The last voice note

The Last Voice Note — Part 3: Day Two

I didn't go to work the next morning.

For the first time in my life, I called in sick without actually being sick.

My voice sounded normal when I spoke to my supervisor.

Too normal.

“I'm not feeling well,” I said.

“Do you need to see a doctor?”

“No. I just need to rest.”

She wished me a quick recovery and ended the call.

I remained seated on the edge of my bed, staring at the front door.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

I hadn't slept properly. Every sound from the hallway had dragged me awake. Every passing car had made me think someone was watching the building.

At exactly 7:00 a.m., my phone vibrated.

A voice note.

From the unknown number.

I didn't play it immediately.

Instead, I stared at the notification until another message appeared beneath it.

DAY TWO.

Then:

YOU HAVE UNTIL MIDNIGHT.

I pressed play.

The man's voice was calm.

“Today, you will meet someone who looks exactly like you.”

I frowned.

The recording continued.

“Don't speak to her.”

I looked toward the mirror.

For a moment, I wondered whether this was some elaborate prank arranged by someone who knew too much about my life.

Then the voice added:

“She will tell you that she can explain everything.”

The recording ended.

I sat there for several minutes.

Then I laughed.

A short, nervous laugh.

There was no way I was going to meet someone who looked exactly like me.

That was impossible.

At 9:18 a.m., someone knocked on my door.

I froze.

Three slow knocks.

I didn't answer.

The knocking stopped.

Then my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I answered without speaking.

The man's voice returned.

“She's early.”

My throat tightened.

“Who is she?”

“You know who.”

“No, I don't.”

“You will.”

The call ended.

I moved quietly toward the peephole.

At first, I saw nobody.

Then a woman stepped into view.

She was standing directly outside my door.

My height.

My build.

My hair.

Even the same small scar above her eyebrow.

My scar.

I stepped away from the door.

The woman raised her hand and knocked once.

Not three times.

Just once.

“Please open the door,” she said.

Her voice was mine.

I covered my mouth.

“I'm not going to hurt you.”

I didn't move.

“I know you're scared.”

She paused.

“But you need to listen to me.”

I looked at my phone.

A new message had arrived.

DON'T SPEAK TO HER.

The woman continued.

“The messages are not warnings.”

My heart began pounding.

“They are instructions.”

I took another step backward.

She lowered her voice.

“And if you keep following them, you won't survive the seventh day.”

I almost opened the door.

Almost.

Then I remembered the message.

Don't speak to her.

The woman seemed to sense my hesitation.

“Your father left something for you.”

I stopped breathing.

My father.

The one who had been dead for nine years.

“What did he leave?” I asked before I could stop myself.

The woman smiled.

I immediately regretted speaking.

“A recording.”

My phone vibrated.

Another message.

YOU HAVE ALREADY MADE THE FIRST MISTAKE.

The woman leaned closer to the door.

“Now you can hear me.”

I stepped away from the peephole.

“What do you mean?”

“You've been hearing the wrong voice.”

I looked at my phone.

The unknown number was calling again.

I didn't answer.

The woman outside whispered:

“Don't trust him.”

The phone stopped ringing.

For several seconds, the apartment was silent.

Then the woman said:

“He isn't trying to save you.”

I looked through the peephole again.

She was gone.

I opened the door.

The hallway was empty.

But something had been left on the floor.

A small black memory card.

I picked it up with trembling fingers.

There was a label attached to it.

FOR MY SON.

My father’s handwriting.

I knew it immediately.

I took the memory card inside and inserted it into my laptop.

There was only one file.

A video.

The date on the file was eleven years old.

I pressed play.

My father appeared on the screen.

He looked tired.

Older than I remembered him.

And frightened.

“If you're watching this,” he said, “then she has found you.”

I leaned closer.

My father glanced behind him before continuing.

“I don't have much time. You need to understand that the woman you see is not your enemy. She is the first person who escaped.”

I stared at the screen.

“Escaped from what?”

He continued speaking.

“The messages began with me. I thought they were warnings. I followed them because I believed they were trying to protect our family.”

He paused.

“They weren't.”

The video flickered.

My father's face became distorted for a moment.

Then his voice changed.

Not completely.

Just enough to sound unfamiliar.

“The messages are designed to lead you back to the place where it began.”

The old market.

I whispered the words before he said them.

“The old market.”

My father nodded slowly.

“On the seventh day, you will be asked to choose between two doors.”

I felt cold.

“One door takes you back to your life.”

He swallowed.

“The other takes you to the beginning.”

The screen flickered again.

My father's eyes shifted toward something behind the camera.

Then he whispered:

“Whatever you hear, don't choose the door with your own voice behind it.”

The video ended.

I remained still.

My laptop screen went black.

Then the speakers suddenly crackled.

A voice came through.

My voice.

“Too late.”

I jumped backward.

The laptop turned off.

My phone vibrated.

A new photograph appeared.

It showed my father standing outside the old market.

The picture had been taken eleven years ago.

Beside him stood the woman from my doorway.

And between them was a little boy.

Me.

But there was something wrong with the photograph.

My father was looking at the camera.

The woman was looking at me.

And the little boy was looking at someone behind the photographer.

Someone I couldn't see.

A message appeared beneath the picture.

HE BROUGHT YOU HERE FIRST.

Then another.

SHE TOOK YOU AWAY.

Then a final one.

NOW YOU MUST BRING YOURSELF BACK.

I didn't know what to believe anymore.

My father had known about the messages.

The woman had escaped.

The unknown man was lying.

Or perhaps everyone was lying.

At 11:47 p.m., the phone rang again.

Unknown number.

This time, I answered.

The man's voice was no longer calm.

“You watched the recording.”

“Yes.”

“You weren't supposed to.”

“Who are you?”

A pause.

Then he said:

“I'm the reason your father is dead.”

The call ended.

I stared at the phone.

A new voice note arrived immediately.

I pressed play.

My own voice whispered:

“Day Two is almost over.”

A pause.

Then:

“Tomorrow, you will remember what happened at the old market.”

The recording ended.

Another message appeared.

DAY THREE BEGINS AT MIDNIGHT.

I looked at the clock.

11:59 p.m.

The lights went out.

And from somewhere inside the apartment, a little boy began to cry.