There's a moment, just before a person breaks, when the world goes completely still. It's not quiet — no, it hums with tension — but time stops, sound slows, and the next breath becomes your last memory of peace.
That's what I felt now. Sitting in Uncle Tom's study, blood pounding in my ears, the voices from the recordings echoing in my mind like ghosts refusing to be exorcised. I had opened Session #2 through #4. The further I listened, the deeper I fell into a story not just of murder — but of madness, possession, and something… older. More primal.
Something that was now inside me too.
The sun had set hours ago, leaving behind a night so still, even the trees outside the mansion seemed frozen. The place was too large, too empty, and too full of secrets. I knew I wouldn't leave until I got all the answers — or until someone made sure I couldn't.
I crept down the hallway, every step silent, barefoot and deliberate. I'd memorized the floorboards that creaked. I moved past the guest room, past the dining room with its too-perfect table setting still untouched since the funeral, and down into the basement.
Because I'd finally decoded the password to the final folder.
Password: ORIGINS
The laptop screen flickered. A new folder blinked open. Inside, one video. No label. Just a timestamp: **"January 13, 2007."
I pressed play.
The camera showed a dimly lit room. A young Tom, barely thirty, sat across from a boy with a bruised face and a knife clutched in his shaking hands.
"Tell me what you saw," Tom said, calm. Clinical.
The boy — barely twelve — looked up. His voice was raw. "They were hurting her. Mom. She screamed. So I… I stopped them."
Tom nodded. "With the knife?"
The boy stared into the lens. "It told me to."
Tom leaned forward. "What did it say?"
The boy's lips trembled. "It said, 'Make it stop.'"
And then, a whisper. Soft. Deep. Not from the boy.
But from the knife.
Or maybe… from the one holding it.
The screen went black.
I sat frozen, staring at my reflection in the laptop. Except… it wasn't alone.
Behind me, in the dim glow of the monitor, a silhouette stood — motionless.
"Fascinating, isn't it?" Uncle Tom's voice. Low. Calm. I turned slowly.
He was holding the knife.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the couch. I didn't move.
"I figured you'd find it all eventually. You're smart. Just like your mother. She never stopped digging either."
My blood ran cold.
"You killed her."
"I saved her," he snapped, then softened. "She was already breaking. Your father... well, he made things worse. She begged me to stop it. So I did."
I shook my head. "You're insane."
"No," he said, stepping closer, "I'm chosen. This blade — it doesn't lie. It remembers. And now, it's yours."
He held it out to me.
I stared at it. The handle was old, worn. The blade still red.
"You can end it, you know," he whispered. "Take the knife. Finish the cycle."
And for a moment… I wanted to.
But I didn't.
I woke up strapped to a chair in the basement. Leather cuffs. Duct tape. A single lightbulb swaying above me like a pendulum of doom. My head pounded. The air was thick with mildew, blood, and something fouler — fear.
Tom stood in the shadows. Or what used to be Tom.He stepped forward slowly, a syringe in one hand, a recording device in the other.
"You think you're the first?" he whispered, tilting his head. "There were others. They all begged. And now, you'll understand the silence they craved."
He injected something into my arm. Burning. Searing. My skin felt like it was turning inside out. My vision blurred. But I couldn't scream — the gag held firm.
He started the recording.
"Session #16: Inheritance."
I screamed inside my mind.
The lights flickered. He whispered names in my ear — my mother's, my brother's, mine. Over and over, like a chant. Like a spell.
Then the blade came out.
He didn't stab me. He carved words into the armrest beside me."SPEAK" on one side. "OBEY" on the other.
"If the knife doesn't claim you," he said softly, "I will."
My body was shaking. I felt my consciousness slipping — not from the pain, but from the voice I heard behind his:
"Take the pain. Become the blade."
My hands were bleeding from fighting the restraints. My voice was raw from trying to scream through the gag. And all he did… was smile.
That damn smile.
The next few seconds blurred. I remember grabbing a shard of broken glass from the nearby shelf. Smashing it into his face. Blood. Screaming. Mine? His? Didn't matter.
The cuffs snapped. I grabbed the knife from where it clattered. It pulsed in my hand.
It liked me.
Tom lunged. I stabbed.
Once.
Twice.
Silence.
He fell.
I stood, shaking, the blade slick and heavy. The mansion felt darker now. Emptier. But I wasn't alone.
The knife was still warm.
And I finally understood.
It didn't belong to Tom. It didn't belong to the boy in the video.
It belonged to whoever was willing to listen.
And now… it was mine.