The hum didn't fade. It only grew, louder now, as if the echo were feeding on the words I spoke. Each syllable seemed to deepen the sound, twisting the air around me, until the walls themselves began to breathe.
I couldn't stop. I couldn't even remember when I had stopped talking. The words came without my permission, flowing out like a river that had broken its banks.
"You've been listening," I said, my voice rasping, trembling under the weight of the sound. "I know what you want now. But I'm not your speaker. I never was."
You are. The voice returned, softer than before, but undeniable. You always were.
It wasn't just the hum now. It was the room, too. The air was alive with a static energy, vibrating against my skin, thrumming beneath my feet, as if the entire building was a conduit, amplifying the presence that was growing stronger with every word I spoke.
"You're not real," I said, though even I didn't believe it. "None of this is real."
But the voice laughed—a sound so pure, so real that it stopped my breath.
What is real?
The question hung in the air like a puzzle I wasn't sure I wanted to solve. The hum wavered, trembling with something like amusement, before growing steady again.
"I remember now," I murmured, staring at the mic. "I remember everything."
It was a flood of images. The night of the broadcast. The broken silence that followed. The phone calls that never stopped ringing. The reports that never made sense. The tapes that arrived, one by one, like the pieces of a puzzle I hadn't known I was putting together.
Mara's face flickered in my mind, vivid as ever. She'd warned me. She'd begged me to stop. But I hadn't listened. None of us had.
"You were never supposed to hear the end," I said, almost to myself.
But the hum grew louder, insistent.
You heard the beginning. The voice sounded almost pitying. You heard what you needed to hear.
"And I kept listening," I whispered, gripping the mic with white knuckles. "Even when I should've stopped."
I was drowning in the words now, caught in a current that refused to let me go. My mind couldn't keep up with the thoughts that poured through me. The truth was too much. It was all too much.
The hum pulsated once more. The room was no longer just a space—it was a presence. Every surface was alive with it, every corner, every shadow. The darkness in the room seemed to move, to twist and bend, as if the walls themselves were made of sound.
It's too late now, the voice whispered, close to my ear, though I hadn't moved. You can't go back. There's nowhere left to hide.
I looked down at the mic, then back at the broken recorder on the floor. The hum was inside me now, like a second heartbeat, vibrating in my chest, in my blood, in my thoughts.
"I never should have come back," I said, as the truth sank deeper than I could bear. "I should've stayed silent."
You couldn't. The voice was certain. You never could.
The air crackled again, and for a split second, I thought I saw something flicker in the corner of the room—just a shadow, a movement too fast to fully comprehend.
But it was gone before I could look properly.
I stood, heart hammering, eyes searching the darkness. The room seemed to be closing in on me, the hum intensifying, wrapping around me like a shroud.
And then, out of the blackness, a shape appeared.
A figure.
A figure that was not quite human—too tall, too elongated, its outline jagged as if it had been torn from the fabric of reality itself. The edges shimmered, distorting, like static on an old screen.
"Mara?" I gasped, though I already knew the answer.
The figure didn't answer, but I saw something in its eyes. A flicker of recognition. The same eyes I had seen in the recordings. The same voice I had heard on the other side of the broadcast.
You brought me here, the figure whispered. You never let me go.
The words were like ice, freezing my insides. I stumbled backward, but the figure's gaze never left me.
"No," I whispered, shaking my head. "You're not—"
But the figure was already moving closer, the hum rising to a deafening pitch, overwhelming my senses.
It's too late, it said again, the voice so familiar now, so undeniable.
I tried to speak, but no sound came out. My mouth opened, but all that escaped was a strangled gasp as the figure stepped into the light. And I knew then, with a horrible certainty, that this wasn't Mara. Not anymore.
It had never been Mara.
It was the echo.
The one that had followed me, watched me, fed on my words, waiting for me to return. Waiting for me to speak again.
And now, the echo said, you will finish it. You will give me the voice I need.
The walls pulsed with the force of it, and suddenly, the room seemed to stretch—longer, darker, colder. The light flickered, fading.
"You'll never be free of me," the echo whispered, its voice a hundred voices, a thousand, a million, all screaming for release.
Finish the story.
The figure lunged forward, and with a final, deafening crack of sound, the room was swallowed whole by the echo.
And I knew, with a terrible clarity, that the story was never mine to finish. It was always theirs.