Eli wasn't supposed to be in the archive.
Especially not after hours.
But boredom and student IDs are a dangerous mix.
He was a sound design major.
Obsessed with obsolete tech — gramophones, wire recorders, tape decks.
When he found the case labeled "UNSAFE – DO NOT ACTIVATE",
he thought it was a joke.
Or better: a challenge.
Inside, the tape recorder was dusty, metallic, unnervingly cold.
No brand.
No switches.
Just a single red button labeled:
PLAY ME.
He looked around.
Silence.
He pressed it.
At first: nothing.
Then… the room compressed.
Not sound.
Weight.
Like gravity suddenly leaned forward to listen with him.
Then came the tape.
Breathing.
Then static.
Then…
His voice.
But Eli had never recorded anything on it.
The voice said:
"Don't lean so close.
It can smell you."
He jumped back.
Laughed nervously.
Paused the tape.
Rewound.
Pressed play again.
New words.
This time, a whisper.
"You've already heard this. You just forgot."
Eli took the recorder home.
Set it up in his dorm.
Left it running while he slept.
At 3:33 AM, it clicked on by itself.
The whisper came back.
And this time it said:
"We remember your thoughts better than you do."
By morning, Eli's roommate was gone.
His name wiped from the door.
His bed perfectly made.
No one else remembered him.
Except the tape.
That night, when Eli hit play, the recorder said his roommate's name.
And laughed.
Eli became obsessed.
He started whispering back.
Recording himself asking questions.
Begging for answers.
And one night, the tape replied:
"Build the second one.
The one that records the mind."
Eli blinked.
And there, in his notebook…
a blueprint that wasn't there yesterday.
Labeled in handwriting not his:
"Receiver Mark II – For Internal Frequencies."