Echoes in the Dark
The room was suffocating with silence, broken only by the
metallic hum of a single old recorder perched on a cracked
wooden table.
The walls — splattered with decades of grime — seemed to close
in tighter with every second.
A man sat bound to a rusting chair, the cords around his wrists
biting into skin already rubbed raw from struggling. His breathing
came out in shallow, panicked bursts. Eyes wide, darting around,
seeking mercy that wasn't there.
The shadows shifted, and from them emerged a figure clad in
black — face hidden behind a battered audio technician's mask.
The Recorder.
A gloved hand reached out, clicking the recorder on with a final,
satisfying snap.
Static buzzed, then a distorted voice — almost musical in its
brokenness — filled the room.
"Did you ever think about who you stepped over to climb
higher?"
The bound man sobbed, pulling helplessly against the chair. No
words. Only gasps.
The Recorder tilted his head slowly, like a curious child watching
an insect struggle.
"Tell me," the voice insisted, "who did you leave to drown
when the water rose?"
The man opened his mouth — a plea forming — but the Recorder
pressed a single finger against his lips, silencing him.
The Recorder leaned close, whispering directly into his ear, voice
soft and electric:
"Screams are the most honest form of music."
And then the room erupted.
The blade flashed. Flesh tore.
The screams — wet, ugly, real — were caught perfectly on the
spinning tape.
A symphony of melee cries.
When it was done, the Recorder stood over the slumped figure,
breathing heavily. He rewound the tape, carefully, reverently,
before tucking it back into his coat.
No signatures.
No fingerprints.
Just the cries.
As he faded back into the shadows, only the recorder was left
behind — playing on a loop.
A twisted lullaby for anyone brave enough to listen.