Chapter 3 - The Echoes of Yesterday
The silence of the garage was a heavy, suffocating blanket, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic scratching of a mouse in the far corner. Mark stood amidst the cobwebs of the holiday decorations, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead like a trapped insect. It was his sanctuary, the only room in the house where the air felt clean and unburdened.
He gripped the edge of the workbench, his knuckles white. The police report sat on the metal surface next to a half-empty cup of cold coffee. Claire had been hospitalized. The doctors were talking about "psychotic episodes" and "acute dissociation." It made a twisted kind of sense. He had seen her lately—distant, staring at walls, muttering things that made no sense. The porcelain doll in the living room... it was just a symptom of her grief. A coping mechanism for the late-term miscarriage they had suffered six months ago. It was a tragedy. It was a breakdown.
*She’s not crazy,* Mark told himself, forcing the thought to take root like a weed in dry soil. She’s grieving. The miscarriage broke her. The hallucinations of her mother and this... this baby, they’re just her mind trying to fill the void.
He needed proof. He needed to find her medical history, the records from the miscarriage, anything to explain why she had fallen apart so completely. He began rummaging through a battered metal toolbox, his fingers brushing against cold metal and dry twine.
Then, his hand struck something solid. He pulled it free.
It wasn't a tool. It was an envelope. Thick, manila, and sealed with a layer of duct tape. It felt heavy, containing something substantial. Mark’s heart hammered against his ribs. Why would Claire hide money? Was she planning to run? Was she afraid of something?
He slit the tape open with a trembling finger. He dumped the contents onto the workbench.
It wasn't cash.
It was a stack of high-denomination bills, crisp and untouched, totaling thousands of dollars. Beside the money lay a crumpled wad of receipts.
Mark picked one up. It was from a premium baby formula supplier. Organic Stage 1. 12 cans. The date was two days ago.
He picked up another. Hunt’s Grocery. Diapers, Size 2. Toilet paper, Paper towels.
His breath hitched in his throat. He grabbed a third. *Patio Furniture Repair.* Driveway Sealing.
The dates were all recent. The last one was from yesterday. The money was fresh. The supplies were new.
Mark stared at the receipts, his mind reeling. If Claire was hallucinating, why was she buying real formula? Why was she hoarding cash? If the baby was a ghost, why were the diapers still in the box, sealed and unused? The logic of his belief—the idea that she was fragile and broken—was shattering under the weight of these tangible, real-world objects.
He shoved the envelope back into the toolbox and slammed the lid. He needed to find the source. He needed to know who was feeding this delusion. He turned toward the back wall, his eyes scanning the shelves, looking for anything that looked like a hiding spot.
His gaze landed on a loose floorboard near the back of the shelf. It was slightly ajar, revealing a dark, narrow gap. Mark knelt, his knees popping, and pried the board up with a fingernail.
Tucked into the hollow space beneath the shelf was a small, black digital voice recorder. It looked like an old model, the kind people used for lectures or interviews. It wasn't marked with any name. It looked out of place, like a spy's prop.
Mark’s hands shook as he picked it up. He pressed the red button.
Static hissed for a moment, crackling like dry leaves. Then, a voice cut through the noise.
It was Eleanor’s voice. Cold, sharp, and laced with a strange, terrifying calmness. "You have to be more careful with the timing. Mark is coming home late tonight, but the window opens at midnight. The sedative needs to be in her tea before she sleeps, or the fever won't break."
Mark froze. Eleanor? Why was she talking about timing?
The recording continued. "The doll is ready. The nursery is set up. Once the baby is settled, we can begin the next phase. Just remember, Mark is too trusting. He’ll believe anything if he thinks she's sick."
Mark dropped the recorder. It clattered against the concrete floor, but he didn't look away. He pressed the rewind button, then pressed play again, faster this time, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
The static cleared, and this time, the second voice joined Eleanor’s.
It was Mark’s voice.
But it wasn't the Mark who was standing in the garage, exhausted and confused. This voice was deeper, colder, devoid of the warmth and worry that defined his own. It sounded detached, almost clinical.
*"I’m handling the finances,"* the voice said, calm and precise. "The cash is in the envelope. The receipts are in the toolbox. It’s all set. Once the police report is filed and the insurance kicks in, we can disappear."
*"And the baby?"* Eleanor’s voice asked.
*"Luke is safe. He’s real,"* the recording of Mark replied. "But he belongs to us now. Mark... Mark is going to have a very long night."
The recorder clicked off.
Mark stood up slowly, the blood draining from his face. He looked at the recorder, then at the toolbox, then at the dark gap in the floorboards. The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. The hallucinations, the doll, the missing baby... they weren't Claire’s delusions.
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They were a setup. And he had been the architect.
He opened his mouth to scream, but the sound died in his throat. He turned and looked toward the back door of the garage, the same door that led into the house, and the same door that he had walked through just hours ago.
