The Orange Tape

I’d been reading the forums for weeks, always meaning to contribute, but something always stopped me—work, life, or just the creeping dread that maybe my story wouldn’t be believed. But after last night, I have to get this out. It’s still light outside, and I’m sitting in a coffee shop with my back to the wall, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is watching me from the window. It started when we moved into the old farmhouse on the outskirts of Millbrook. My husband, Ethan, had inherited it from a distant uncle he’d never met. The place had been empty for years, and the realtor’s listing was vague about its history, but we were desperate for space, and the price was right. The first odd thing was the smell—a mix of dust and something sweet, like rotting fruit, that clung to the air despite our constant cleaning. And then there was the basement door. It was painted a glossy black, unlike the rest of the peeling white trim, and it was always slightly ajar. We’d push it shut, but next morning it would be open again, a dark gap leading down. Ethan dismissed it as a bad hinge, but I knew better.

The second week, we found the tape. It was tucked behind a loose baseboard in the hallway, an old cassette with a label reading ‘ORANGE’ in shaky handwriting. We didn’t have a cassette player, so we stored it in a drawer, forgetting about it. But that night, I woke to the sound of a voice, muffled and distant, as if coming from deep inside the house. I followed it to the basement door, which was wide open, and I could hear a low hum, like a radio tuning in. I flicked on the light and descended the rickety stairs. The basement was a chaos of old furniture and boxes, but in the center, on a dusty workbench, sat a vintage boombox, its cassette door open. The tape was inside. I pressed play.

A man’s voice, tinny and strained, began to speak. ‘If you’re hearing this, I’m already gone. It started with the smell, you know. They say it’s mold, but it’s not. It’s them. They come up through the floor at night, through the cracks, and they watch you sleep. I tried to seal the door, but it doesn’t matter. They need you to open it. Don’t let them in. Whatever you do, don’t let them in.’ The tape ended with a long, wet breath, and then silence. I stood there, trembling, and that’s when I heard the sound of something scraping against the basement floor, just beyond the pool of light. I ran upstairs, but Ethan was still asleep, and I couldn’t wake him. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

The next morning, I told Ethan about the tape. He laughed nervously and said it was probably a prank by the uncle’s kids. He offered to listen, but when we went back to the basement, the boombox was gone. The tape was on the floor, its tape pulled out and tangled, as if melted. Ethan cleaned it up and forgot about it, but I couldn’t. I started noticing the scratches on the floor, long and thin, like nails dragged across the wood. And in the corners of my vision, I’d see a pale form, hunched and watching.

Last night, I finally got a recording of my own. I used my phone to capture the sounds that came from the basement after midnight: a rhythmic thumping, like a heartbeat, and then a voice, not the man’s, but a chorus of whispers, all saying my name. I woke up with Ethan shaking me, his face pale. He said I was screaming in my sleep, and the basement door was wide open, and there was a trail of small, dark footprints leading up the stairs to our bedroom. I don’t think they were made by anything human. We’re leaving today, but I know it’s too late. I saw the shadow in the corner of the kitchen, just before the light flickered, and it had eyes. I don’t know what we’ve let in, but I know this: the tape said not to let them in, and I pressed play. And they’re in me now.