Elena didn't play the cassette.
Not right away.
She locked herself in the bathroom, turned on the shower full blast—not to wash, but to drown out the silence that now felt like a held breath. Steam fogged the mirror, but she avoided looking at it. She couldn't bear to see if her reflection blinked a second too late… or smiled without her.
The tape sat on the sink, innocuous and lethal.
Final Message.
Her hands still trembled from the vision—the static, the mouths, the offer to let me be you. Was it real? Or had sleeplessness finally cracked her mind open like an egg?
She thought of Ben's eyes the night before—full of fear, not for her, but of her.
If she played this and heard herself say something monstrous… would she even know it wasn't true?
But she had to know.
She dried her hands, took a breath, and walked back to the parlor.
Maya's old boombox sat on a shelf—dusty, but functional. Elena hadn't noticed it before. Another thing the house had "remembered" to reveal.
She slid the cassette in.
Pressed play.
At first, only hiss.
Then—her voice.
Calm. Clear. Terrifyingly ordinary.
"If you're hearing this… I've done it. I couldn't stop myself. It felt like watching through glass while my hands moved on their own."
Elena's stomach dropped.
"I went to Mrs. Gable's after Ben left. I told her I was scared. She made tea. And then… I picked up the teapot. It was so heavy. And when I poured it over her head, she didn't scream. She just looked at me like she'd been expecting it all along."
"No," Elena whispered, backing away. "No, that's not—"
The recording continued, relentless.
"I tied her in the basement. Not to hurt her. To keep her safe. From it. But it followed me home. It's in the walls now. In my throat. Sometimes I wake up and my jaw is sore from talking in my sleep… in voices that aren't mine."
A pause. A shaky breath.
"Maya knew. She tried to warn me. But I didn't listen. Just like I never listened when she needed me most. So I went to the attic. I found the cylinder. I played it one last time… and I asked it to take me instead."
Tears blurred Elena's vision.
"But it said no. It said it already had me. That I'd been feeding it every time I blamed myself. Every time I stayed silent. Every time I wished I'd died instead of Mom… instead of Maya."
Her voice broke.
"It doesn't want my body. It wants my guilt. And I'm so full of it, Ellie… there's nothing else left."
Silence.
Then, softly:
"I love you. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you from me."
The tape clicked off.
Elena stood frozen, tears streaming down her face. The words echoed in her skull, twisting with her own memories, her own regrets—until she couldn't tell which thoughts were hers and which had been planted like seeds in poisoned soil.
Had she really gone to Mrs. Gable's? Had she blacked out? Sleepwalking wasn't unheard of under extreme stress…
She stumbled to the attic stairs, needing proof—needing to see if the rope was still there, if the rafter bore fresh scratches.
But halfway up, she froze.
On the top step, lying as if dropped in haste, was Maya's journal—the one labeled Blackwater Research.
She'd left it closed in the attic days ago.
Now it lay open.
And on the last page, in handwriting that matched her own perfectly—down to the slight hook on the y—was a new entry, dated today:
I can feel it learning faster.
It practiced my laugh while I slept.
Soon, it won't need me to speak at all.
—E
Elena dropped the journal like it was burning.
Because she hadn't written that.
But part of her—a traitorous, whispering part—wondered if maybe she had… and just didn't remember.
Downstairs, the front doorbell rang.
Sharp. Insistent.
She crept to the window.
Ben stood on the porch. Alone this time. No deputies. But his hand rested on his sidearm.
And in his other hand—he held a small digital recorder.
He pressed play.
From the device, clear as day, came Elena's voice—soft, broken, unmistakable:
"…I did it, Ben. I'm so sorry…"
Elena clapped a hand over her mouth.
She hadn't said those words.
But someone wearing her voice just had.
And Ben believed them.
Outside, he looked up—right at her window—and said, voice thick with grief:
"I have to bring you in, Ellie."
Behind her, from the attic, the phonograph began to turn.
All by itself.
End of Chapter 9