Twenty-Seven Seconds

The first voicemail came at 2:13 a.m.

Mara almost ignored it.

She lay tangled in her blankets, half-awake in the blue glow of her phone alarm, staring at the unknown number vibrating across the screen. No caller ID. No location. Just static for a contact image.

The voicemail notification appeared before the ringing even stopped.

That made her pause.

With a frown, she opened it and pressed play.

For several seconds there was only crackling silence.

Then breathing.

Wet. Uneven. Close to the microphone.

Mara grimaced and pulled the phone from her ear.

“Hello?” a voice whispered.

Not from the phone.

From downstairs.

She froze.

The house settled around her with familiar nighttime noises—the creak of old pipes, the hum of the refrigerator below, rain tapping gently against the windows.

Then came another sound.

A slow footstep.

Directly beneath her bedroom.

Mara sat upright.

“Dad?” she called weakly.

No answer.

Another step.

Her father should have been working nights at the hospital until six. She was alone.

She checked the voicemail again.

00:27 seconds long.

Hands trembling slightly now, she lifted the phone back to her ear.

Breathing.

Crackle.

Then:

“I’m downstairs.”

The message ended.

Mara’s stomach tightened.

A laugh almost escaped her. Some stupid prank. A friend, maybe. Someone messing with her.

But none of her friends knew her father worked nights.

And none of them could imitate her own voice perfectly.

She replayed it.

“I’m downstairs.”

Her voice.

Exactly her voice.

The floorboard outside her room creaked.

Mara’s head snapped toward the bedroom door.

The hallway beyond sat in complete darkness.

Another creak.

Slowly, she climbed out of bed and grabbed the aluminum baseball bat leaning beside her dresser. Her pulse hammered so loudly she could hear it in her ears.

She told herself it was nothing.

She told herself people imagined things when they were tired.

She told herself that while easing open the bedroom door.

The hallway was empty.

Cold air drifted through the second floor, carrying the faint smell of wet dirt.

The attic hatch above the hallway hung open.

Mara stopped breathing.

Her father never opened the attic.

A soft thump echoed above her.

Then another.

Like someone crawling.

Very slowly.

She backed away instinctively.

Her phone buzzed in her hand.

Another voicemail.

2:17 a.m.

Mara stared at the notification, then at the attic hatch overhead.

The crawling stopped.

Absolute silence.

She pressed play.

Static.

Breathing.

Then her own voice whispered:

“Don’t look up.”

Something moved above the hatch.

Fast.

Mara stumbled backward just as a pale arm unfolded from the darkness overhead.

It was too long.

Jointed wrong.

Another arm followed, fingers bending backward with sharp popping sounds as it gripped the edges of the attic opening.

Then a face appeared upside down from the dark.

Her face.

Same brown eyes.

Same mouth.

But stretched too wide in a horrible grin, splitting nearly to the ears.

“Mara,” it crooned softly.

Its voice layered over hers like two recordings playing at once.

“I found you.”

She screamed and ran.

The creature dropped from the attic behind her with a crash of snapping limbs.

Mara flew down the stairs, nearly slipping, the bat clanging uselessly against the wall as she reached the kitchen. Her fingers fumbled for the back door lock.

Above her came the sound of footsteps.

Not walking.

Skittering.

Like a spider sprinting across the ceiling.

She looked up.

The thing was clinging upside down above the staircase.

Its neck twisted unnaturally as it watched her.

Smiling.

Her phone buzzed again.

Again.

Again.

Dozens of voicemail notifications flooded the screen.

2:18 a.m.

2:18 a.m.

2:18 a.m.

Every single one from her own number.

The creature opened its mouth.

Mara heard her own voice pour out of it from across the room and through the phone speaker simultaneously:

“You should’ve stayed upstairs.”

The kitchen lights went out.

In the darkness came the sound of rapid crawling.

Then silence.

The next morning, Mara’s father returned home to find the back door hanging open.

Mud tracked through the kitchen.

Her phone sat alone on the floor.

Still receiving voicemails.

Police later recovered thirty-seven messages.

Every one was identical.

Twenty-seven seconds long.

Breathing.

Static.

And, at the very end, Mara’s voice whispering:

“I’m downstairs.”