Eleanor Birch’s attic in Boston was filled with old paper and dust. She worked there as a sound archivist, surrounded by stacks of outdated media. Her daily routine involved playing and preserving magnetic tape for museums. Her real focus, however, was a private set of reels labeled with dates and her daughter’s name: Lillian.
Lillian had died in a fire three years earlier. The only things left were some damaged audiotapes and Eleanor’s memories. She wanted to recover Lillian’s voice, to piece together her daughter’s early sounds and words. As a professional, she knew that restoring certain recordings could distort memories, but she continued anyway.
Eleanor spent most of her time in the attic, often falling asleep to Lillian’s old recordings playing on a tape deck beside her bed. Last week, her sister Clara called. Clara, who was blunt and direct, expressed concern about Eleanor’s behavior. “You’re losing yourself, Eleanor,” Clara said over the phone. The line was full of static. Eleanor ignored her, focusing on another tape. Clara had not lost a child and could not understand.
The first sign of something unusual happened during a routine digitization job for a historical society. The reel came from an estate auction and was labeled “Boxwood Estate – Misc.” Eleanor loaded it onto her Revox B77. The tape began with ordinary sounds: creaking floorboards, fabric moving, a distant clock. Then, she heard a faint whisper, almost hidden in the tape hiss. She leaned closer.
She recognized Lillian’s voice. It said, “Mama, are you coming?” Then, “It’s cold here, Mama. So very cold.” Lillian had died as a baby and could not have spoken those words. Eleanor played the tape several times. Each time, the voice sounded clearer. She ruled out technical errors. The voice was present on the tape, saying things that had never been recorded.
After this, Eleanor’s routine changed. She played the tape every night. The voice on it became more distinct, as if responding to her. The attic, once a place of work, felt oppressive. She began to see herself as someone who was becoming lost in her search for echoes of her daughter.
The auction manifest included an address. Eleanor drove there, leaving Boston for a rural area in New England. As she traveled, the scenery changed. The trees lost their color, and the air smelled of damp earth and metal.
The house was a large Victorian at the end of an overgrown driveway. Its windows were broken, and the paint was peeling. The auctioneer said it had been empty for years. Eleanor noticed a low vibration coming from the building.
Near the garden, a boy appeared. He looked about seven years old and held a baseball. He asked, “You here for the house?” Eleanor said yes. The boy told her his sister used to play there but had disappeared. “Mama says the house took her,” he said. He warned Eleanor about a room that made a humming sound.
Eleanor thanked him and entered the house. Inside, the air was cold and smelled of decay. Dust floated in the light from the windows.
She found audio reels everywhere: on shelves, in cupboards, and scattered on the floor. The reels had handwritten labels, such as “Confession of the Butcher’s Wife” and “Whispers from the Nursery.” She played one on her portable deck. A hoarse voice described betrayal and regret.
Eleanor explored further. In each room, she heard different sounds from the tapes: a child’s lullaby, a man crying, and, mixed in, pieces of Lillian’s voice. These were not from the tapes she had salvaged after the fire. They were unfamiliar, but she recognized her daughter’s sounds.
The humming sound grew stronger as she moved through the house. It led her to a staircase. At the top, a door was sealed with chains and wax. A childlike drawing of a woman holding a baby was carved into the wood, with the words “Mother’s Echo” below it.
Eleanor felt compelled to play the reel she was holding. The humming intensified. She heard her own voice say, “Lillian,” in a way she did not remember recording. Then Lillian’s voice called out, “Mama? Are you there, Mama?” The sound was not coming from the tape, but from behind the sealed door.
Eleanor became fixated on finding more recordings. She stopped sleeping and searched for more tapes containing her daughter’s voice or her own. She recorded herself speaking to Lillian and played it back in the house, hoping for a response.
The boy sometimes watched her from the garden. He did not speak further, but neighbors occasionally warned her that the house consumed sound. Eleanor ignored them.
One night, she found a small, unmarked reel that felt warm to the touch. She played it. The tape began with a hum that grew louder, followed by the sound of fire. Then she heard Lillian scream. The recording ended in silence.
Eleanor realized that the house was not preserving sound. It was absorbing it. The silence after the scream felt heavy and oppressive. The humming in the house became louder and more intense.
She remembered the circumstances of the fire. There had been a broken heater in Lillian’s room, and Eleanor had delayed repairing it. She had been drinking that night and did not wake up quickly enough when the fire started. She now understood that her own neglect had contributed to her daughter’s death.
Eleanor recorded a confession, admitting her responsibility for the fire and Lillian’s death. She played the recording in the house. The humming increased to a roar. The house shook, and voices from the tapes overlapped in a distorted chorus.
Eleanor saw her reflection in a window. She looked thin and exhausted. Behind her, she saw the outline of a child’s figure reaching toward the glass. The shape faded, and the house became quiet again.
Weeks later, the boy who had warned Eleanor found a small reel in his mailbox. He played it on an old tape recorder. Eleanor’s voice spoke his sister’s name, “Sarah,” in a quiet, persistent loop.
The boy looked toward the house. The humming had stopped. The house was silent, but the boy sensed that something had changed. The tape continued to play Eleanor’s voice, calling for his missing sister.
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Oh, love the eerie vibes. I'm glad Eleanor was able to admit her part and move on.
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Whispers speaking.
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