The Voice That Knows

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 It started with a vibration.

My phone buzzed while I was engrossed in a report at my desk. I glanced down. No notification. Strange. It wasn’t the first time I’d felt it—those phantom vibrations people talk about. Stress, maybe. I ignored it and kept typing.

But then it happened again. A buzz, sharp and insistent. I picked up the phone, expecting to see a number. Nothing. Just the black screen staring back at me.

“Hello?” I muttered, holding the phone to my ear, feeling foolish.

“Hello, Daniel.” The voice was calm. Familiar. Like someone I’d known once but couldn’t quite place.

I froze. “Who is this?”

The line hissed. “You already know.”

I pulled the phone away, checked the screen again. Still blank. Not a call. Not anything. I should have hung up. But I didn’t. “This isn’t funny,” I said, my voice shaking.

The voice chuckled, low and cold. “Oh, it’s not a joke, Daniel. I know you. I know what you’ve done.”

A shiver went through my body. I was looking around the room and became acutely aware of how silent my workplace was. "You have the wrong individual."

“Do I?” the voice whispered. “Tell me about last week. The argument. The way you shouted.”

My chest tightened. My pulse quickened. “I... I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The voice ignored me. “How you slammed the door so hard it shook the walls. How you left her crying. Do you remember now?”

My throat went dry. No one could’ve known about that. No one was there. “Who are you?” I demanded. “How do you know about that?”

“Because I am you, Daniel.” The voice softened, almost kind. “I know what you think. What you hide. What you fear.”

I stumbled back, the chair scraping against the floor. “This... this isn’t real. I’m just stressed. Overworked.”

“Call it what you like,” it said. “But I’m here now. And I’m not leaving.”

The phone went dead. I sat down, trembling, staring at the device like it might come alive again. Maybe I was losing it. Work had been relentless. Sleep, a distant memory. Stress could do strange things to the mind.

But then it happened again. The buzz. This time, the screen lit up, a private number flashing. I hesitated before answering.

“Daniel,” the voice said, more insistent now. “We’re going to fix this.”

“Fix what?” I snapped. My frustration masked the fear clawing at my chest.

“You,” it replied. “You’re broken. All those dark thoughts you bury. The guilt you can’t let go. I can help you. But you need to listen.”

I laughed bitterly. “Listen to what? You’re not real.”

“Look outside.”

My blood turned cold. “What?”

“Look.”

My body acted before my head could catch up, even though I didn't want to. I approached the window to gaze out at the street. There, at the corner, stood a man. His face was shadowed, but he was staring up at me. He raised a hand, waved once, and then walked away.

“Who was that?” I whispered.

The voice hummed. “Just a reminder. I see what you see. I know what you know. And soon, everyone else will too.”

The line went dead again.

For the next week, the calls didn’t stop. Always the same voice. Always knowing too much. At first, it just dredged up memories I wanted to forget. My failures. My mistakes. Then it got worse. It began suggesting things. Little things at first—take a different route to work, cancel a meeting. I ignored them.

But then, it told me to push someone.

I didn’t mean to. It was crowded on the subway. The man in front of me didn’t even fall, just stumbled a little. But the voice laughed when I did it. “Good,” it said. “You’re starting to listen.”

I smashed the phone that night. Threw it in the trash. But it didn’t matter. The next morning, the voice was back. No phone. Just there, in my head.

“Daniel,” it said. “I told you. I’m not leaving.”

Now, I don’t know what’s real. The voice knows things no one could. My thoughts. My dreams. It whispers constantly, blurring the line between what I think and what it tells me. Every time I try to resist, it punishes me—making me doubt what I see, what I feel.

And the worst part? A small part of me doesn’t want it to stop.

Because maybe the voice is right. Maybe I am broken. And maybe... it’s the only thing that can fix me.

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