The basement smelled like dust, rust, and time.

Rylan’s flashlight cut through the dark, landing on metal shelves half-collapsed under the weight of forgotten files. The sign above the door read “Hale Institute – Archives” — its letters warped by water stains, like the building itself had been trying to forget what happened here.

They had followed the signal traced from the transmitter — a faint pulse buried beneath concrete, looping endlessly on Frequency 47B.

“This place shouldn’t even have power,” Rylan murmured, his voice echoing softly in the cold corridor.

Aria followed a few steps behind him, her hand brushing the wall as if to steady herself. Each time she did, the static in her mind grew louder. The deeper they went, the stronger it became — not just noise, but a rhythm. A heartbeat.

It was calling her.

The archives were a tomb of knowledge — filing cabinets sealed with yellow tape, reels of magnetic tape stacked in uneven towers, and folders stamped with the symbol she had once seen in Hale’s handwriting: a half-drawn circle split by a wave.

Mirror Project.

Rylan pried open one of the drawers, brushing off the dust. Inside were patient records — names, dates, audio logs.
Each file bore the same annotation:
“Therapeutic Experiment 47B — Vocal Reflection Exposure.”

He skimmed a report aloud:

“Patients record confessions during sessions. Audio played back to stimulate emotional confrontation, achieving closure through frequency resonance…”

He paused. The next line made his voice lower.

“…but prolonged exposure causes auditory hallucinations. Subjects report hearing their own voices long after sessions end.”

Aria’s throat went dry. “You mean— they were haunted by themselves?”

Rylan’s jaw tightened. “By the sound of their own trauma.”

He flipped to another file, the paper yellowed and torn. The name at the top froze both of them.

Subject: Aria Vale — Unconfirmed Participation.

Her knees nearly gave way. She stumbled back, pressing a hand to the nearest shelf. “No. That’s impossible. I never— I would’ve remembered.”

Rylan stepped toward her carefully. “Maybe Hale brought you in when you were a student. Maybe you volunteered without knowing what it was.”

But Aria’s eyes were far away now — fixed on a flicker in the edges of her mind.

A flash — sterile white walls.
A younger her, sitting across from Dr Hale.
Her voice trembling into a recorder.

“I don’t like silence. It feels like someone’s still listening.”

And Hale’s voice, calm, almost proud:

“You have the tone that resonates, Aria. Your voice could change everything.”

Her breath hitched. “I’ve heard him say that before,” she whispered, almost to herself. “But I thought it was from one of his lectures…”

Rylan reached out, steadying her shoulder. “You’re remembering what they wanted you to forget.”

In another corner of the basement, a flickering light drew Rylan’s attention. He found an open file box filled with Polaroids — images of therapy rooms, mirrors mounted on walls, microphones dangling like pendulums. And then one photo that stopped him cold.

A man — his old partner, Detective Ellis  — standing beside Dr Hale. His expression unreadable, the date stamped in the corner: 03/17 — six months before his death.

Rylan’s hand trembled slightly as he turned the photo over.
A note was scribbled on the back in Hale’s writing:

“He’s close to the entry point. Don’t let him reach 47B.”

His stomach turned. Elise had been investigating this — this project — when he was killed.

He looked up at Aria, who was staring at the wall as if listening to something only she could hear.

“Rylan,” she whispered, “what if I wasn’t just a subject? What if I’m the one carrying him?”

Her voice cracked on the last word, fear and guilt tangled together.

He moved closer, shaking his head firmly. “You’re not the monster he made. You’re the key to stopping him.”

But her gaze didn’t waver. “Then why does his voice sound like mine?”

They reached the far end of the archive, where a rusted metal door stood slightly ajar. Rylan pushed it open, and a wave of cold air swept out, thick with the metallic tang of decay.

Inside was a chamber lined with mirrors — cracked, clouded, rimmed in corrosion. Each panel hummed faintly, catching the glow of Rylan’s flashlight and reflecting it a hundredfold.

On one wall, painted in Hale’s unmistakable handwriting:
“ENTRY POINT: FREQUENCY 47B.”

Old recording equipment sat in the centre of the room — microphones suspended above a chair bolted to the floor. A reel-to-reel tape deck clicked on its own, spinning, even though no power should’ve reached this deep underground.

Rylan’s breath misted. “This is where he did it.”

Aria’s reflection flickered in every mirror — dozens of her, standing, trembling, breathing unevenly. Each one seemed to lag behind the real her by a second.

The static built into a low, pulsing thrum. The air itself seemed alive with it.

Then, through the hum, came a voice — her own voice — layered, distorted, whispering from the mirrors themselves.

“I remember you.”

The words rippled through the chamber like a heartbeat made of sound.

Aria’s hands clamped over her ears, but it didn’t stop. The voice wasn’t in the air. It was inside her head.

Rylan called her name, grabbing her arm, but she didn’t hear him — her reflection in the glass was smiling now, just faintly, even though she wasn’t.

“Welcome back to the mirror hour,” it said.

And then the reel snapped. The sound stopped.
Only the clock ticked faintly in the distance — 2:13.