The Cellar Tape

When I was twelve, my best friend Danny and I were obsessed with the paranormal. We lived in a small town called Ash Creek, and Danny’s family owned a large, overgrown plot of land on the edge of the woods. There was an old, broken-down farmhouse on the property that nobody had lived in for decades, and we used to sneak inside and pretend we were exploring a haunted mansion. The house itself was creepy enough, with its peeling wallpaper and creaking floorboards, but the real prize was the cellar.

The cellar door was a heavy, iron-handled trapdoor in the kitchen floor. It was rusted shut, but with enough effort, we could pry it open. A set of stone steps led down into a cold, damp darkness that smelled of earth and decay. We never went down there, because the steps looked unstable and we were too scared to see what was at the bottom. But after watching a late-night show about spirit communication, we decided we had to try.

The show featured a gadget that recorded electronic voice phenomena, or EVP. The idea was that spirits could speak through the static and white noise if you let them. We thought it was the coolest thing ever, and we were determined to capture our own ghostly messages. We had an old handheld tape recorder that my mom used for her voice memos, and we planned to use it that night.

We snuck out of Danny’s house at midnight, carrying a flashlight and the tape recorder. The moon was full, casting weird shadows across the yard. The farmhouse loomed ahead of us, darker than the night itself. We crept inside, and after a few minutes of wrestling with the trapdoor, we got it open. A cold draft wafted up from below, making us shiver. Danny went first, holding the flashlight, and I followed, trying not to think about what might be waiting.

The steps were slick with moisture, but they held. At the bottom, we found a small, stone-walled room with a dirt floor. There were rusted shelves along the walls, and broken jars and bottles scattered everywhere. It was exactly the kind of place you would expect to find a ghost. We set the tape recorder on a shelf, pressed record, and started asking questions like they did on the show. ‘Is anyone here?’ ‘What is your name?’ ‘Do you want to talk to us?’ We waited, asked more, then after about half an hour, we felt a chill in the air that had nothing to do with the cold. We were both too scared to stay any longer, so we grabbed the recorder and ran back upstairs, slamming the trapdoor shut.

Back in Danny’s room, we replayed the tape. For the first few minutes, there was nothing but our own voices and the faint hum of the recorder. Then, just when we were about to give up, we heard a sound that wasn’t us. It was a low, guttural whisper, so distorted that we could barely make out the words. We played it back again and again, listening hard. Finally, I thought I could make it out: ‘You shouldn’t have come down.’ Danny heard it too, and we looked at each other with wide eyes. We were ecstatic. We had captured an EVP. We were ghost hunters now.

The next night, we couldn’t wait to go back. We thought we could get more evidence, maybe even a better recording. We told ourselves we were brave. We went down the same steps, set the recorder on the same shelf, and started asking questions. This time, we were silent for longer, listening. At first, nothing. Then, a whisper that came through the recorder, not even needing to be played back. It was the same voice, but clearer: ‘You again.’

We froze. The voice had come from the dark corner of the cellar, behind a pile of debris. We shone the flashlight over there, but there was nothing. Yet we knew we had heard it. We were too scared to ask another question. We just grabbed the recorder and ran. That night, we played back the tape, and there it was, the same words, but now followed by a soft laugh that made our blood run cold. We tried to convince ourselves that it was our imagination, that the recorder had picked up something we hadn’t heard in the moment. But we both knew the truth.

We decided to go back one more time, to prove to ourselves that the voice was real, or to somehow get rid of it. We were teenagers, and we thought we were invincible. We went down, but this time we didn’t ask questions. We just stood in the center of the room, listening. For a long time, there was only silence. Then, from the darkest corner, a voice echoed, not through the recorder, but directly in our ears. It was the same voice, but filled with anger: ‘You brought it with you.’

We didn’t understand. Brought what? Then, the door above us slammed shut. We ran up the steps, but the trapdoor wouldn’t budge. It was as if something was holding it down. We pushed and pushed, but it wouldn’t move. We were trapped. We stood there, banging on the door, yelling for help. No one came. We were alone.

After what felt like hours, Danny remembered the tape recorder. He pulled it out and pressed play. There was a new recording on it, one we hadn’t made. It was our own voices, but scrambled and reversed, and underneath it, that same low whisper, now speaking in complete sentences. ‘You are the ones who let me out. Now you must take my place.’

We looked at each other in horror. We tried to call for help again, but our voices were growing weaker. The cellar seemed to be getting darker, the walls closing in. I looked down at my hands, and they were starting to look translucent. I looked at Danny, and he was fading too. We were becoming spirits ourselves. The last thing I remember is the sound of the trapdoor opening, and a man’s voice saying, ‘Hello, boys.’ Then, everything went black.

Now, I am the one whispering to other kids who come down here, trying to warn them away. I am the voice on the tape, telling them they shouldn’t have come. And every now and then, I hear a new voice join mine, and I know another curious fool has become my companion in the cellar.