The Recording

Al sat on the floor, phone in his hands, trying to steady himself. 

He needed to fight back. 

He opened his voice memos. Hit record. 

"I am Al. I live in apartment 3B. I am twenty-six years old. I am real." 

His voice shook. 

He pressed stop. A timestamp appeared. 

3:47 AM. 

His stomach turned. 

That same time. Again. 

A sinking dread pooled in his chest. 

Then— 

Another file. New. 

Al's heart lurched. He hadn't made another recording. 

But there it was. 

Untitled. Timestamp: 3:47 AM. 

He clicked play. 

A voice—his voice. 

But not him. 

A whisper, distant but sharp. 

"I see you." 

The recording cut off. 

Al's body locked up. 

His phone screen flickered. 

A reflection in the black glass. 

Not his own. 

Something was watching him.