The note stayed in her hand longer than it should have.

  She kept staring at the words, running her thumb over the paper’s strange texture—thick, fibrous, like old handmade parchment.

  Do not look at them when they gather.

  She folded it neatly and slid it into her coat pocket, heart still pounding against her ribs.

  Outside, the mist thickened. The village was fading into a blurred sketch—shapes without details.

  The silence that followed the knock felt heavier than before, as if something was waiting just beyond her reach.

  She decided to unpack, needing distraction.

  In the bottom of her bag, her digital voice recorder blinked—its red light flashing faintly, though she hadn’t turned it on since the hike.

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  She pressed play.

  Crackling.

  Wind.

  Then, under it—layered like static—came a voice.

  A woman’s whisper, distorted but unmistakable.

  "Don’t look behind you, Ira."

  She froze.

  A pause. Then a small, almost disappointed sigh from the recorder.

  She turned slowly.

  Behind her, nothing. Just the room. The bed. The dull bulb swaying ever so slightly.

  She played it again. This time, the whisper came earlier—louder.

  "Don’t look behind you, Ira."

  But the second time, it added a line.

  "Not yet."

  She dropped the recorder.

  It landed on its side, still playing.

  Now, it wasn’t her breathing echoing from it.

  It was someone else’s.

  Steady. Close.

  Like they were standing just a few feet away, waiting for her to turn around again.