Echo Room

I agreed to the study for the money.

Two thousand dollars for three nights in a controlled environment. “Just a series of psychological observations,” they said. “Mild sensory deprivation. Nothing painful.”

The official name was The Echo Response Test. They led me down three flights of stairs in a private research building downtown — sleek, modern, sterile. Like a hospital had a baby with a tech lab. Four researchers in white coats greeted me. I only remember one name: Dr. Ivers. Short, pale, unnervingly calm. He never blinked enough.

The room was underground, windowless, soundproofed. Just a bed, a chair, and a two-way mirror. No clock. No phone. No noise. Just me and my thoughts.

“Don’t worry,” Ivers said. “We’re watching. And we’ll record everything.”

That’s what scared me.

Not the room — them.

The first few hours passed in silence. I stared at the mirror, wondering how many eyes hid behind it.

By hour six, I could hear my heartbeat. By hour eight, I started whispering random words just to break the silence.

"Blue. Sand. Oranges. Knife. Pillow. Door. Skin."

Just noises.

I slept in short bursts, unsure if it was night or day. Sometimes I’d wake up mid-sentence, unsure who I was talking to. Sometimes I wasn’t sure I was asleep at all.

Then the mirror blinked.

Just once. A flicker of movement behind the glass. Maybe a shadow. I sat up.

"Hello?"

No reply.

I pressed my ear to the wall. Nothing. Then something.

My own voice.

"Skin."

It whispered back. Same word. Same tone.

"Skin."

I laughed nervously. “Okay. Very funny.”

But they didn't respond. Not verbally. The mirror flickered again. This time a full face — mine — but different. Hollow eyes. Mouth slack.

Then gone.

I pounded on the mirror. “This isn’t funny! Say something!”

Silence.

Then… static.

It filled the room like radio interference. My ears popped. Blood dripped from my left nostril. The light above me buzzed violently, dimming until I was left in a low red glow, like an emergency bulb in an aircraft.

I curled up on the bed and whispered to myself until the static stopped.

But the whispering didn’t.

It came from the chair across from me.

I stared at it.

Empty.

But I heard it. A copy of my voice. Mocking. Repeating every word I’d spoken since I arrived — jumbled and overlapping, like a chorus of distorted memories.

“Knife. Pillow. Door. Skin. Knife. Pillow. Door. Skin.”

I covered my ears.

"STOP!"

The room obeyed.

The next time I looked at the mirror, it was cracked. Thin, branching fractures like spiderwebs. My reflection was wrong — off-center. Delayed. It smiled when I didn’t.

They never brought me food. Or water. But I never felt hungry.

Just awake.

Too awake.

Then came the banging.

From their side.

I heard screams. Shouting. Slamming fists. Equipment crashing.

Then a voice — Dr. Ivers.

"Shut it down! Shut it DOWN!"

I ran to the mirror. My reflection didn’t follow. It just sat calmly on the bed behind me, staring forward.

From the other side, I saw shadows darting past. Flashing red lights. Alarms.

And I smiled.

Because I realized something:

I wasn’t the one being studied anymore. They were.

I was the experiment.

The room wasn’t built to isolate me. It was built to contain me.

I think I broke it.

Whatever they tried to test, I turned it inside out. Now the room listens to me. It echoes me. Not my voice — my will.

The mirror finally shattered this morning.

I saw them on the other side. Wide-eyed. Bleeding. Screaming.

They tried to sedate me, but the room turned against them.

I didn't lift a finger.

The lights exploded. The door melted. The sound bled from the walls like oil. One by one, they dropped. Some by fire. Some by madness. All by me.

Now I sit in the chair. Their chair.

Waiting.

You might be next.

If you hear a knock in your wall late at night, don’t answer. If the mirror in your bedroom flickers — don’t look.

The Echo Room is still alive. Still listening.

And I’m still inside it.

Watching.

Waiting.

For someone new.