I didn't plan to play another tape.
I meant to burn them all. Scatter the ashes. Seal the trapdoor. Call someone—anyone. Leave the house, walk until I dropped, anything to escape this place.
But something's wrong with me now.
It's like I'm addicted.
Like the voice has rooted itself inside my brain and is whispering one phrase, over and over:
> "Finish the story."
---
I waited until morning. Bright daylight. Curtains drawn wide.
Sunlight didn't make me feel safe—it just made the shadows easier to spot.
I returned to the metal box, half-hoping it would be gone, half-hoping it would be empty.
But no. The tapes were still there.
And one of them was new.
I swear to you, it wasn't there yesterday.
It was labeled in fresh ink, still slightly wet at the edges.
> "Caleb – March 4th, 2016 – Last Entry"
I hesitated.
Then I hit play.
---
The voice that came through was hoarse and slow, like it was dragging itself across broken glass just to speak.
> "My name is Caleb. If you're hearing this, you're in the house. That means you made the same mistake I did."
A pause. Then a sound—breathing. Uneven. Shallow.
> "This place doesn't haunt you with ghosts. That would be too easy. What it does… is worse."
I leaned closer.
> "It listens. Records. Waits. It turns your thoughts into ink and your fear into dialogue. It makes you believe you're in control... until you realize you're just a character in a story it's been writing long before you ever showed up."
> "You ever wake up with ink on your fingers and don't remember writing anything?"
I froze.
Yes.
Just two nights ago.
> "That's when it starts using your hands."
He coughed, and the recorder picked up a wet, gurgling sound—like his lungs were filled with static.
> "I found the files. The old journals. Dozens of them. Everyone who stayed here… they all started writing. And they all ended the same way."
> "You can't run from it. I tried. The woods loop. The paths vanish. The mirrors reflect lies."
He paused again, longer this time.
I thought the tape had ended.
Then his voice returned—closer to the mic now, quieter. More... intimate.
> "You know what finally broke me?"
> "I found a draft of my story. Typed out. Word for word."
> "But it wasn't on my computer. It was printed. Bound."
> "And it had an ending."
> "My ending."
---
I stopped the tape.
I had to.
The air in the room was heavy—thick enough to choke on. My hand was shaking. My throat dry.
I stood and checked every drawer, every shelf.
I didn't know what I was looking for until I found it.
---
A folder. Wedged behind the bookcase.
Yellowed pages. Typed. Stapled at the corner.
Title: "Caleb Archer – The Final Chapter."
My eyes scanned the first few paragraphs.
The description matched him—age, background, the part about being a failed journalist looking for a reclusive place to write his memoir.
And the setting? The exact cabin. The same details. Word for word.
I flipped to the last page.
> "Caleb's voice would echo one last time into the recorder, unaware that the story was already finished. His words, his breath, would fade into the walls of the house—another voice added to the ones beneath the floor."
I dropped the pages.
Staggered back.
No. This couldn't be real.
But it was.
I heard it again—my voice.
Coming from the recorder. But I hadn't pressed play.
> "You're not writing this."
> "I am."
---
I ran to the mirror in the hallway—what was left of it, anyway. Only a jagged corner remained intact after I shattered it.
I stared into the shard.
This time, my reflection didn't move at all.
It blinked slowly.
Then smiled.
Then said—in my voice:
> "Caleb read the final page, and so will you."
---
I dropped the shard. My hand was bleeding again. I didn't care.
I went back to the box, pulled out every tape, and scanned them. Most were faded. But two still had legible names:
"Erica – 2003"
"Douglas – 1981"
I picked up Erica's. Something about that one made my chest tighten.
Her tape was quieter. Softer. Her voice was… young.
> "I only stayed one night. It was supposed to be a writing retreat. My professor said the silence would help me think."
> "I didn't hear anything the first night. I felt it."
> "I felt it touch my dreams."
Her voice shook, but she kept going.
> "It made me write things I didn't understand. Stories that weren't mine. Names I'd never heard of. Places I've never been. But when I googled them afterward… they were real."
> "Somehow, the house makes you a witness to other people's horrors. And then it makes them yours."
---
I paused the tape.
Erica never finished her entry. The tape cut off midway through a scream.
Not a dramatic scream. Not a jump-scare.
Just the quiet, helpless scream of someone who realized they were no longer alone inside their own body.
---
I sat back on the floor. Staring at the trapdoor.
I think Caleb made it to the end.
But I don't think he left.
And now… I'm starting to hear him.
Not in the tapes.
Not in the mirror.
In me.
He whispered something to me today while I was brushing my teeth.
My lips moved, but the words weren't mine.
> "You found my story. Let's write yours."
---
I haven't left this room since.
And I don't think I can.
Because tonight, when I opened my notebook… it was already filled.
Twenty pages.
All in my handwriting.
But I never wrote them.
And the title at the top of the first page?
> "Chapter 6: They're Writing Through Me Now."