Chapter 9 - The Voice from 1974
The tinny, amplified voice of Dr. Arlo Vance echoed off the frozen walls of our bedroom, carrying the distinct acoustic quality of a cheap cassette recorded in a concrete bunker. The amber glow of the vacuum tube flickered as the reel began to spin, feeding the magnetic tape through the magnetic head with a steady, hypnotic hum.
“Subject 412 exhibits complete dermal transparency during peak lunar cycles,” the recorded voice continued, devoid of human emotion, sounding like a doctor dictating medical notes. “It claims to have originated from the space between the floorboards of the north upstairs hallway—the exact location where the original 1920s architecture was altered during the Prohibition era. We believe the bootleggers didn't just hide liquor in these walls; they sealed something else inside. Something that required human sacrifice to maintain the barrier.”
Sarah wrapped her arms tighter around her shivering body, her teeth chattering audibly in the freezing air. "Human sacrifice? Mark, what are we listening to? Is this some kind of sick historical hoax?"
"Keep listening," I urged, my eyes fixed on the spinning reels. The temperature in the room had plummeted so low that our breath froze instantly in mid-air, falling like microscopic glitter onto the carpet.
The tape hissed loudly, the static drowning out the background noise before a new sound emerged—a wet, dragging shuffle, followed by a low, clicking vocalization that sounded eerily similar to the noises Buster had been making earlier at the door.
“Note for the archive,” Dr. Vance’s voice resumed, sounding slightly strained, as if he were moving away from the microphone. “The subject is attempting to breach the acoustic barrier. It recognizes human speech. It mimics tone, pitch, and cadence. Do not respond if it calls to you from the hallway. If it uses a familiar voice—your spouse, your child, your pet—do not open the door under any circumstances.”
The tape clicked, and a new voice emerged from the speaker—a voice that sent a jolt of pure horror straight to my core.
It was my own voice. Clear, calm, and distinct.
“Buster, come here,” the audio recording played back, perfectly matching the exact phrasing and tone I had used in the hallway earlier that very night.
I stared at the spinning reels in sheer disbelief. "I haven't even heard this tape before today. How is my voice on a recording from 1974?"
"Mark," Sarah whispered, pointing a trembling finger toward the hallway door. "Listen."
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From the other side of the jammed bedroom door, the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps began to pace back and forth—slow, deliberate, and dragging a heavy metal chain across the floorboards.
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