His fingers trembled as he turned it over, as if hoping it would vanish the second he blinked.
But the label stayed the same.
“Play Me, Mark.”
Black ink, shaky handwriting… like someone had written it in a rush, or in pain.
Mariam stood behind him, frozen.
“Where did you get that?” she asked.
“It was… it was left at the crime scene,” Mark muttered. “The police showed a photo of it on the news. Same handwriting. Same message.”
She swallowed hard. “Why would you get it?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he slid the cassette into an old tape player the nurse used for therapy sessions.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
A low static hummed through the speaker.
Then… silence.
Then… his own voice.
Or something like it.
“Hello, Mark.
I told you we’d meet again.
You’re not sick. You’re just… forgetting who you are.
You left me behind in the fire, remember?
But I never left you.”
Mark stepped back. The voice sounded like him… but twisted.
Like someone had slowed it down, made it too calm.
There was no panic. No emotion.
Only control.
Mariam clutched her sweater. “Who is that?”
“I… I don’t know,” Mark whispered.
But deep down, a part of him did know.
Later that night, after Mariam had left the room to get coffee, Mark felt it again.
That rush of cold through his spine.
His vision blurred. His breath shortened.
Then—
Blackout.
He woke up lying on wet concrete.
It was dark. He was outside.
Alone.
A neon sign buzzed in the distance—St. Mary’s Storage Units.
And at his feet… another cassette.
No label this time.
He picked it up with shaking hands and slowly turned toward the shadowed corridor behind the gate.
Somewhere in the dark, he heard it.
Footsteps.
And someone humming a church hymn… but broken. Off-key.
To be continued…