Whispers at 3:03 - by Mariam Akorede

Chapter 3:The Tape Mara’s small rental house felt colder than usual. The walls seemed to breathe in the shadows, exhaling a damp, musty scent she hadn’t noticed before. Maybe it was the fog, or maybe it was the way she kept glancing at the kitchen clock, waiting for it to strike 3:03. She set the evidence bag on the table and pulled the tape out. Mara Vex — 3:03, the label whispered. Her name—written in a tight, cramped hand that gave her chills. She fetched her old Walkman from a box of city-case relics—souvenirs she’d promised herself she’d never need again. She popped in the tape, pressed PLAY, and waited. The hiss of static filled the room. Then, a voice—raspy, like a match striking—began to speak: “Mara Vex, you shouldn’t have come here.” Pause. “But you did. And now it’s time to remember.” Another pause, longer this time, as though the speaker was thinking. “3:03 is the hour of reckoning. The hour the town forgot. But not all of us forgot. Some of us remember. Some of us pay.” A rustling sound—like paper, or maybe dry leaves. Then a child’s voice, faint but distinct, overlapping with the first: “She’s coming for you, Mara. She’s coming.” A burst of static, then silence. Mara felt her pulse quicken. She rewound the tape and played it again, this time with the volume down. She listened for background noise, hoping for a clue—a passing car, a ticking clock, something to place the recording. But there was nothing except that voice. The way it said remember struck her like a knife. Remember what? She grabbed her notebook and scribbled notes: Who is she?Who made this recording?What happened at 3:03?What did the town forget? Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door—soft, hesitant. She rose, hand on her gun, and peered through the peephole. A young woman stood on the porch, drenched from the rain. Her hair was a tangled mess, eyes red from crying. She held a cassette tape in one hand and a trembling umbrella in the other. “Detective Vex?” the woman asked, voice shaking. “My name’s Eva. I think I’m in danger. I—” She glanced over her shoulder, eyes wide with panic. “They know I talked to him. Thomas Greaves. Before he… before he died. He said—” A sudden, sharp crack split the air. Eva’s eyes went wide, her mouth forming a silent scream. Blood bloomed on her blouse, and she crumpled to the porch as a second shot rang out. Mara dove to the floor, gun drawn. Outside, the night swallowed the shooter in darkness. She crawled to Eva, but it was too late—her pulse had already gone still. Rain soaked the ground, mingling with Eva’s blood and the cassette tape that lay next to her. Mara grabbed the tape, heart pounding. Another message. Another clue. And somewhere out there, someone was hunting her.

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