A Familiar Voice

The silence after the door slammed shut was almost worse than the noise itself.

Ethan's breath came fast, uneven. His heart pounded against his ribs like a war drum, each beat louder than the last. The air in the room felt thick—oppressive—like something unseen was pressing against his skin, weighing him down.

Noah grabbed his arm. "Ethan—we need to go."

Ethan barely registered the words. His eyes remained locked on the closet door, his mind still reeling from what he had heard.

"You already know my name."

Noah shook him. "Come on, man—snap out of it!"

Ethan blinked, sucking in a sharp breath. He turned to Noah, and for the first time, he saw fear in his friend's eyes. Not the cautious kind, not the rational fear of the unknown, but real, visceral terror—the kind that only came from someone who understood what they were dealing with.

That scared him more than anything.

Noah pulled at his sleeve. "We are leaving. Right now."

Ethan hesitated, his gaze flickering toward Daniel's room. His son was still asleep. Completely unaware.

Then, the closet door creaked again.

It didn't open this time. It simply… shifted. As if something on the other side was leaning against it.

Noah didn't wait for permission. He grabbed Ethan by the wrist and dragged him toward the front door. The house felt darker than before, the hallway stretching out longer than it should have, as if the space itself had begun to warp.

Ethan could hear something behind them.

Footsteps.

Slow, deliberate. Following.

The whisper came again, curling around his thoughts like a vice.

"Ethan… don't leave me."

His stomach turned. The voice was different this time. Familiar.

He knew that voice.

He had heard it before.

It was his mother's.

Ethan's entire body went rigid. He felt ice-cold fingers clawing at his memory, dragging up old emotions, old pain.

Noah yanked him toward the door, but Ethan's feet wouldn't move. His breath caught in his throat, his pulse hammering so loudly that he could barely think.

That wasn't real. It couldn't be real.

His mother had died years ago.

But the voice called again—so soft, so desperate.

"Please, Ethan… don't go. I'm still here."

His knees nearly buckled.

That voice—it was exactly the way he remembered it. The slight tremor in her words, the warmth, the way she used to speak to him when he was younger, when she would tuck him into bed and whisper that everything was going to be okay.

And then—

A quiet knock on the wall.

Right next to his head.

Ethan turned slowly.

His breath hitched.

A handprint was pressed into the wallpaper. Fresh. Right where his mother used to rest her palm when she stood by his bedside.

Something inside him snapped.

Noah's voice cut through his haze. "Don't listen to it!"

Ethan clenched his teeth, forcing himself to move, to tear his gaze away from the wall.

Noah threw the door open, and a rush of cold night air hit them. The moment they stepped outside, the pressure lifted. The air became clear again.

The whispers stopped.

Ethan staggered forward, his legs weak beneath him. Noah slammed the door shut behind them and didn't stop until they reached his car.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

Ethan pressed a trembling hand to his forehead, trying to steady his breathing.

Noah finally broke the silence. "It knows you."

Ethan swallowed. "It… spoke like my mother."

Noah turned the key in the ignition, his jaw clenched. "Yeah. And it's only going to get worse."

Ethan exhaled shakily. His hands were still shaking. "What the hell is this thing?"

Noah pulled out of the driveway. "We need to find out. Before it decides you're ready to listen."

Ethan turned to look at his house one last time.

A shadow stood at the window.

Watching.

Smiling.

The drive was silent.

Noah didn't say a word, and Ethan was too lost in his own thoughts to try and speak. He kept glancing at the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see something lurking in the back seat, something watching, waiting. But there was nothing. Just the empty stretch of road behind them, swallowed by the night.

They didn't stop until they reached Noah's apartment.

Ethan stepped out, his legs still unsteady. The cool night air should have been refreshing, but he still felt like something was pressing against his chest.

Once inside, Noah locked the door behind them, then moved to the kitchen and poured them both a drink. Ethan barely noticed when a glass was shoved into his hand.

"You're still shaking," Noah muttered.

Ethan looked down at his hand. He was.

He exhaled sharply, gripping the glass tighter. "It was her voice, Noah. Exactly her voice."

"I know."

Ethan's stomach churned. "How the hell is that possible?"

Noah ran a hand through his hair, looking more exhausted than Ethan had ever seen him. "This thing—it doesn't just scare you, Ethan. It knows you. It wants to get inside your head, and if it knows what to use against you… it's going to."

Ethan took a slow sip of the drink, letting the burn ground him. "So what do we do?"

Noah leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "We find out where this started."

Ethan frowned. "You think this is connected to something from before?"

Noah nodded. "It didn't just show up. It's been waiting for something. For you. And if it's using your mother's voice, that means it's been watching you for a long time."

Ethan swallowed hard.

The thought made his skin crawl.

His mother had died when he was twelve. That was almost twenty years ago.

Had it been waiting all this time?

Watching?

A sudden, sickening thought crept into his mind.

"…Do you think it had something to do with her death?"

Noah didn't answer right away. He was staring at the floor, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he looked up. "I think we need to find out."

Ethan exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Where do we even start?"

Noah hesitated. Then he got up, walked over to his desk, and pulled open a drawer.

He returned with something in his hand. Something old, worn—a cassette tape.

Ethan frowned. "What is that?"

Noah placed it on the table between them. "It's from the night she died."

Ethan's blood ran cold.

"What?"

Noah met his gaze. "It's a recording. From your house. The night your mother died."

Ethan stared at the tape, his heart pounding.

He had never seen it before. Had never even known it existed.

And yet—somehow, deep down, he already knew what he was going to hear.