The Hallway Recorder

We drove out to my grandmother’s farmhouse in the dry Oklahoma panhandle every summer, the same dusty two-lane road that turned to gravel about a mile from her porch. In the summer of 1987, I was six, my brother Tommy was eight, and our cousin Rachel was seven. Our grandmother had just passed the spring before, and my mother had inherited the house, but we only visited for two weeks each July. The house was old, with a long central hallway that ran from the front door to the back, and every room opened off it. In her bedroom, on a low shelf, sat a gray cassette recorder, the kind with a single speaker in the back and a built-in microphone. It had been there for years, unused, but Tommy and I discovered it the first day we arrived. We thought it was the greatest thing ever. We spent hours recording our voices, then playing them back, laughing at how funny we sounded. We’d make up silly songs and act out sketches. Our favorite thing was to record ourselves creeping down the hallway, whispering and making spooky noises, then play it back to hear the sound of our own footsteps on the creaky floor. It never got old, and every day we’d record something new.

On the second Sunday, the whole family gathered at the farmhouse for a big fried chicken dinner. There were aunts, uncles, and a whole gaggle of cousins, all about our age. After the meal, the adults sat on the porch, drinking sweet tea and talking, while us kids were sent to the back bedroom to play. We had the recorder, of course. Rachel was a shy girl, but she loved hearing her voice, too. We took turns speaking into the tiny microphone, doing funny accents and making each other laugh. Around three in the afternoon, we got bored of that, and Tommy dared us to walk down the hallway and record the sounds of the house. He said he heard a rumor that the hallway was haunted, that sometimes you could hear the sound of an old woman’s footsteps, even when no one was there. Rachel shivered, but she agreed. I was hesitant, but Tommy was older, and I didn’t want to seem scared. So we took the recorder, and the three of us tiptoed into the hallway, holding the recorder out in front like a shield. The hallway was dim, with only one small window at the far end, and the wooden floor had a deep, waxy sheen. We walked slowly, letting the recorder pick up the creaks and groans of the house. We made it to the back door, which was closed, and then turned around to walk back. We played the recording for the rest of the afternoon, listening to the sounds of our own footsteps and the occasional groan of the old house. It was fun, but nothing supernatural happened.

Later that evening, after the family had left and our parents were cleaning up, I realized I had left the recorder in the bedroom. I went to fetch it, but when I picked it up, I noticed the cassette was not in the same position as we had left it. The tape had been rewound to the very beginning, though we had left it in the middle. I thought Tommy might have moved it, but when I asked, he shook his head. I shrugged it off. Then, while we were sitting in the living room watching TV, I decided to play the tape again, just to hear our silly voices. I pressed play, and we heard ourselves giggling in the bedroom, then the sound of the door opening and our footsteps in the hallway. But then, after a minute, the recording changed. There was a faint noise, like rustling fabric, and then a voice—soft, like an old woman—said, ‘Who’s in my house?’ I jumped, looking around the room, but only Tommy and I were there. Tommy’s eyes went wide, and we stared at the recorder, which continued playing. I quickly hit stop, and the living room was silent except for the hum of the TV. ‘What was that?’ Tommy whispered. I didn’t know, but something cold crawled up my spine. We didn’t tell our parents, but that night I couldn’t sleep.

The next day, we tried to record again, hoping to capture something new, but the recorder only played our normal sounds. We put the tape back in, and I pressed record, and we spoke into the mic, but when we replayed, there was nothing unusual. Tommy suggested we record in the hallway at night, when the house was quiet. So after our parents had gone to bed, we crept out, carrying the recorder. The hallway was pitch black, and we had to feel along the wall. We whispered, and the recorder picked up our whispers, but also a new sound—a soft scraping, like something was being dragged across the floor. It wasn’t our footsteps; we stood perfectly still. We waited, holding our breath. The scraping got louder, and then it stopped right in front of us. I felt a cold breath on my cheek, and I screamed. Tommy grabbed my arm, and we ran back to the bedroom, slamming the door. We listened at the door, but there was only silence.

The next day, we were too scared to touch the recorder, but our curiosity got the better of us. We took it outside, into the bright sunlight, and played the tape. The scraping was there, and then, after a few seconds, the old woman’s voice again: ‘You’re not my children.’ Tommy and I looked at each other, and we knew we had captured something real. We didn’t tell our parents, but we couldn’t stop thinking about it. That night, I had a nightmare: I was walking down the hallway, and the old woman was at the end, her face pale and gaunt, her eyes black. She reached out a hand, and I woke up screaming. My mother came in and hugged me, but I couldn’t explain.

On our last day at the farmhouse, we decided to play the tape one more time, to prove to ourselves it was real. We sat on the porch, and I pressed play. The beginning was normal, but at the same spot, the voice came again, but this time it was different. It said, ‘Leave me alone.’ Then the tape clicked, and the recording ended. We looked at each other, and without a word, we ejected the tape, snapped it in half, and threw the pieces in the trash. We never spoke of it again until the summer of 2011, when I was cleaning out my mother’s attic after she passed. I found an old shoebox with my name on it, and inside was a second cassette tape, labeled ‘Hallway 1987.’ I didn’t remember recording a second tape, but I took it home, and after dinner, I played it on an old player I had. The first few minutes were the same as the original, the sounds of us playing in the bedroom, then the footsteps in the hallway. But then, the recording was different. There was a voice, but it wasn’t an old woman. It was a child’s voice, whispering, ‘I’m still here.’ And then a terrible cry, as if the child was weeping. I stopped the tape, and I felt the same cold chill from all those years ago. I realized then that the hallway had not only heard us, but it had kept our voices, and something else had kept a piece of that day. To this day, I don’t know what we captured, but I know that I’ve never been able to forget that summer, and I know that the strength of that memory is why I tell this story now. The house has been sold, but I often wonder if the new owners have ever heard footsteps in that hallway, or a whisper on a tape recorder left in a drawer. I know I’ll never listen to that second tape again.