The cassette tape sat between them like a loaded gun.
Ethan couldn't take his eyes off it. The plastic casing was scratched, the label faded and peeling at the edges. It looked old, like something that had been tucked away for years—forgotten.
He swallowed hard. "Where did you get this?"
Noah hesitated. Then, with a sigh, he leaned back in his chair. "A few years ago, I started looking into… cases. Things like this." He gestured vaguely at the tape. "Your mom's death—it wasn't the first time I came across something unnatural. But it was the first time that felt… unfinished."
Ethan frowned. "What do you mean?"
Noah drummed his fingers on the table, choosing his words carefully. "There were inconsistencies in the reports. Your mom's death was ruled an accident—a gas leak, right?"
Ethan nodded stiffly. That's what he had been told. That's what he had forced himself to believe.
But something about Noah's expression made his stomach twist.
"What did you find?"
Noah reached into the same drawer and pulled out a folder. He slid it across the table. Ethan hesitated before flipping it open.
Inside were copies of old police reports, newspaper clippings, and a single, grainy photo of his childhood home.
Ethan's breath hitched.
The house in the photo was wrong.
The walls were blackened with soot, the windows shattered. But the worst part—the part that made his blood run cold—was the symbols.
They were scrawled across the walls, burned into the wood like brands. Jagged, uneven… but deliberate.
Ethan's throat tightened. "I… I never saw these."
Noah nodded. "You wouldn't have. The official report never mentioned them. But someone took this picture before the house was condemned. And that's not the weirdest part."
He tapped one of the documents. "There were no signs of an actual explosion. No ignition point, no structural damage that would match a gas leak. Just the fire… and the symbols."
Ethan stared at the papers, his mind racing.
All these years, he had accepted the official story. He had forced himself to believe it, even when something deep inside him had screamed that something wasn't right.
Now, he felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down into something far worse than he had ever imagined.
Noah placed a tape recorder on the table.
Ethan tensed.
Noah met his gaze. "This was recorded on a neighbor's security system. The tape is old, but it caught something the night of the fire."
Ethan swallowed hard. His fingers trembled as he reached for the recorder. "What's on it?"
Noah exhaled. "I need you to hear it for yourself."
Ethan's hand hovered over the play button. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to stop, to throw the tape away, to walk out and pretend none of this was happening.
But he had already seen too much.
With a deep breath, he pressed play.
The tape hissed to life.
For a few seconds, there was nothing but static. Then—
A faint click.
Footsteps. Slow, deliberate.
Ethan's grip tightened on the table. The sound quality was grainy, distorted with age, but he could still hear them clearly. Soft, dragging footsteps moving across a wooden floor.
A voice crackled through the speaker.
"Ethan?"
His breath hitched.
It was his mother's voice.
Noah shot him a glance, but Ethan barely noticed. His entire body had gone rigid.
"Ethan… sweetheart, where are you?"
His heart pounded. He could hear the faint waver in her voice—uncertainty, fear.
Then, another sound.
A whisper.
Not his mother's.
Something else.
It was too low to make out at first, but it was there—a second voice beneath hers, murmuring something inaudible.
His mother's breathing quickened.
"Who's there?"
Static crackled. A loud thump sounded through the tape, like something heavy falling to the floor.
Then, the whisper grew louder.
Ethan's stomach twisted.
It was speaking directly into the recorder. Right next to the microphone.
"You already know my name."
Ethan shot up from his chair, his pulse slamming against his ribs. The words had been spoken in his own voice.
Noah hit stop. The tape cut off with an abrupt click.
Silence filled the room.
Ethan's breath was ragged, his skin clammy with sweat. "That… that wasn't me."
Noah exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "I know."
Ethan shook his head, his mind racing. "It spoke in my voice, Noah. How?"
Noah was quiet for a long moment. Then, he leaned forward, his expression grim.
"This thing—it's been with you for a long time, Ethan. Longer than you realize."
Ethan felt his stomach drop.
A horrifying thought slithered into his mind.
"…Did it kill her?"
Noah didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
Ethan gripped the edge of the table, his nails digging into the wood. "I need to know more."
Noah nodded. "Then we go back."
Ethan's breath hitched. "Back?"
Noah's eyes were cold, steady.
"To your old house."
Silence.
Ethan's pulse thundered in his ears. The idea of returning to that place—to where it all started—made every instinct in his body scream in protest.
But he knew there was no other choice.
Whatever had been lurking in his life—watching him, whispering to him, using his mother's voice—was still there.
And it wasn't going to let him go.
Ethan clenched his fists.
Then, finally, he nodded.
"We leave at dawn."