...
The first recording appeared on my phone at 3:06 a.m.
I didn't remember making it.
It was only seventeen seconds long.
I was sitting in my bedroom when I found it, half-asleep and scrolling through my phone.
The file was named:
REC_0306
I almost deleted it.
Then I pressed play.
For the first few seconds, there was nothing but static.
Then I heard breathing.
Slow.
Heavy.
Someone was standing very close to the microphone.
Then a voice whispered:
“Don't turn around.”
I froze.
I looked behind me.
Nothing.
My bedroom door was closed.
My curtains were closed.
I was alone.
I played the recording again.
The voice was definitely mine.
I knew my own voice.
But I had never said those words.
I checked the recording details.
3:06 a.m.
Created that morning.
I hadn't been awake at 3:06.
At least, I didn't think I had.
I deleted it.
Then I went to sleep.
The next morning, another recording appeared.
REC_0307
Twenty-three seconds.
This time, the recording started with silence.
Then my voice said:
“She's awake.”
A second voice whispered:
“Don't let her hear you.”
I stopped the recording.
I checked my phone.
No strange apps.
No unfamiliar devices.
Nothing.
I changed my password.
Turned on two-factor authentication.
Checked my cloud storage.
Nothing.
I convinced myself someone had hacked my phone.
That explanation lasted until lunchtime.
Because at exactly 12:41 p.m., I received another recording.
REC_1241
I pressed play.
My voice:
“She's checking the phone.”
Then another voice:
“She doesn't know yet.”
I felt sick.
I looked around the café.
Nobody was paying attention to me.
I stood up and left.
That night, I called my best friend, Daniel.
I told him everything.
He laughed at first.
“Maybe you're sleep-recording yourself.”
“I don't sleepwalk.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I don't.”
He went quiet.
Then asked:
“Can you send me the recordings?”
I did.
He listened.
There was a long pause.
“That's your voice.”
“I know.”
“You sure you didn't make these?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
He sounded uncomfortable.
“Come stay at my place tonight.”
I agreed.
At 2:50 a.m., I arrived at his apartment.
We locked the door.
Put our phones on the table.
And stayed awake.
At 3:06 a.m., nothing happened.
I laughed.
“See?”
Daniel smiled.
“Maybe it stopped.”
Then my phone vibrated.
We both stared at it.
A new recording.
REC_0306
I didn't want to play it.
Daniel did.
He pressed the button.
My voice came through.
“Daniel is sitting beside me.”
Daniel's smile disappeared.
The recording continued.
“He's going to tell me not to listen.”
Daniel looked at me.
“Don't listen.”
The recording went silent.
Then another voice whispered:
“Too late.”
Daniel immediately grabbed my phone.
“What the hell?”
I stared at him.
“Did you hear that?”
He nodded.
Neither of us spoke.
Then my phone received another recording.
REC_0307
Daniel pressed play.
My voice whispered:
“He's going to leave.”
Daniel stood up.
“What?”
I looked at him.
“You're not leaving.”
He shook his head.
“I need air.”
“Don't.”
“I'm just going downstairs.”
“Daniel.”
He looked at me.
Then smiled nervously.
“Five minutes.”
He left.
I watched the door close.
I waited.
One minute.
Two.
Three.
At four minutes, my phone vibrated.
REC_0311
I didn't want to open it.
But I did.
Daniel's voice said:
“I'm sorry.”
Then silence.
I called him.
No answer.
I called again.
Nothing.
I ran downstairs.
The lobby was empty.
The security guard looked at me.
“Where's my friend?”
“What friend?”
“Daniel. He just left.”
The guard frowned.
“You came here alone.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
He looked at the CCTV monitor.
“See?”
He pointed.
The camera showed me entering the building alone.
No Daniel.
I watched the footage.
I saw myself walk through the lobby.
I saw myself enter the elevator.
Alone.
My stomach twisted.
I called Daniel again.
This time, someone answered.
“Hello?”
It was him.
“Daniel?”
“Yeah?”
“Where are you?”
A pause.
“At home.”
“What?”
“Why?”
I couldn't breathe.
“I'm at your apartment.”
Silence.
Then he said:
“I don't have an apartment.”
The call ended.
I went home.
I didn't sleep.
The recordings kept appearing.
3:06.
3:07.
3:11.
4:20.
6:13.
8:45.
Every recording contained conversations I didn't remember having.
Sometimes my voice was talking to someone.
Sometimes someone was talking to me.
Sometimes there was crying.
Sometimes screaming.
But the strangest thing was that the recordings seemed to know what I was about to do.
At 8:45 a.m., one recording said:
“She'll check the bathroom.”
I didn't.
At 9:10:
“She'll open the drawer.”
I didn't.
At 9:42:
“She'll call Daniel.”
I didn't.
I stopped doing things mentioned in the recordings.
I thought that would stop them.
It didn't.
Instead, the messages became more personal.
REC_1013
My mother's voice.
“Why did you leave me?”
I deleted it.
REC_1014
My younger brother.
“You promised you wouldn't forget.”
I deleted it.
REC_1015
My own voice.
“You know what happened.”
I threw my phone across the room.
That afternoon, I went to a police station.
I showed an officer the recordings.
He listened to several.
Then he asked me:
“Who is Daniel?”
“My best friend.”
“Full name?”
I told him.
He searched the system.
Nothing.
No Daniel.
No record.
No address.
No driver's license.
Nothing.
The officer looked at me.
“Are you sure this person exists?”
“Yes.”
He asked me to describe him.
I did.
Then he showed me a missing-person database.
There was a photograph.
My blood went cold.
It was Daniel.
Underneath it:
Missing since 2019.
I stared at the screen.
“That can't be right.”
The officer frowned.
“Do you know him?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I told you. He's my best friend.”
The officer slowly closed the laptop.
“Where have you been living?”
I gave him my address.
He looked confused.
“That's a condemned property.”
I laughed.
“No.”
He showed me a photograph.
My apartment building.
The windows were boarded up.
The walls were covered in graffiti.
The building had been abandoned for six years.
I stared at the picture.
“No.”
The officer asked:
“When was the last time you saw Daniel?”
I couldn't answer.
Because suddenly, I remembered.
A car.
Rain.
A bridge.
Daniel screaming.
My hands on the steering wheel.
Then headlights.
Then nothing.
I ran out of the police station.
When I got home, my phone was waiting on the table.
I hadn't left it there.
I was certain I'd dropped it at the station.
The screen was already open.
One recording.
REC_0306
I pressed play.
My voice spoke.
“She's finally remembering.”
Then Daniel's voice.
“Are you sure?”
My voice:
“She'll hate us.”
Daniel:
“She should.”
I stopped the recording.
My hands were shaking.
I played it again.
This time, I heard something underneath their voices.
A third sound.
A hospital monitor.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Then a woman whispered:
“You've been asleep for seven years.”
I dropped the phone.
The screen went black.
I woke up in a hospital.
A doctor was standing beside me.
My mother was crying.
I didn't recognize her at first.
Then everything came back.
The accident.
Daniel.
The bridge.
I had been driving.
Daniel had been sitting beside me.
We crashed.
He died.
I survived.
But I had suffered severe brain trauma.
The recordings weren't recordings.
They were fragments of conversations, memories, dreams, and voices my brain had created while I was unconscious.
Daniel wasn't visiting me.
He wasn't calling me.
He wasn't sitting beside me.
My mind had created him because I couldn't accept that he was gone.
The mysterious woman wasn't a ghost either.
It was my mother.
I'd heard her voice beside my hospital bed for years.
My brain had twisted it into something frightening because I didn't understand what was happening.
The recordings were my mind trying to reconstruct reality.
I looked at the doctor.
“How long?”
“Seven years.”
I started crying.
“Why didn't anyone tell me?”
“You weren't conscious.”
I looked down at my hands.
Then I remembered the final recording.
“Where's my phone?”
The doctor looked confused.
“You didn't have a phone.”
I stared at him.
“Yes, I did.”
He shook his head.
“You've been unconscious for seven years.”
I closed my eyes.
Maybe it had all been in my head.
Maybe I was finally awake.
Maybe the recordings were gone.
Then I heard something.
A vibration.
Bzzzt.
Bzzzt.
My eyes opened.
It came from underneath my hospital bed.
The doctor didn't react.
My mother didn't react.
I slowly reached underneath.
My fingers touched something cold.
A phone.
I pulled it out.
The screen lit up.
One recording.
Created just seconds ago.
REC_0306
I pressed play.
My own voice whispered:
“Don't tell them you're awake.”
I froze.
Then Daniel's voice answered:
“She's not ready.”
And finally, a woman's voice whispered:
“She never survived the accident.”
I looked at my mother.
She was smiling.
Not crying anymore.
Smiling.
The doctor locked the hospital door.
And suddenly I understood.
Maybe the recordings weren't memories.
Maybe they were the only thing telling me the truth.
Maybe I had never woken up.
Maybe I was still lying unconscious somewhere.
And this hospital...
was just another place my mind had created to keep me asleep.
The phone vibrated again.
A new recording appeared.
REC_0307
I pressed play.
My own voice whispered:
“If you're hearing this…”
A pause.
“…you're dreaming again.”
Then the recording ended.
The screen displayed one final message:
WAKE UP.
I looked at the doctor.
He smiled.
And said:
“Don't listen to yourself.”