Beneath the Floorboards

When obsession drowns out reason, only the voice remains.

🔊

Adrian Cho was accustomed to working on his own—the sound technician eliminated ambient noise whenever he could. The shuffling of feet or sudden bumps would disrupt his work.

He was in an abandoned shophouse that fateful night, working out audio kinks for a new film. Old shophouses came with echoes—not Adrian's favourite place to work. Floorboards creaked—unsurprising, since these places were generally weatherbeaten.

So, when murmurs started sounding through the floorboards, he merely passed them over as "age."

Until they started to mimic his voice.

In whispers too close to thought.

Echoes that should not have been.

And he hadn't been speaking—not one word.

Ever the stoic sound engineer, Adrian dutifully recorded the sounds over the next few days—they HAD to do with the structure.

But the playbacks were—

ODD.

They revealed something new—each and every time.

Pealed laughter.

Muted whispering.

Then—confessions he made—only in his mind.

Chopped sentences covered in static.

About the dalliances his wife never knew about.

The dissatisfaction with his marriag

But each replay mangled reality—

each more distorted.

Sleep be came an elusive bedfellow—more estranged than his wife.

His logic began to crumble under the sound. Isolating the source of the recordings was the only thing he could think of.

On a sleepless night, the sound almost drove Adrian deranged. He ripped the floorboards apart to confront the incessant murmuring.

No untoward creature, no sentient being.

Just a recording.

Labelled with his name.

He pressed the recorder's "play" button.

Shrieks from beyond filled the room.

The sound of himself, unmade.

In his voice—one he hardly knew existed.

The uncanny shrieks were loud enough to prompt neighbours to take action.

The police later scoured his apartment—

emptiness louder than fear.

Silence that consumed.

His equipment, running.

An officer heard the playback on the recorder.

A distended voice mixed with static.

"Adrian, stop."

Adrian was wanted—and listened.

By his mind, or himself—for him to know.

🔊

Original story by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.

A little November Horror Micro for Mikeydred's November Challenge.