This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/UnalloyedSaintTrina on 2026-07-29 22:41:09+00:00.

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Simon got the call around midnight. I rolled closer to him, draped my arm across his chest, and listened by the receiver. It was the penitentiary. A guard had discovered Celeste sprawled out on the floor of her cell, cold, pulseless. His mother was dead.

I smiled.

She finally got what she deserved.

When Simon was young, Celeste trapped him in the cellar of his childhood home.

Confined him to a windowless room with only a mattress, a bucket, and a record player, and every day was identical: listening to the same record on an endless loop, dawn till dusk, from the moment he woke up to the moment he fell asleep. Celeste melted the vinyl before the police could get their hands on it, so only Simon knows what it sounded like. He doesn’t like to talk about it, though, and I love him to death, so I don’t pry.

When the call was over, he threw his feet over the edge of our bed and put his head in his hands. Honestly, I expected indifference. Or joy. Something vaguely positive.

Simon, though…he wept.

Fat tears and convulsive sobs, well into the early morning. I held onto him, silent and warm. Didn’t ask questions. There’d be time for questions later.

Then, the package arrived.

I found it lying on our front stoop. The return address was Simon’s childhood home. Holding the small brown envelope felt like molding a snowball without gloves: a burning cold, phantom needles digging into my palm. I tore it open and pulled out its contents. There was no letter; just an antique cassette player, shaped like a shoebox with sleek gray plastic and a little handlebar below the buttons. I popped the cassette compartment.

Empty.

I slid the player under my armpit and marched over to the garbage can. Simon had endured enough. This thing, whatever it represented, would surely reopen old wounds. I lifted the lid and held the player over the hole, but my fingers refused to let go.

Was this right?

Could I really make this decision for him?

The woman never hurt Simon. Not physically, at least. When the police rescued him, he was healthy. Scared and vitamin D deficient, yes, but well-nourished, hydrated, and intact. Celeste’s public defender argued that Simon could have escaped any time because she kept the door unlocked. Maybe she had been a loving mother, despite her delusions; I had no idea, and I suppose that’s the point. Only Simon and Celeste knew what transpired in that windowless room, but apparently, there’d been enough love to shed tears over.

I sighed, slid the player back under my armpit, and brought the hellish totem into our home.

“So, what is it? I mean, I know what it is, but why do you think she had it sent…” Simon asked, carefully setting it onto his desk.

“Couldn’t tell you. Whoever’s managing her affairs didn’t send an explanation, or maybe it’s just coming separately - “

He pressed play.

A snap echoed through the room, followed by the mechanical whirring of the flywheels spinning without a tape.

Simon’s demeanor shifted.

He shot upright, rigid, flushed. His expression was a disturbing mixture of elation and terror, a sharp grin with bulging eyes.

“What’s that?” he shouted.

I jumped in place, heart spasming.

“I…I didn’t say anything.”

His gaze darted between the cassette player and me, pupils dilating, spreading over the whites of his eyes like an oil spill.

“I’ll just…” I started, reaching out, “…store this in the attic for now…”

“No!” he screamed, snatching the machine and clutching it against his breastbone, nostrils flaring. The whirring meshed seamlessly with his labored breathing; I couldn’t distinguish the two.

Confusion suddenly clouded his features.

“Sorry, Kat. I’m feeling a bit off.”

He loosened his grip on the machine, but only slightly.

“But…uh…I’ll hold on to this. For now.”

I nodded.

Forced what I can only imagine was the world’s flimsiest smile.

“Yeah, okay. Just…just let me know what you need.” I said, stepping out of his office.

There was a pause, and then he said:

“Right, right. That makes sense.”

He was staring at the cassette player, cradling it in his arms like a newborn.

The next few days, I was nervous. Constantly, incessantly nervous. Simon works from home doing graphic design, but I work nine-to-five at an accounting firm, so every evening I’d be a wreck driving home, terrified about what could be waiting beyond our front door.

But every night, he was normal.

Cooking. Cleaning. Laughing.

Acting like his usual self.

Slowly, with caution, I began to unwind.

Felt like I had my best friend back.

It was nice.

But it was fake.

And with each passing moment, the truth became harder and harder to deny.

Something was wrong.

The changes were small at first, small enough that my conscious mind couldn’t grasp them, but the oldest bits of my nervous system, the prehistoric holdovers, they could sense the danger swelling around me, even if they couldn’t give the danger a name. It wasn’t just Simon, either; the entire house was different. Polluted. Mutating.

Then, one night, I was lying in bed, eyes fluttering, thoughts loose, and a question popped into my brain.

Where the hell was the cassette player?

My eyes burst open.

I looked over. Simon was turned away, motionless.

“It’s around,” he groaned.

“…what?”

“The cassette player - it’s around.”

I struggled to breathe. Dread dripped through my lungs like hot tar.

I hadn’t said a damn thing.

“You know, just…don’t worry about it.”

He yawned, shifted, and stilled. I stared at his back, at Simon, this dark statue resting in the blackness, and I wondered:

was he actually sleeping, or was he just pretending?

Were his eyes wide open?

I didn’t check. I couldn’t. I lay awake and listened to him breathe, convincing myself that everything was fine.

Simon wasn’t changing; he was grieving.

I must have asked where the cassette player was out loud.

There wasn’t a soft whirring in the walls. It wasn’t beneath the floorboards, or coming from inside our closet, or radiating from my husband’s skin.

I was just hearing things.

The following morning, I was a mess. I couldn’t think straight. My movements were bipolar: restless and twitchy when the anxiety flared, deadened and lurching when the sleep deprivation took hold. I stumbled through my routine. I reached toward my wardrobe but missed the handle. I nearly killed myself on my way to breakfast, lost in a haze while stepping a little too far forward, the ball of my foot just catching the stair’s edge.

But the strangest part?

The trip from our bedroom to the kitchen felt longer.

I’ve lived in this house since I was a kid, inherited it from my parents when they passed. I know the layout. My body has internalized every inch of that place, and I’m telling you, it was longer.

When I got downstairs, he was at the table, stirring a cup of coffee, staring out into space.

“Where is it, Simon?”

He turned his head and smiled. Revulsion dug its fingers into my heart.

My husband was…different.

His lips were too thin. His usually hooked nose was slightly blunted. His green eyes were unnaturally bright, a synthetic hue, neon and piercing.

“Where’s what? Are you alright, Kat? You don’t look - “

“Cut the shit.”

His smile ballooned.

“It’s right there.”

I scoffed, preparing to really lay into him, but then he gestured toward the center of the table, and dear Christ, there it was, whirring, spinning, and empty.

It hadn’t been there a second ago, right?

“You…we need to get rid of that thing, Simon.”

I walked across the kitchen, knelt beside my husband, and placed a delicate hand on his shoulder. Immediately, his demeanor shifted. Arrogant and malicious to scared and harmless in the blink of an eye. Even his facial features reverted to something akin to normal. His body was trembling. I slipped my hand up his neck and pivoted his chin, pulling him toward me. I talked slowly.

“I’m going to take this…thing…away from us.”

He shook his head. His voice was shivering like a lapdog in the snow.

“No, no, no, you can’t do that, I have to listen so we stay together, you can’t throw it away…”

I felt my composure slipping, but I focused.

“Okay…well…I’ll hide it.” I said, stroking his cheek.

“Hide it?”

“Yes. I won’t throw it away. I’ll just…put it somewhere safe.”

My hand crept towards the cassette player. He tracked the movement, but I pressed my hand into his jaw, guiding his attention back to me.

“I’ve always wanted what’s best for you, right?”

As soon as I touched the machine, a jolt of static flooded through my arm, crawling along my bones.

I did not let go.

“Trust me, love.”

His trembling slowed.

“I won’t throw it away. I promise.”

A lie, but a necessary one.

Gradually, he nodded.

“Yeah…yeah, okay.”

I took a deep breath.

It was now or never.

I grabbed the cassette player and headed for the front door, determined to get the machine away from our home.

The thump of Simon shooting upright caused my spine to twist.

Before I could speed up, he brushed past me and stood at the door, positioning his body between me and the exit.

I recalibrated.

Took a sharp right turn and began climbing the stairs, gesturing for him to stay put. Thankfully, he obliged. I ascended quickly; the terror was slipping through. By the time I reached our bedroom, I was hyperventilating.

Where could I hide it?

I bolted across the room, dropped to my knees, and ripped a small lockbox out from beneath our bed. The player just barely fit in...

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