This story does portray intense instances of self harm, please prioritize your well-being and consider whether you're in the right headspace to read this. Viewer discretion is advised.People often describe music as their “escape”. I feel it is the one constant in this world, that will never stop spinning. Some artists can make me feel that every note, and every chord has been stitched to my soul, that it was written specifically for me to hear, and me alone. To remind me that I’m not lost in all the noise.
I have always felt this way. Whether it was the warmth of a vinyl record crackling through out my childhood, or the way a melody could pull me back from the edge, when it seems that no other thing could, nonetheless, in the same magnitude. Music isn’t something I listen to, it’s a rhythm to which I’ve shaped my entire life. The way I breathe, think, the way I process every fleeing emotion. Hell I often catch myself coughing to the beat of what I’m hearing, without even trying to. The world outside could be literally falling apart, but with the right melody, I could find myself in a quiet and peaceful place.
I’m 22 now, but I remember the day I unwrapped that iPod Classic that my now late father, the only man to love music more than myself, gifted me for my 8th birthday. It was like holding a piece of black magic in my hands, a portal to endless melodies and memories. Since then, and until now, it’s been my faithful companion, filled with every note that has accompanied me through the ups and downs of my teenage years, and into adulthood. Most people at my age would probably think it’s time for an upgrade, right? Well, I broke down and bought a vinyl record player. I’m not talking about one of those dresser trophies for $80 at Walmart. I bought a real deal, vintage Marantz 6200 Automatic. A real gem that oozes character and craftsmanship. The seller was clearly a dedicated collector, his passion evident in the way he spoke of it. This player had been cared for as lovingly as my father maintained his old truck. Every inch of it pristine, as if it had just rolled off the assembly line yesterday. When he finally played a record for me, the sound was nothing short of breathtaking, rich and warm, like each note was alive, wrapping around me in a comforting, warm embrace. Not shortly after, I shoved the $700 he was asking for into his face, and ran off with my new toy.
Tucked away in my attic was a dusty box filled with my Dad’s cherished vinyl collection I had to listen to. While I admired his eclectic taste, after a couple of weeks, those twelve records no longer hit that spot. They felt like best friends who had somehow overstayed their welcome. Desperate for something new, I remembered the older record shop, an absolute gem known for its diverse selection, just down the road from my house. Payday hit, and I needed to hear something new to reignite my passion for music, or inspire me in some other way, I needed to feel again.
The walk there was normal, sun hanging high, the sound of children laughing and playing drifted from nearby yards, blending with the distant hum of traffic. Each step felt like a small ritual, building anticipation; I almost couldn’t contain my excitement to get there. I caught view of the store. Its peeling paint and inviting window display felt like a portal to where music reigned supreme. The moment I stepped inside, the world outside turned into the same distant traffic hum from the walk, replaced by a symphony of sound that welcomed me like the best friend I previously felt had over-welcomed their stay. The dim lighting cast a warm glow, illuminating shelves lined with records that seemed to stretch infinitely toward the ceiling. Each vinyl was a treasure, encased in color that evoked nostalgia and curiosity. The air was heavy, with a scent of aged paper mixed with wood polish. It felt I’d stepped into a forgotten time, where the digital age had yet to penetrate the sanctity of music. A soft crackle of a turntable spun in the background, with The Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shelter” slightly overpowering the crackle. Everything felt intimate, inviting, and slightly surreal at the same time. The wooden floorboards cracking as I stepped over them, adding to the sense of history that had already enveloped me by then. Vintage posters adorned the walls, showcasing legendary artists from eras long past. It felt as though Marvin Gaye’s eyes followed me as I moved, but honestly there were so many emotions running through me, I wouldn’t doubt some euphoric effect took hold. A plush, worn-out couch sat in one corner, inviting visitors to sink in and lose themselves in the sounds of yesteryear. In the farthest corner, a small table held a collection of curiosities. Old cassette tapes, some aged musical instruments, and a few faded photographs of musicians caught mid-performance, their expressions frozen in passionate bliss. A velvet curtain hung loosely at the back, hinting at a hidden space behind it, but it was the tall shelf just before it that caught my eye.
Each record on the shelf was carefully organized, yet I still felt a sense of chaos within their order. I analyzed the bottom of the shelf for a couple of minutes, not really seeing anything interesting, I set my hand on the bookshelf to get a closer look at the top row while supporting myself. My middle finger brushed on something sitting a couple inches back from the edge of the shelf. It was another record. The background was just a bunch of colors “abstractly” smooshed together. No artist, label, track list, or familiar insignia could help me even bring an idea to what the record held. The sleeve was smooth in some areas, yet tough in others. The perimeter of the record was surrounded by some markings on the front I couldn’t quite make out, with distorted music notes slapped across the cover, when I turned it over, the back cover had the same smooshed colors, but there was a circle with a line drawn through it, in the top left corner, I’ve never seen this before. The record within itself seemed like a riddle with no answer, it felt wrong to look at it, but I chalked it up to inside knowledge on the artist I just wasn’t aware of. However, none of those things factored into the first thing I noticed, nor the thing I couldn’t get my mind off, even after I left the shop. The sleeve was really light. I don’t mean light for a vinyl record, I mean it felt virtually weightless, like a feather. The draft of the store moved the sleeve back and forth slowly in my hands, like it was breathing. It felt like I’d shatter it if I’d handled or turned it the wrong way. My first reaction was to see if there was even a record in there, and sure as shit, it was sitting pretty in her packaging.
I caught a glimpse at my watch and realized I had already been there an hour and a half at this point, just looking. Realizing it was time to go home, and not wanting to leave empty-handed, I just settled for what was in my hand. I walked up to the store clerk’s register and put the record in front of him on the table, he looked at it for a minute, made some odd faces, flipped it over, more odd faces, then switched over to flipping through his booklet before finally informing me,
“Yeah, we don’t even have record of this thing, is this something you’ve been looking for?”, I shook my head shyly, afraid this was some gimmick to call me out for being uncultured.
“Nope, I uh, just spotted it before heading out, and I liked the way it looks”
After failing to recognize the record like myself, he sat on his computer, I’d assume researching. He was hunched over into the box monitor for probably 8 or so minutes before he breathed in real heavy, seemingly giving reassurance towards himself for the thought that had just come to him, before finally deciding,
“Considering it’s dead inventory there’s no use for it here, and you seem to be the only one to care about the thing. I’ll give it up for a whopping $5 since I don’t even recognize the thing”
I gave him the scrunched up $10 bill in my pocket to keep my paycheck money nice, told him to keep the change and got out of there before he could finish his spiel, only to stop in my tracks.
It wasn’t a person, or a thing that stopped me. It was the city, it’s distant hum turned into a loud static within a second, the beaming sun didn’t really help the overwhelming feeling. I only stood around for a couple seconds though, in my nervous fidgeting I noticed the record’s difference in texture, I tossed it a few inches from my hand a couple times, thinking about it’s weight, or lack of, it was like moving my hand up and down as if there were nothing even in it. I stood there messing with it, flipping it around in my hand noticing how the sunlight bounced off its grungy finish, after a minute I realized I was playing with it, like a child. It was, calming.
You just gotta get home, and that’s it, either way, what could possibly happen in 3 miles? I told myself at least 1,000 times. Ironically enough, followed with the thought of 1000 different things that could possibly happen in 3 miles. But once I started walking, it was okay. I got home fine, I don’t think I even checked my surroundings much, except when something beautiful caught my eye. Out of curiosity more than caution.
I walked in through my kitchen entrance, tossed my keys on the counter, and ever so carefully set the record on the peninsula 3 feet adjacent, I was still afraid it’d shatter if I didn’t baby it. The first time hearing a song, it will always sound weird to me, and never like anytime I hear it afterwards. This could have a positive or negative connotation, it just depends on the song, but I like to delete the negative side as much as possible. I cooked up some pizza rolls, the dinner of champions, finished the half gallon left in the gallon jug of water I carry around the house, and got to picking up my cluttered guest room so my thoughts couldn’t mirror it while listening. I went to the room I had sat the Marantz player in. I wiped the 6200’s platter down, and fit the record around its spindle. I didn’t know what to set the tracking force to considering the vinyl was just black, and it’s sleeve didn’t give any info, I last had it set to 1.5, and the needle didn’t groove the vinyl in any way when I moved it so I figured it was okay. The anti-skate however I could set by feel, one of the things I’m proud of my father for teaching me before he went. Since this clearly wasn’t the common record, I set the speed to 45 for shits and giggles, and lowered the needle along with myself on the couch right after. I cleared my mind and braced for the music to come. That crackle of the needle on the vinyl filled my heart with the warmth I had once felt as a child, I was ready. But nothing came, not yet anyway.
At first there was nothing. The silence stretched with every inch I leaned closer, straining to catch a hint of a separate noise, with the silence only being broken by those faint static pops, their sharpness almost mocking the emptiness around it. After around 20 seconds though, beneath the static, something shifted. It was so subtle, at first I thought it was my brain making things up, like a phantom sound. A growing hum, like witnessing a very far-off thunderstorm. But it was, wrong. A vibration too deep to be comforting. I could feel and hear my heart rate speed up, like an intense backing track to what I was already hearing. Then there was a note, sharp and alien, followed by another discordant note, followed by more, each one more unsettling than the last. They started playing faster, increasingly dissonant. It sounded like they were bending, distorting, like the sounds were clashing with each other. This sound followed no natural harmony or rhythm. Instead of fading, the notes began to deepen, they were becoming more full, rich, oppressive. It felt so off to listen to, but I couldn’t comprehend it, nor feel the need to stop what I was doing. Then it hit. The most deep, guttural growl erupted from not the record, or the player, but within the air around me. It wasn’t just a sound. it was a force. A deep, bass-laden rumble that swam through the floorboards, I swore I could feel the foundation beneath me shaking and my vision getting blurry from the vibrations, the air seemed to pulse and it took my breath away. Although before I could have time to process everything that happened, there was a bang, a gunshot? I to this day can’t correctly compare the pure force of the sound to anything earthly. I would’ve believed you if you told me someone ran a fully-loaded semi through my living room. It made the following silence nearly as loud. It knocked me back, I remember jumping so hard I thought I actually died right then and there.
After recovering from the echoes, with my ears still ringing, instinct urged me to investigate. I looked around myself, and slowly walk towards the door once I realized I was alive and here. I first looked at the living room glass door. Did someone crash into my house? I ran to the front door, but stopped once I got the door handle, my hands were shaking trying to gain hold of any tangible thought, but my pulse within the silence drowned out any rational thought, leaving my fear to roar through out my head. I could feel cool sweat on my palms, so I wiped them on my jeans. The door was inches in front of me, but I was scared that when I opened the door I would see nothing but abyss.
I swung the door open, the cool night air rushed in, carrying with it the faint scent of damp earth and distant rain, with the silence of the night amplifying every rustle of leaves and murmur. Yet, the street lay empty. I looked around my porch, it felt like a fragile barrier between safety and the unknown. I squinted into the darkness, trying to pierce the inky blackness of the corners where the light dared not reach. Everything appeared as it should, my potted plants stood quietly, the old welcome mat lay flat at the foot of the door, undisturbed. Even the small, forgotten newspaper sat folded at the edge of the steps, half-damp from dew but exactly where it had landed the day before. Just as my nerves began to settle, a sudden flash of headlights broke through the stillness, illuminating the street. A car sped past, the engine roaring like a beast unleashed. The bright lights danced across my porch, momentarily revealing shadows that felt alive, swirling with a life of their own.
I slammed the door shut, embarrassed that the driver I rationally knew I would never see in my life again, had seen me frightened and would judge me, this grown man retreating from nothing. My heart was still pounding, the adrenaline hadn’t budged. The silence inside the house was more than loud now, it was wrong, it was too heavy. What if that didn’t come from outside?
I stood by the kitchen counter staring at the door for at least an eternity, trying to convince myself that was okay, and so was I, but I couldn’t. My eyes drifted to the hallway, back to the door, and back to the hallway over and over, and every time it seemed the shadows got deeper than they had been before my eyes left them. Once I got the courage to start walking, every creak of the floor beneath my feet sounded like it had an amplifier behind it at max gain. I checked the entire house, room by room. Every window latch. Every corner of every room, expecting to find something, or someone lurking in the dark. But there was nothing, no one, but me. I locked every door and window in the house, ran up to my bedroom, locked my door and turned on my light in the same movement.
I sat on the edge of my bed, my heart still beating too fast, my mind replaying that bang over and over again at the same speed, trying to rationalize it, trying to make sense of why it sounded so close, so yet so far, so, unnatural. I flicked on the TV, needing noise, something to drown out the silence. Cheers was playing, and it was one of the only shows I saw my father watch while growing up, so I thought it might bring me some form of comfort. I watched the characters laugh, joke, and drink, but it all felt like it was happening in another world, so far removed from where I was. My eyes were fixed on the screen, but I wasn’t really watching. One scene had me distracted for a moment until there was a close-up of Sam, standing behind the bar, the laughter around him growing distant as he stared ahead, lost in thought. I felt like I was staring right back at him, and only a moment later, the noise of the show fell away. It was just me and this stillness, and all I could think about was that sound. That bang. My chest tightened up, my mind kept circling. Then with almost 0 notice or time to feel another way, I was overwhelmed with an emotion I don’t feel often. In fact, probably the one I feel the least in life. I was furious. Violently furious.
My hands clenched, my jaw tightened, and suddenly it felt like the entire night had been some cruel joke. I wasn’t just scared anymore, I was angry. Angry at the noise, angry at myself for being shaken by it, and angry at the oppressive silence that followed, as if the world was mocking me for even trying to find a spark in something I’m so passionate about, the lifelong connection I feared I was losing the love for. My heart pounded harder, my chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. The stillness of the house, the hum of the TV, even the light from the screen, all of it felt suffocating, like it was closing in on me. Every unanswered question was another weight on my chest, and with every second that passed, I could feel the fury boiling hotter, rising until I thought I might snap.
I looked at myself in my mirror in front my bed, and without thinking I lunged and kicked it in as hard as I could. Glass flew everywhere like confetti, but I didn’t even flinch. I looked around on the floor for biggest shard that came from my tantrum, picked up the one I felt “satisfied” with the grip of, and watched the sharper edge glinting in the bedroom light. I couldn’t help myself. I pressed it into my forearm. Just enough to draw blood, a crimson line appearing like a scarlet ribbon unfurling against my skin. It stung, but the pain released everything. It felt good. It distracted me from the emotional turmoil that I felt was going to consume me. I went back to my arm again, and I went deeper, each cut an attempt to drown out the echoes of the all the noises and the lack of. Then it was cold, really cold. It brought me back to reality, I saw the blood all over my arm, the pooling on the carpet, the continuous dripping on the wall in front me
I choked on a gasp, and ran for the bathroom down the hall and slammed the door, the sound bellowing like the noise that was haunting me. I fumbled for the nearest towel and wrapped it around my arm, and then held my arm, like I just betrayed it, I’ve never had such an intense wave of shame hit me before. Once the blood stopped spreading around the towel, I yanked the towel away to diagnose. The sight made my stomach implode. My forearm was a gruesome tapestry of red, each cut gaping like a mouth silently screaming for attention. The flesh around the wounds was swollen and bruised, a deep maroon encircling the jagged lines that crisscrossed my skin. Dark, congealed blood clung to the edges, glistening under the harsh bathroom light like a macabre. I swore in way’s I had no clue I could, filled the sink with warm water, and grabbed a bottle of Iso from the cabinet. My hands were shaking more than they were in front of the front door as I poured the alcohol over the wounds, wincing as it stung like fire against the raw meat. The cuts throbbed and pulsed, almost alive. I reached for a fresh roll of gauze, cleaned the cuts, wiping away the blood and grime, and wrapped them in the gauze like fragile gifts I had no right to keep. Meanwhile the entire time I could hear the Cheers theme from behind the bathroom door, not in a creepy way, but it still felt like a form of mockery.
Once I finished bandaging, I laid on the cool bathroom tiles, staring at the ceiling with the light on. The bang still echoed in my mind, a haunting reminder that wouldn’t let go. The familiar space I had known as “home” felt alien and distorted, a shadow of its former self. I must’ve laid there for an hour, lost in thought, staring blankly, listening intently, waiting for a reassurance that never came. As the minutes stretched on, the weight of those unanswered questions hung over me, heavy and unyielding.
Now I’ve never self-harmed. I’ve never felt the urge to, and I’ve never been formally diagnosed with any mental disorder, despite my tendency to be more anxious and hyper-aware than most. In the grand scheme of things, the idea of self-harm never even existed in the labyrinthine file cabinet of my mind. I experience sadness and frustration like anyone else, but I am the antithesis of violence or cruelty. Confrontation sends chills down my spine. Yet, in that moment, when I felt the glass pierce my skin, there was an intoxicating clarity that accompanied it, an odd sense of release, a twisted satisfaction that flooded through me.
The recovery was terrible, and I was left grappling with the reality of what I had done. Blood stained the carpet, drowning the broken mirror’s glass, removing its shimmer. A stark reminder of my momentary lapse, and as I stared at the mess I had created, the heaviness of my actions began to sink in. I feared the physical recovery as much as the emotional dread that had driven me to that point. I’m not sure if this scared me more, or today’s events.
Once I came to, as much as one could in this scenario, and I couldn’t see anything leaking from my clearly terrible put together bandaging job, my bed and blanket sounded really nice. I stumbled down the hallway to sit on the edge of my bed, throwing myself back on to the bed and throwing my blanket over my top half with my bandaged arm raised. I stared at the ceiling with the light still on for a while. The sound of the bang still echoed in my mind, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. How it felt like it had torn through more than just the air, like it had ripped something apart in me, leaving the space I knew as “home” feeling foreign, distorted. I must’ve laid there for hours, staring, listening, waiting. Although these thoughts were nowhere near as intense as before. The minutes stretched, and eventually, exhaustion crept in, weighing down my limbs. But I couldn’t turn off the light. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something, somewhere, was still wrong. Even sleep, when it finally came, was restless. I woke up every couple of hours, jolting up, straining to listen for that sound again, but the house remained still, uncomfortably still.
When morning came, it was a quiet, pale light creeping through the blinds, casting long shadows on the floor. The alarm didn’t wake me, I was already half-awake, hovering in that space between sleep and reality. I swung my legs off the bed, wincing as my feet touched the cold floor. The dull throb in my arm reminded me of the night before. I peeled off the bandage, stiff and crusted with dried blood, the edges cracking as I pulled. The skin beneath was a chaotic mess of angry red lines, jagged and swollen. It wasn’t just the sight that made my stomach churn, it was the raw, open flesh, the blood that clung to my skin like it was too stubborn to let go. I still managed to force myself to look away and stand. Walking out of the bedroom was a task, my creaking floorboards didn’t ease me at all. The house wasn’t suffocating me in silence like it had been the night before, but the normal quiet wasn’t comforting either. Although, that didn’t stop my heart from pounding with what felt like the heaviest steps ever. I had to force myself into taking steps. I was scared and nothing had even happened yet. I still kept on, just slowly breathing, trying to keep at the same volume as everything around me. The hallway walls seemed narrow around me, it made my skin prickle. By the time I reached the kitchen, I was shaking so much I had to re-aim my grab after missing the trim the first time. It took me forever to actually get around the corner, almost a comedic amount of time, if something was after me, I was basically inviting it to take me. All I could find in my kitchen though, was the normal, silent, weak morning light, streaming in through the sliding door onto the peninsula. I’ve never had such a deep sigh of relief, maybe because I was basically suffocating myself trying to be quiet through out the house.
The kitchen felt like a sanctuary of stillness, the weak morning light spilling across the counter, quiet and undisturbed. I stood there for a while, letting my breath catch up to the moment, my body still trembling from the effort of just getting out of my room. The relief of being surrounded by something normal, something safe, was short-lived, though. The throb in my arm was back, all my adrenaline had left.
The more I thought about it, the more unreal last night felt, like a living nightmare that I couldn’t comprehend, and for some reason my coping mechanism was violence. I moved through the house, touching the walls, the furniture, the windows, trying to ground myself. Everything was normal, I know it was, but something in this house was off, and it was draining, it’s basically all I’ve thought about.
By midday, everything gnawed at me to the point where I felt the need to reach out. I mean considering last night I’m not sure I could trust myself. It wasn’t only that I just need to hear another organic noise through out the walls that wasn’t coming from me. I needed someone to anchor me.
Jonah is the one friend I still had in my 20’s, we did basically everything from middle school till the end of high school, together. No event or emotions stopped it, we both just grew up, got jobs, had things to do, life. We still talk, just not as often. However I knew that he was the only person that would probably care, and the only person I cared that knew this was happening, even after I show him my arm and explain. I knew he wouldn’t judge me, and would feed off of my concerns seeing the positive end of it, he’d probably want nothing but to help.
I grabbed my phone and scrolled through the contacts, staring at his contact for a moment with my thumb shaking over the screen before calling him. As the dial tone hummed in my ear, I wondered if I was really going to tell him what was going on. Maybe I’d just talk about the record and my arm. Maybe we could listen to it together, if it happened again, sure I might freak out again, but then I’d know I wasn’t insane. Maybe that would be enough to push away the uncertainty gnawing at me, or grow it? Did I even know what I wanted out of this?
“Yo, man, what’s up?” His voice derailing my unwanted train of thought. His voice was casual, easy, like everything was fine. It felt like a lifeline, but it was a reminder of how out of sync everything felt on my end.
“Hey, man not much.” I sat for a second, trying to think of how to explain myself without sounding loony. “Um, listen… I know it’s random, but I was thinking maybe you could come over, I’m feeling a little weird at the moment and some company sounded great. I uh, got a new record and player if you’re down to give her a whirl” I tried to sound as normal as possible, but my voice felt shaky in my chest.
He laughed a bit, “Alright, alright buddy. I’ll bite. What kind of record are we talking here? Something rare?”
I paused. The memory of last night flickering in the back of my mind. “Yeah, something like that. It’s just… old, you know? Either way you should come by, it’s been a minute and I got a lot on my mind, it would be nice to talk.”
“Sure, man. I actually got out early today, didn’t really know what to do with myself so this is better. You good though? You sound a little off.”
I swallowed hard, my grip tightening on the phone. “Yeah, I’m alright. Been a long day and I had a long night. I’ll see you when you get here.”
“Yes sir, see you in a bit.”
I hung up and dropped the phone on the counter, staring blankly ahead. Maybe hearing the record would settle things again. Maybe things would get worst. Maybe it’s just a record, and something underlying is going on. Maybe this has nothing to do with the record.
Minutes felt like hours as I waited for him to show up. I kept checking the clock, the door, then the record. My arm ached with every second, but I couldn’t focus on that. All I could think about was what would happen when I played the record again. Finally, the doorbell rang, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. I felt my heart leap into my throat as I walked over to the door, taking a deep breath before opening it.
“Aye man,” he said with a smile, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. His presence filled the space immediately, a solid anchor in the strange tide that had been pulling me under since last night. He glanced around, then back at me. “You look like hell.”
I forced a laugh, closing the door behind him while hiding my arm behind my back. “Yeah, long day.”
Jonah raised an eyebrow, his eyes lingering a little longer than usual. He didn’t press, though, he never did. Just a slight nod of understanding. As he kicked off his shoes and made his way toward the living room, it felt like some of the tension in my chest unwound. Jonah always carried himself like he owned the space around him, like nothing rattled him, and it made me feel safer. His familiarity with the place, with me, made everything seem a little less heavy.
As I followed him in, I felt the bandage on my arm pull tight. I’d forgotten about it for a moment, but now the dull ache was crawling back up. Jonah was already plopped down on the couch, stretching out like he’d been there a thousand times before, I guess to be fair he probably had at this point. He turned to look at me again, this time with an amount of concern I can’t really quantify.
“What the hell happened to your arm, dude?”
I froze for a split second, my hand instinctively brushing against the gauze. The question hung in the air, casual on the surface, but I could feel the mass behind it. I hadn’t figured out how to explain it yet. Hell, I didn’t even know if I wanted to.
“Ah, it’s nothing,” I mumbled, shifting awkwardly. “Just a stupid accident. Banged it up last night.” Jonah leaned forward, his casual demeanor shifting into something sharp gaze, like he read my mind and knew what happened and just wanted me to admit it.
“Banged up? Do you think I’m stupid?”
I hesitated, feeling the burn of his eyes on me. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth, about the cuts, about the fear crawling under my skin since the record. Maybe if I told him part of it, it’d be enough.
“I cut myself,” I admitted, finally meeting that sharp gaze. “Didn’t mean to. It just… happened.”
Jonah didn’t say anything for a moment. He glanced at my arm, his brow furrowing, but he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned back, nodding slowly. “Alright,” he said quietly. “But you’re good now, right?”
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure if I was convincing either of us. “Yeah. I’m good.”
Jonah gave me a look, like he didn’t quite believe me, but he again, didn’t press. The silence between us stretched, thick with everything I wasn’t saying, until I finally cleared my throat. I needed to shake this off, steer things somewhere else, anywhere else.
“Anyway,” I said, trying to sound more casual than I felt, “I’ve been dying to show you this record.”
Jonah’s expression softened, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Oh yeah, you mentioned that. What’s the deal? Something special?”
I shrugged, keeping my voice even. “Just something I stumbled on. Thought you’d appreciate it.”
I walked over to the record player, the vinyl resting on the platter I left it in. My fingers hovered over it for a second longer than they should have, but there was a reason. My gut dropped, I never realized the vinyl stopped playing, and the needle was lifted on it’s own that night, I know I didn’t touch it. But Jonah didn’t let me think about it.
“Old-school, huh?” Jonah said, looking at the setup with interest, “You know me, I’m down for anything with a little vintage vibe”
I forced a smile, but my hands were shaky as I adjusted the needle. “Yeah… figured you’d like this one.”
I set the needle in the same place I did last night, and that familiar crackle filled the room. The sound, once so comforting, now felt like nails on glass, scraping the inside of my skull. My chest tightened, and I couldn’t help but glance at Jonah, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tension. He just sat there in his chair, nodding along to nothing, completely at ease.
Then, just beneath the crackling, I caught it. Low at first, barely audible, like a breath from deep within the earth. But I definitely heard it. That hum. It made me stop breathing at once, like a spell. It only took a couple seconds within hearing it for it start to twist, turning into something darker, almost alive, it was different than last time. My skin prickled, and I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I swallowed hard, willing myself to breathe normally, but it was impossible. My chest was tight, and my fingers trembled as they hovered over the record player, but I didn’t dare touch it.
Then, the sound broke free, exponentially quicker than the last time. A guttural noise, low, rasping, unnatural, and above all else, loud. I flinched, my eyes darting to Jonah. He stopped nodding, his body going still. His hand, mid-tap, froze in the air.
“You hear that?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He didn’t respond at first, just stared at the record player, the casual ease drained from his face. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, his voice uncertain. “What the hell is th-”
The growl deepened and amplified, curling through the air like it had weight, like it could reach out and pull us both into nothing with zero hesitation. My heart was pounding now, so loud I could feel it in my throat. The room felt smaller, the walls seemed to close in, the atmosphere so thick I could hardly breathe. But from this point, I knew this wasn’t in my head anymore. Jonah heard it too. Then there was silence.
Just beyond the flickering shadows cast by the dim light, something shifted outside the guest room. A silhouette formed at the edge of the living room, dark and indistinct, hovering like a mirage. It was as if the light itself was bending around it, creating a void where no light should be.
My breath hitched, and I felt my heart race. “Do you see that?” I whispered, almost afraid to say the words aloud.
Jonah’s gaze snapped toward the shape, his mouth opening slightly, breath caught in his throat. The figure stood there, tall and imposing, a stark contrast against the walls. It had no distinct features, just an outline that seemed to pulse and writhe, as if it were alive, feeding off our fear.
“What the hell is that?” Jonah finally managed to say, his voice a tremor.
In an instant, panic exploded between us. We turned on our heels, adrenaline surging as we bolted for the kitchen. But before we could even reach the hallway, the silhouette re-emerged at the far end of the kitchen.. It loomed there, just as shadowy, but this time it seemed to shift in a way that made it unmistakably aware of us. It’s presence a palpable weight in the air.
We skidded to a halt, my heart pounding in my chest as I stared at the figure, breathless. At first glance, it looked like a mere shadow cast by the dim light, but as I squinted, details began to materialize in the darkness. The edges were jagged, almost like fingers reaching out, grasping for something just beyond their reach. A faint glimmer, a flash of what might have been a hollow eye socket, drew me in. It felt like it was studying us, as if it could see every fear and doubt reflected in our expressions. I could almost feel its cold gaze piercing through me, chilling my blood. Before we could analyze further, it coldly reminded us of the least of it’s potential.
It spoke. It only took the one word it spoke. I couldn’t get the sound to exit once it had broken through. The way it drew the word out. The way it whispered, but I could feel it’s frequency reverberate all through out my head. The way it layered like the same person talking to me at 10 different times in different speeds and tones. It was, melodic. But there was wrongness in it’s pitch, it made it hard to focus or feel comfortable in any way. I almost mistook it for something beautiful, I almost mistook it for music.
“Alaric”, The ‘c’ at the end snapped through the air, sharp and final, as if it cut me in half where I stood. The name lingered in the space around me, coiling me. Though before I could process it, it moved. Not like a shadow slipping away, like it was being pulled or stretched towards the door. It’s edges distorted, twisting like molten tar, sliding through the door as if the metal and wood were liquid, bending to it’s will.
Jonah looked at me with his eyes wide and unblinking, he wasn’t confused, he wasn’t terrified, he was lost. He looked primal, raw, like he knew he shouldn’t have been here to witness any of this. He swallowed with an audible brute force, making his next words fall like stones.
“Did it just say your fucking name?”