Chapter 5-Don’t blink
1090 Words
Chapter Five — Don’t Blink
The voice faded as suddenly as it came, but its echo seemed to settle inside her bones.
Run.
That one word coiled in her chest like a slow-building fire. Not shouted. Not panicked. Just… whispered. As if it already knew she wouldn’t listen.
Mira gripped her phone tighter. The light from the screen dimmed, then flickered, then died.
Battery: 42%.
That wasn’t right. It had been over 80% just a few minutes ago.
She pressed the power button. It didn’t respond.
She stood in the center of the lobby, surrounded by silence and shadows and that old-school reel of tape—still lying on the floor, taunting her.
You shouldn’t have stayed.
Over and over. Red ink. Sharp letters.
A chill ran across her scalp.
She turned slowly, trying to find the hallway again, trying to remember which direction she had entered from. But the layout was different now. The walls had closed in. There were no doors. No break room. No windows showing the street.
Just the empty lobby. And the photo on the wall.
Her eyes drifted back to it. The black-and-white staff photo. Something about it still bothered her.
She stepped closer.
Now there were more smudged faces.
Three, maybe four of them. As if they’d been erased deliberately, not by time or damage but by intent. Like the photo had been edited while she wasn’t looking.
And the girl in the corner?
She had turned her head.
Mira’s breath caught.
It was impossible—she was sure of it—but the girl’s face, now partially visible, had sharper features. Young. Pale. Eyes too dark, too direct. Like she was looking at Mira, not into the camera.
She took a step back, heart drumming loud in her ears.
What is happening?
Not just fear now. Confusion. Disorientation.
She reached into her backpack, pulling out the key card that had gotten her into the building earlier. Maybe she just needed to find the security door again. Swipe out. Leave. Find a cab. Go home. Sleep this off.
She turned to the wall where the hallway had been.
And there it was.
The hallway had returned.
Same paint. Same flickering lights. Same overhead ductwork.
Her stomach twisted.
Was she losing her mind?
She forced her legs to move. Step by step down the corridor, scanning each door she passed. No labels. No signs. Everything suddenly nondescript, like someone had sanded the building down to blankness.
When she reached the studio entrance again, she hesitated.
She could hear something on the other side.
Not movement exactly.
But sound.
Faint, rhythmic. Like a turntable spinning at the end of a record.
Tick… tick… tick…
She pushed the door open.
The production booth was empty.
But the reel-to-reel was running again.
Only now, it was playing backward.
The tape spun in reverse, spooling across the heads, creating a warbled, distorted echo of the original message. She didn’t know what disturbed her more: the sound, or the fact that someone had started it again.
She moved closer.
The PLAY button glowed red.
She hadn’t touched it.
No one else was here.
She hovered over the STOP switch, heart hammering.
Before she could press it, the intercom system crackled.
A voice filled the studio speakers
“She’s listening now”
Not a whisper.
A voice.
Low. Male. Calm. Slightly amused.
She turned toward the control panel. The intercom line was still dead. No call-in. No outside connection.
The board was blank.
The voice shouldn’t exist.
Her hands trembled as she reached for the mic mute switch, instinct kicking in, years of broadcasting habits overriding logic.
She pressed it. The red light shut off.
Silence.
She exhaled.
And then
The light came back on. On its own.
And the voice said:
“You’re not supposed to be here Mira”
Her full name.
Not DJ Mira.
Not Mira from the midnight shift.
Just Mira.
Her real name.
She stepped back from the console.
“Who is this?” she whispered, unsure if she wanted an answer.
The voice didn’t respond.
The light shut off again.
She stood frozen.
Then the reel stopped spinning.
The machine powered down.
Total silence.
She didn’t know what to do. Sit? Cry? Call someone? No—her phone was still dead. And calling who, exactly? What would she even say?
She glanced at the digital clock on the wall.
3:08 AM.
It hadn’t moved.
Still 3:08.
She swore it had been that same time for the last twenty minutes.
She dug into her backpack again, pulled out her analog wristwatch from the side pocket—a cheap old Timex, a gift from her brother when she started college.
She flicked on the backlight.
3:08 AM.
Her stomach clenched.
The second hand wasn’t ticking.
She tapped the glass. Nothing.
Tapped again. Still.
Mira spun around.
She had to get out.
She moved fast, exiting the studio, running down the hall toward the security door at the back of the building—the one that opened to the alley. She’d parked nearby. If she could just make it outside, she could figure out the rest.
The hallway stretched longer than it had before.
Each step felt like she was sinking. The lights above her buzzed harder, dimmed, then flickered back to life.
She kept going.
Finally, the security door came into view.
She slammed her key card against the reader.
Nothing.
Tried again.
The red light blinked. Denied.
Again.
Red. Denied.
She pounded on it. Shouted. “HELLO? Is anyone out there?”
Only her echo answered.
Then—
Behind her, a faint scuffing noise.
Like shoes dragging on tile.
She turned fast.
No one.
But the lights at the far end of the hallway had gone out.
One by one, they were winking off—getting closer.
She pounded the card again.
“Come on!”
The final light at the far end dimmed, leaving her in darkness.
Then she heard breathing.
Not her own.
Low. Steady. Inhale, exhale. Too close.
Mira stepped away from the door, fumbling for the flashlight on her phone.
It powered on for one second.
Enough time to see a shape—tall, not quite human, standing at the edge of the hall.
Then the flashlight died.
The phone went black.
So did everything else.
She couldn’t see.
Couldn’t move.
All she could do was whisper into the dark:
“…Who are you?”
The breathing grew louder.
And a voice answered, right by her ear.
“Don’t blink”
- Writer
