The Echoing Deep

I slam the stop button. The tape dies. The voice doesn’t.

Calla.

It’s not in the walls. It’s in my head.

I press my palms to my ears—but the sound doesn’t stop. It’s inside me now, vibrating in my teeth.

And the journal on the table—

The pages flip on their own. The last entry is smeared, the ink still wet. It reads: It’s not your voice. It’s never been yours.

The front door creaks open wider. The fog outside isn’t fog. It’s breath.