Chapter 7 - The Transcripts
The hiss of escaping air faded into the quiet bedroom, leaving behind a faint, chemical scent like old photographs and ozone. I exhaled slowly, my hands still gripping the screwdriver, while Sarah stood frozen a few feet away, her hands clasped tightly over her chest.
"Well," I muttered, forcing my voice to remain steady. "It's open."
Slowly, I reached out and lifted the heavy steel lid the rest of the way. Inside, there was no explosive, no weapon, and no bizarre mechanism. Instead, the interior was packed tightly with stacks of yellowed paper, bound neatly with rotting rubber bands, alongside a bulky, portable reel-to-reel audio recorder from the 1970s. At the very top of the pile rested a pristine, modern manila envelope that looked entirely out of place among the decades-old artifacts.
I reached down and picked up the manila envelope, turning it over in my hands. My name—Mark Miller—was written across the front in neat, precise block letters, written in black ink that hadn't even begun to fade.
"What is that?" Sarah asked, stepping closer, her eyes locked on the handwriting. "How does someone from the seventies know your name?"
"They didn't," I said, a cold dread washing over me as I realized the implications. "This was left here recently. Someone knew we were buying this house."
"Open it," Sarah whispered, her voice barely a breath.
I slid my finger under the flap and tore the envelope open. Inside was a single sheet of heavy cardstock paper, typed with an old manual typewriter whose letters were slightly misaligned. I held it up to the smartphone flashlight and read the text aloud, my voice dropping an octave with every word.
“Welcome to your new home, Mark and Sarah. You have broken the first seal. The entity behind the white door is not a ghost, nor is it a hallucination. It is the previous occupant of this room, protocol subject 412. Do not attempt to seal the wall again. If you close the wall before playing the audio tapes contained within this box, the containment field will fail permanently by dawn.”
I stopped reading, the paper trembling in my hand.
"A prank," Sarah said instantly, though her voice lacked any conviction. Her face was completely drained of color. "It has to be a sick joke. The real estate agent, or the previous owners' kids—they're messing with us."
"People don't break into walls and install military surplus boxes with custom typewritten letters just for a prank, Sarah," I said, my stomach churning.
May you like
Before she could reply, the heavy oak door of our bedroom slowly began to swing shut on its own, latching firmly into place with a sharp click.
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