Naruto1802

Ever since I was a young child, that automated recording that plays when you try to call someone, but can’t, has frightened me to the core. You know, the one that goes, “We’re sorry, but the number you have reached has been disconnected.” And it’s always preceded by that sound, those three tones, which just amplifies my paranoia. Any time I hear that message, I can feel my skin go pale, every hair on my body stand up, all while I’m paralyzed in fear. I don’t know why I react like that to a simply informative automated message. It just sets something off in my brain. But when it’s at night, nothi

Cuando era niño mi familia se mudó a una casa vieja y enorme de dos pisos, con espaciosos cuartos vacíos y tablones que rechinaban. Mis padres trabajaban, así que usualmente me quedaba solo al venir de la escuela. Un día que llegaba un poco tarde, la casa todavía estaba oscura. «¿Mamá?», llamé, y la escuché decir con voz cantarina «¿Siiiiiii?» desde el piso de arriba. La llamé de nuevo mientras subía las escaleras para ver en qué habitación se encontraba, y de nuevo me respondió con un «¿Siiiiiii

You know how it goes. When you were a child, your favourite thing was your music box. It would play a soothing yet haunting melody that lulled you to sleep, or provided background noise for playtime. You had it for years. You loved it, cherished it. You brought it everywhere. Kept it safe. It was your comfort item, one you were proud to show, unlike Billy’s baby blanket. Your music box kept you safe. Or so you thought. Each night you would play it, falling asleep to its haunting tune. But what you didn’t know was that it was always there, poking and prodding at the edge of your consciousness. It controlled your dreams, made y