The first time I heard the voice, it whispered my name with the intimacy of a lover and the certainty of a judge.
“Sam.”
I froze in my apartment, the ceiling fan slicing the stale midnight air above me. My phone lay on the table, screen dark. No incoming call. No missed number. Just the voice—calm, measured, and devastatingly familiar.
“You still think about the bridge,” it said softly.
My chest tightened.
No one knew about the bridge.
The calls began after that—every night at 3:17 a.m., always from nowhere and everywhere at once. The voice never shouted. It never threatened. It didn’t have to. It knew things that were never spoken aloud.
“You pretend you’ve moved on,” the voice said one night. “But guilt doesn’t forget.”
Sleep abandoned me. Silence became unbearable.
Paranoia coiled around my mind. I checked locks until my knuckles bled. I avoided mirrors, afraid of what might look back. Every shadow felt like an accusation.
One night, desperation broke me.
“Who are you?” I screamed into the darkness.
The voice paused, then laughed—soft, almost gentle.
“I’m the part of you that remembers.”
Terrified and unraveling, I sought help. The psychiatrist listened without interrupting, then slid a thick file across her desk.
“You were admitted here five years ago,” she said quietly. “After the bridge incident.”
My hands shook as I opened the file.
Recordings played—my own voice calmly confessing crimes I swore I’d forgotten. Session notes detailed conversations I didn’t remember having. The voice had never come from outside.
“It never left,” the psychiatrist said. “You just stopped listening.”
That night, the voice returned—clearer, stronger.
“You understand now,” it said. “Confession isn’t enough.”
“Open the drawer.”
My body obeyed before my mind could protest. The knife lay inside, gleaming under the dim light.
“Balance is required,” the voice continued. “Just like on the bridge.”
I caught my reflection in the mirror. My face stared back—calm, patient, unfamiliar.
“Don’t worry,” it smiled. “I’ll take it from here.”
The blade rose.
As darkness swallowed my thoughts, the truth finally settled in.
By morning, they would find a body and a neatly written note.
Signed by Sam.