Recording #27

The tape arrived in a plain brown envelope with no return address.
Ethan almost threw it away.
It was a rainy Tuesday evening, the kind where the sky hung low and gray over the city, and the world felt quieter than usual. Ethan had just returned from work when he noticed the envelope sitting on the small table by his apartment door. No stamp. No name. Just the faint smell of old cardboard.
Inside was a single cassette tape.
Written on its label in faded black ink were two words:
Recording #27
Ethan stared at it for a moment.
He didn’t even own a cassette player anymore.
At least, not until he remembered the dusty one sitting in a box in his closet. It had belonged to his father—an old portable recorder he’d kept after the house was sold years ago.
For reasons he couldn’t explain, Ethan felt uneasy holding the tape.
But curiosity won.
Twenty minutes later, the recorder sat on the kitchen table.
The rain tapped softly against the window.
Ethan turned the cassette over in his hands again.
Recording #27
Twenty-seven implied there had been others.
He slid the tape into the recorder and pressed play.
For a moment, nothing happened except the faint mechanical whir of the spinning reels.
Then static.
A long hiss.
And finally—a voice.
“…testing… testing… if this is working.”
Ethan froze.
The voice sounded strangely familiar.
It was his voice.
Or at least something very close to it.
He leaned closer to the recorder.
On the tape, the voice continued.
“Okay. If you're hearing this… then something went wrong.”
Ethan’s stomach tightened.
“This is Recording Number Twenty-Seven. The others didn’t survive. Either they were erased… or they never reached you.”
The tape crackled.
Ethan whispered to himself, “What the hell…”
The voice spoke again.
“You probably don’t believe this yet. I didn’t either when I first heard it. But listen carefully, Ethan.”
The sound of his own name made his chest feel hollow.
“Yes. I know your name. Because I’m you.”
The tape paused for a moment, as if whoever recorded it had taken a breath.
“Three days from now, at 2:17 a.m., something is going to happen in your building.”
The rain outside seemed louder now.
“You’ll hear a knock at your door. Don’t answer it.”
Ethan stared at the recorder.
“This is important. No matter what you hear—no matter who it sounds like—do not open the door.”
The tape hissed.
A faint background noise appeared behind the voice—like distant alarms.
“I tried twenty-six times already. Every time you opened the door.”
Ethan felt cold.
“And every time… that’s when it started.”
The voice lowered.
“I’m running out of chances.”
The recorder crackled again.
“Let me prove this to you.”
A pause.
“Right now you’re sitting at your kitchen table. There’s a half-drunk cup of coffee next to your left hand. You haven’t cleaned the dishes in the sink.”
Ethan slowly looked toward the sink.
There were three plates.
Exactly as described.
“You’re thinking this is a prank.”
Another pause.
“But you’ll keep listening.”
Ethan realized his heart was racing.
The voice continued.
“The knock will sound like Mom.”
Ethan’s breath stopped.
“She’ll ask you to open the door. She’ll say she needs help.”
But Ethan’s mother had died two years ago.
“That’s how it tricks you.”
Static burst briefly across the tape.
“When you open the door, the hallway will be empty. But you’ll hear footsteps behind you.”
The voice on the tape became strained.
“Don’t turn around.”
A loud metallic crash sounded somewhere in the background of the recording.
“Damn it—they’re closer than I thought.”
Ethan leaned closer to the recorder.
“What are they?” he whispered.
The tape answered as if it had heard him.
“I don’t know what they are.”
The voice sounded tired now.
“I only know they shouldn’t exist.”
Another pause.
“You’re probably wondering how I made this recording.”
The tape crackled again.
“Let’s just say time isn’t as stable as we thought.”
The sound of rapid footsteps echoed faintly behind the voice.
“Every time you open the door, everything resets. Three days back. I remember. You don’t.”
Ethan’s hands trembled.
“That’s why I started making recordings.”
Another breath.
“Each loop, I hide one somewhere new.”
The voice grew urgent.
“If you found Recording #27, that means this one survived the reset.”
A loud banging noise suddenly filled the tape.
Someone pounding on a door.
“Ethan,” the voice whispered quickly.
“They’re here.”
The banging grew louder.
“Remember: don’t open the door.”
The pounding on the recording became frantic.
“Whatever happens—”
The tape abruptly distorted.
Then came a new sound.
Three slow knocks.
From the tape.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
The voice on the recording whispered one final sentence:
“…oh no.”
The tape stopped.
The recorder clicked.
Silence filled the apartment.
Ethan sat frozen at the table.
Outside, the rain had stopped.
And somewhere in the hallway beyond his apartment door—
Three slow knocks echoed.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.