The following morning, Emily found her mother sitting at the dining table, staring at the untouched breakfast. Dark circles clung to her pale face, her hands trembling around the mug she hadn't sipped from.
"You heard it too, didn't you?" Emily asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Her mother didn't answer immediately. Then, with a slow nod, she murmured, "I thought it was your father."
Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken fears. Her father had been missing for three years.
Emily clenched her fists. "Something's wrong with this house."
Her mother looked up then, eyes haunted. "I know."
Determined, Emily spent the day searching. The house had secrets, and she needed to uncover them. She started in the attic. Dust clung to forgotten boxes, their labels faded. A cold draft slithered through the wooden beams, carrying the scent of mildew and something… older.
Her fingers brushed against an unmarked box. Something inside shifted.
She pulled it open. Inside, beneath stacks of yellowed papers, lay an old cassette recorder.
Curious, she pressed play. The tape crackled to life, distorted static filling the room. And then—a voice, unmistakably her father's, whispering:
"If you're listening to this… it's already too late."