The morning came, but it didn't feel like one.
Sunlight filtered weakly through the guest room curtains, but even that light seemed afraid to touch the house. I sat stiff in the bed, laptop on my lap, replaying the voice note over and over again. "She'll find the knife. She'll dig too deep. And when she does…"
Click. Pause. Rewind.
"…we'll have to add one more to the dead body count."
I wasn't breathing. Or maybe I was, but it felt like someone else was doing it for me — robotic, shallow, unsteady.
The voice in the recording wasn't just some random alter ego. No. It was intentional, strategic, and furious. Like a second consciousness living inside Uncle Tom — or someone controlling him. And that folder called "Others"? It had 14 more sessions. I didn't dare play them. Not yet. Not without knowing who else had already played the game and lost.
I closed the laptop.
And suddenly, I wasn't scared.
I was furious.
Breakfast was quiet. Uncle Tom, in his pressed shirt and gentle voice, offered me eggs like nothing was wrong. "Sleep well?"
I smiled. "Like a baby."
Liar.
He poured tea. I watched the steam curl from the cup like smoke from a freshly fired gun. His hand trembled slightly as he set it down. Fear? Or guilt? Or maybe just age. But the way he watched me… like a hunter waiting for a snare to snap shut.
I forced a giggle. "I had the weirdest dream. You were… talking to yourself."
He froze. Just for a second. Barely noticeable. But I noticed.
"Old habits," he replied smoothly. "Talking helps me think."
Yeah. Or helps your other self confess murder.
Later that afternoon, I snuck into the study. The place smelled like old wood and stale secrets. Stacks of papers, vintage books, a locked drawer. Of course.
I didn't have the key, but I had something better: rage-fueled determination and a stolen paperclip. Within seconds — click — it popped open.
Inside:
A black leather notebookA bloodstained handkerchiefAnd a photograph I had never seen before.
I pulled it out.
My family. At a dinner table. Uncle Tom seated at the head. But something felt off. Everyone looked… tense. Forced smiles. Eyes not meeting the camera. Except for Tom — his smile was wide. Way too wide. His hand under the table, suspiciously angled.
Taped to the back of the photo: a small note.
"They made me do it. They had it coming. But you… you'll understand soon." — T
I dropped the photo.
The ground wasn't stable anymore.
That night, I stayed up again.
This time, I opened Session #1.
Static. A deep breath. Then a voice — soft, shaking, younger than before.
"I don't remember the first time I felt it… the anger. The break. But I remember the first time I liked it. The control. The silence that followed…"
It was him.
But it wasn't the uncle I knew. This was a boy. Broken. Scared. Maybe even... a victim once?
The recording ended with a whisper.
"One day, she'll understand. She'll carry the knife too."
I stared at the screen.
Was I next in line? Or was I already holding the blade?