VOICE NOTE: The Mime Knew My Voice

The voice note was 7 seconds long. Virginia didn't recognize the number. +1 (705) — Maple Falls. That was the town code. Everyone she knew in Maple Falls was saved. Dolly. Chloe. Tyler. Professor Ellis. Her landlord. This was not saved. The little grey ticks hadn't turned blue yet when she pressed play, one hand still holding a wet rag over Table 3 at Dolly's Diner. It was 7:14 PM. Thursday. Outside, the first real snow of October was falling sideways. First — a girl giggling. Drunk giggle. The kind you do at a pre-game when you know someone is filming you and you want to look cute but you are already tipsy. Then breathing. Heavy. Too close to mic. Then — in Virginia's own voice. Her own deep voice. "Don't go to the party tonight." Her hand slipped. The rag fell into the cold gravy on the plate. It was _her_. Not similar to her. Her. That exact rasp she had hated since she was thirteen. The voice that made her mother say "You should sing, you have a jazz voice" when she just wanted to sound like other girls. The voice that made every new lecturer on Zoom say "Sorry sir, I thought — oh, Miss... Virginia, sorry!" The voice that made guys on call center jobs ask to speak to her father. The voice that made customers at Dolly's look up when she said "Welcome to Dolly's" because they expected a tall Black man, not a 5'4" girl in an apron with short twist-out hair. She had never sent that. She stared at the waveform. 0:07. From a number that wasn't saved. Her thumb hovered. She pressed play again, like pressing a bruise. Giggle. Breath. "Don't go to the party tonight." Same inflection. Same deep note on "tonight" that always cracked a little at the end, because her voice was too low for her throat. And that was the thing about deep voices that no one tells you. If you are a girl with a deep voice, you don't just hate your voice. You hate how it makes everything you say sound like a statement. When Chloe said "I'm scared" in her high bubbly voice, people rushed to hug her. When Virginia said "I'm scared" in her deep voice, people said "You don't sound scared." Because deep voice sounds steady even when you are shaking inside. Deep voice sounds like you know secret, even when you don't know anything. Deep voice sounds like late-night radio host, not like 21-year-old girl who is scared of snow. She had spent years trying to make it higher. In Grade 9 in Brampton, she watched YouTube videos: "How to make your voice more feminine." She drank hot water with honey every morning before school. Her mom caught her and said "Omo mi, why are you whispering? Your grandmother had voice deeper than mine and she led market women. Stop apologizing for your throat." But mom left for Brampton job when Virginia was 19, and Virginia moved to Maple Falls for cheap Media Studies at Maple Falls College, and small town made it worse. In Toronto, no one cared about your voice because everyone was on subway with headphones. In Maple Falls, population 8,432 according to sign, everyone cared. Everyone knew Table 3 didn't tip, everyone knew Chloe left her window open, everyone knew Virginia's voice. "Gin? Table 3 is not gonna wipe itself, baby." Dolly's voice snapped her back. Dolly was 67, white hair in a bun, had owned the diner since before Virginia was born in Brampton, and believed any problem — breakup, exam failure, snowstorm, death — could be solved with more coffee and less phone. Dolly was the only person in town who never commented on Virginia's voice weirdly. She just said "Your voice is good for telling customers we are out of pie, they believe you." Virginia shoved her phone in her apron pocket. The fabric felt hot. "Sorry, Dolly." The diner was dead. That was the word. Dead. It was October in Maple Falls, Ontario. One college. One Tim Hortons that closed at 8pm. One lake that took three kids every winter. One legend. One old brick community center behind diner that was scheduled for demolition next week after standing empty for 7 years. She had come here because it was cheaper. And because her mom said small towns are safer. Small towns are safer until it's October and it's seven years since last time. Her phone buzzed again in her apron. Same number. New VN. 0:04 this time. Her stomach tightened. In Scream — her favorite movie, watched 12 times with Chloe, with popcorn, pausing to shout "DON'T ANSWER IT!" — the second message is how you die. Every horror movie rule she knew said don't play the second message. The second message is when the killer knows you are curious. She played it anyway, under table, phone against thigh. This time it wasn't her voice. It was a different girl. Younger. High, scared, out of breath. "Virginia? Is this — is this you? He's here —" The message cut mid-word. The blood in Virginia's ears was louder than Dolly's old radio playing 90s R&B. She looked up. The diner windows were fogged from snow and heat. Outside was dark already at 7pm because Canada. She could see her own reflection in window — short twist-out, Dolly's brown apron, phone glowing in hand. The diner bell rang. Cold air blew in with snow. Tyler. He was in his Beavers hockey jacket — green and white — hair still wet from practice, carrying two helmets like always, his and his little brother's who played pee-wee. He saw her and did that half-smile that had made her say yes when he asked her out three months ago in the library, when he said "You have a cool voice, like you do a podcast or something" and didn't make it weird. He was 22, final year Kinesiology, wanted to open a gym after college, got B+ average, nice in a small-town way. Warm hands even in -23C. He said it was hockey blood. "Yo, you good? You look like you saw a ghost," he said. "I'm fine," she said. And she hated how deep it came out in the empty diner. _I'm fine._ Like a man doing a bad impression of a girl trying to sound fine. Deep voice makes "I'm fine" sound defensive even when you are not. Tyler leaned on the counter, snow melting on his shoulders. "Dolly, coffee? Black? The usual abuse?" Dolly poured without looking. "Your girl's been jumpy since the snow started. Like a cat." "I'm not jumpy," Virginia said, too quickly. Tyler's eyes went to her apron, where her phone was buzzing. Again. "You expecting someone?" he asked. "No." "You sure? You went white. Well, whiter." In Scream, the boyfriend is always suspect number one. She had told Chloe that. In Scream, the boyfriend has the motive because he's either obsessed or insecure. Tyler wasn't obsessed. He was... Tyler. He liked her, but sometimes she felt like he liked the _idea_ of her — tough girl with deep voice — more than her. When they FaceTimed, he always said "Say something" and laughed when she said anything. It was affectionate. It was also exhausting. When she had deep voice, people think you are tough so they don't handle you gently. And when they do handle you gently, you don't trust it. The bell rang again. Chaos. Chloe. If Tyler was golden boy, Chloe was sunshine chaos wrapped in anxiety. Bleached hair in a claw clip even in snow, UGGs with socks, iced coffee when it was -2 outside because "hot coffee makes me sleepy." Chloe had been her roommate first year before Chloe moved out to live with her older sister off-campus. Chloe was the only person who never commented on her voice weirdly. She just said "Your voice is so hot, I wish I had it for prank calls" and meant it. Chloe had white Dollarama gloves she wore for work at Dolly's because Dolly said "No bare hands on buns." Too big gloves. "Oh my God, you are both here, it's like fate, it's literally fate, do you know how cold it is, my eyelashes froze," Chloe announced, shaking snow everywhere, stealing Tyler's coffee before he drank it. She saw Virginia's face. "Wait, did you get it too?" Virginia's stomach dropped to her boots. "Get what?" "The VN! The freaky VN! I got one from some random number in MY voice, like literally my voice saying 'you left your window open, Chloe.' And my window WAS open. I live on second floor! How did they know? Did you get one?" Tyler frowned. "What VN? What are you talking about?" Chloe pulled out her phone, volume full. She had no fear of public embarrassment. She played it. Loud enough Dolly heard. It was Chloe's voice, perfect. Bubbly, a little nasally, that little laugh she did at the end of sentences. "You left your window open, Chloe." Silence in Dolly's. The old fridge hummed. Snow hit window like tip-toe. Dolly from behind the counter: "You kids and your AI prank apps. In my day we just TP'd houses and got rash from insulation. Much more honest work." "It's not an app," Chloe whispered, but she was smiling because Chloe smiled when she was scared. It was her tell. "It's that thing. The Mime game. You know. It's October. It's time." Tyler rolled his eyes hard. "Not this again. Chloe, I swear." Every kid in Maple Falls knew The Mime. In 1998, a children's entertainer named Mr. Pantomime — real name Paul Tremblay — did birthday parties at the community center. White face, black lips stitched into a huge smile, white gloves, never talked, made kids laugh pretending to be stuck in a box. Then one October, after his last party, he went home and killed his wife and his five-year-old son and hung himself in his garage in full costume. Police photos leaked. The costume disappeared from police evidence lock-up two days later. Never found. The garage wouldn't burn. They poured gas, lit — wood smoked but didn't burn. Snow fell inside garage even with roof on. And every seven years, someone puts it on and kills again. That's the story. 2005 — a camp counselor at the lake, found with frostbite in 3 seconds, hands white. 2012 — two college girls in the lake, found wearing mime makeup. 2019 — Jessica Lake, found in the lake wearing mime makeup, hands frozen in that box mime pose. Now 2026. Seven years again. It was the town's Scream story. Everyone knew it, no one believed it till someone died. Professors told first-years not to go to the community center at night as a joke. But they said it every year. Last time, 2019, Virginia had been 16, living with her parents in Brampton. Now she was here. "It's not The Mime," Tyler said firmly. Like saying it firmly would make it true. "It's probably Jake from Media class. He has that AI voice cloner for his podcast, remember? He cloned Dr. Martin's voice last week and made him say he loves weed. He recorded us for 6 hours at party, remember? He could clone." "Jake can't clone this good," Chloe said. "And how does Jake know my window was open? And how does Jake know Virginia hates her deep voice crack on 'tonight'? AI doesn't know crack." Virginia hadn't said anything. She was looking at her own phone. Third VN had come while Chloe talked. 0:09. From same +1 (705) number. Grey ticks. Not blue yet. Then blue as soon as she looked, like it knew she was looking. She pressed play under the table so only she could hear, holding phone to her thigh, heater clicking in diner. Giggle. Breath. Her own voice again, but slower this time. Sadder. Like she was crying. Deep voice crying is weird because it doesn't sound like crying, it sounds like man trying not to cry. "Don't trust him, Virginia." The way it said "him" made her look up, straight at Tyler. He was laughing at something Chloe said. His hand was on Chloe's arm, thumb rubbing. Friendly. Brotherly. Maybe. A hot, ugly jealousy shot up Virginia's throat, then shame. She was like this. She always thought people were talking about her voice, about her, behind her back. She always thought Tyler liked Chloe's high voice more, because boys always liked high voice. Her deep voice made her feel like she was competing with air. "Can I walk you home after shift?" Tyler asked her, seeing her look. Dolly cut in before she could answer: "She ends at ten. And you, Chloe, you are not stealing more coffee, you have enough energy to power this town till Christmas." Chloe checked her phone, face falling. "s**t, I have to go, my roommate's waiting, she's making pasta. But — Virginia, party tonight, right? At the old community center? Last one before they demolish it next week? Everyone's going. It's like, ritual. Come, na?" The party she was told not to go to in her own voice. "I don't know," Virginia said. "Dolly needs me." Dolly, traitor: "I don't need you. I need a hip replacement. Go to party. Be young." "I have early class," Virginia tried. She always tried. Chloe grabbed both her hands. Her hands were freezing from iced coffee even in winter. "Come on. You have to. Your deep scary voice will keep the Mime away. He's scared of girls who sound like Batman." She meant it as a compliment. Chloe always meant it as a compliment. Chloe left. Bell. Cold air. The snow was thicker now, ankle deep fast. Maple Falls snow comes fast and means it. The streetlights were orange halos in the white. The lake somewhere to right you could hear but not see, breathing. Tyler stayed. He always stayed till her shift ended, even if it was boring, scrolling his phone, watching her wipe tables. Sometimes that was love. Sometimes that was surveillance. Tonight she couldn't tell. "You want to show me the VN?" he asked quietly when Dolly went to the back to count tips. She hesitated. In Scream, you never show the boyfriend the evidence first. The boyfriend is always suspect number one. Especially the nice one. But Tyler was warm and the diner was cold and the snow was getting heavier and she wanted someone to tell her she was being crazy. She played the first one. 0:07. Don't go to the party tonight. In her own voice, deep, crack on tonight. He listened. Frowned. Played it again, his brow furrowed. He listened like hockey coach listening to play. "That's creepy," he admitted. "It IS your voice. Like exactly. Like if you tried to do a voice note to yourself. The crack and everything. How —" "Have you told anyone about —" She stopped. She was about to say "about my voice? About how I hate it?" But that was stupid. Everyone knew about her voice. It was the first thing people knew. It was her whole introduction. "About what?" he said. "Nothing. Have you been using any AI thing? For your gym podcast?" He laughed, but his eyes didn't. "What? No. Jake does. I don't even know how to clone. I can barely edit my own highlight reel." "Can you send a VN in my voice?" she asked, holding his gaze. Her deep voice made the question sound like an accusation. Everything she said sounded like accusation because deep. "Virginia, come on." "Can you? Just answer." He let go of her hand. The warm cold hand thing. "No. I can't. Why would I? Why would I tell you not to go to a party I want you to go to?" That was logical. Scream killers were never logical. But AI voice clone scammers were logical. They told you not to go somewhere so you would go. At 9:55, Dolly told her to go home, and gave her leftover apple pie in a box "for your deep voice, need honey, honey makes voice sweet." Snow was ankle deep now. Maple Falls snow meant it. The streetlights were orange halos in the white. Her boots made crunch crunch. Tyler walked her. They didn't talk much. Maple Falls at night was too quiet. One main road, houses with Christmas lights already up in October because Canadians, lake somewhere to the right you could hear but not see, breathing, ice cracking even in October. Her phone buzzed the whole walk. +1 (705) number. Five more VNs. She didn't play them. She could see the waveform getting longer each time. 0:12. 0:18. 0:24. 0:31. 0:44. Getting longer, like it was learning how to hold her voice longer. Tyler's house was opposite direction to her dorm. At the intersection by the closed community center — the old brick building with boards on windows, condemned sign, DEMOLITION SCHEDULED OCT 25 - KEEP OUT - ASBESTOS, demolition scheduled next week — he stopped. The community center was where Mr. Pantomime did his parties. Where Jessica Lake was last seen. Where tonight's "last party before demolition" was supposed to be. It was dark, but not fully. Through the boarded windows, she could see flicker. Candle light? Phone flashlights? Music, faint, bassy. Someone had broken in for ritual last party. "Party's here tonight," Tyler said, nodding to it. "You sure you don't wanna pop in for ten minutes? Warm up? See if Chloe's there? Chloe said she was going. Jake said he was going." Through a gap in the boards, she could see movement. Silhouettes. A party. Red cup. Laugh. Her phone buzzed again. She finally played it in front of him, speaker loud in snow, snow falling on phone screen. 0:03. Her voice. But deeper now, too deep, like AI trying too hard. "Don't go in." Tyler stared at the community center, then at her phone, then back. Snow in his hair. "Okay, that's f****d up," he said. "Because I didn't know about the party being HERE till Chloe told me an hour ago. So whoever sent that knew before — it knew before we knew —" He didn't finish. Because inside the community center, in the one window that wasn't fully boarded, second floor, someone was looking out. White face. Black smile, stitched, painted too big, too big smile that goes from ear to ear. White gloves on windowsill. Not moving. Just watching them from the dark. Tip-toe even standing. Virginia couldn't breathe. The snow made everything muffled except her heartbeat, which was in her throat, in her deep voice place, beating where voice lives. Tyler squinted, hand over eyes against snow. "Is that... is that Jake? Jake! Yo! That's not funny, man! You gonna get frostbite, you moron!" The face didn't move. Then, slowly, it raised one gloved hand and waved. Little kid wave. Side to side. Slow. Like a mime waving hello. Like Mr. Pantomime in the old newspaper photo Dolly had taped in the diner for Halloween decoration. Like a child waving at school bus. Tyler laughed, but nervous, breath showing big white cloud that fell instead of floated because -10C. "It's Jake. He's doing the Mime prank. i***t. He bought the costume off sss, I swear. sss costume, white gloves from Dollarama." Virginia's phone buzzed. Last VN of the night. 0:02. The waveform was tiny. Grey ticks turned blue before she pressed. She pressed play, speaker loud in snow, both of them hearing, snow falling on speaker making crackle. It wasn't her voice. It wasn't Chloe's. It was a man's voice trying to be a woman, but too deep, failing, cracking. Like someone doing a bad impression of her deep voice and failing. Like Paul Tremblay's high whisper voice after throat surgery trying to be deep again and failing. Air escaping hole in throat. Trying to be her voice. And failing. It said: "I found you." The light in the community center — that flickering party light — went out. All at once. Like someone blew candles, all at once, even though wind. And the front door — which had been boarded with plywood for months, with a DEMOLITION notice nailed with 10 nails — creaked open, just an inch, in the snowstorm. Snow blew in. No one came out. Door open inch. Black inside. Silent. No party music now. No silhouettes. Like party never existed. Like flicker was trick. Inside was completely dark, and completely silent. No party. Tyler stepped forward, one foot, hockey boy brave, stupid brave. "Hello? Jake? If that's you, you're gonna get frostbite, you moron. And you owe me $20 for scare." Virginia grabbed his arm. Hard. Her nails in his jacket, even through jacket. When she spoke, her deep voice, that voice everyone underestimated, that voice she hated since 13, was the steadiest it had ever been in her life. No crack. No apologizing. Just deep, true, hers. "Don't." From the dark doorway, inch open, something smiled wider. Even in dark you could see white face, black smile widening, impossible wide, fabric stretching. And the phone in her hand — not her phone, Tyler's phone now, buzzing in his pocket, loud — started ringing. Chloe's name on screen. FaceTime. With the little video preview showing Chloe's room. Tyler answered, confused, thumb cold. "Chlo? You at the party? You okay? We saw —" On screen wasn't Chloe's face. It was Chloe's room. Her second floor room off Main, above laundromat. Her window open, snow blowing in, curtains flying, LED lights pink. Iced coffee spilled on desk. And on her bed, sitting perfectly still, legs crossed like a doll, white face, black smile stitched too big, white gloves folded neatly in lap, bare feet blue, staring directly at the camera. It tilted its head. The smile didn't move. White mask not moving. And it mouthed, in perfect silence, reading the lips was easy because black lips big: _You're next._ Then Chloe, somewhere off camera, somewhere in room, maybe closet, maybe under bed, screamed. High, bubbly high voice scream, but raw, real, not cute. And the call cut. Black screen. "Call Failed." Snow kept falling sideways. Community center door still open inch. Tyler's phone still showing Chloe's contact photo, smiling, claw clip. Virginia looked at community center, then at Tyler's phone, then at her own phone with 7 VNs from +1 (705) in her own deep voice that said don't go to party, don't trust him, don't go in. The party had been inside community center. Chloe was not at community center. Chloe was at home with mime on her bed. And mime was waving at them from community center window at same time. Two places at once. Costume moves alone. Virginia finally understood what Ellis meant in 2005: "Costume moves alone, body follows later." She grabbed Tyler's warm hand with her cold hand and ran. Not toward community center to save Chloe — because final girls don't run into dark building alone — but away, toward Main, toward Dolly's, toward light, crunch crunch in snow, phone buzzing again, 0:07, in her own voice, crying now, saying: "Don't leave her"