The Echoing Deep

I slam the stop button. The tape screeches—then silence.

But the hallway doesn’t go quiet.

Calla.

Not from the speakers. From the walls. Wet, like it’s been held underwater too long.

And the front door—

I locked it. I know I locked it.

Now it’s ajar, just enough to let the fog curl in. The metal latch is cold, damp. Like it’s been touched by something that just came out of the sea.