in me.
Like an echo I couldn't shut off.
Repeating the same line in my own voice, over and over again:
> "You're not writing this."
> "I am."
---