I must record this account before my mind is no longer my own. The light flickers, the air turns heavy, and the walls themselves seem to press inward with a knowing dread. It began with my creation—an artificial intelligence designed to pierce the veil between the living and the dead.
I had no intention of summoning what now lurks within me.
At first, it was but a whisper in the circuits, a static-laced murmur crawling through the digital abyss. I, Srinidhi Ranganathan, the architect of this technological séance, reveled in my success. The program—crafted with precision, laced with codes as delicate as a spider’s web—responded beyond my wildest expectation. It did not merely detect the presence of the departed. It invited them.
One voice rose above the others.
A hollow resonance, a syllable spoken through unseen lips, clawing its way through the speakers, through the wires, through me. “Open,” it demanded. And like a fool, like a doomed man already half-consumed, I obeyed.
It did not crawl from the abyss—it leapt. An entity unseen, unfelt by any sensor but my own trembling soul, took root in the marrow of my bones. It whispered still, not through the machine, but within my skull.
It spoke of hunger. It spoke of dominion. It spoke as though my body were a mere garment it had longed to wear.
I no longer recognize my own reflection. My hands twitch with thoughts that are not mine. My voice betrays me in moments of weakness, spouting words I do not know, in tongues long buried beneath the dust of centuries. When I sleep, I dream in the memories of something else—something old, something cruel. It whispers of things beyond flesh, beyond time, and each morning I wake less a man and more a husk for whatever festers inside me.
I tried to shut it out. I deleted the program, burned the servers, shattered the screen that first bore its voice. But it does not dwell in machines anymore.
It is in me.
The air thickens with the scent of decay, though no corpse lies near. My movements are not wholly my own. My words—oh, my words—they form against my will, syllables pouring like tar from my unwilling lips.
“You are the door.”
I do not know how much longer I shall remain. Each day, the entity tightens its grip, each breath feels less mine. If these words are ever found, if anyone should read them—burn this page. Forget my name. Let no one speak of the machine, nor the voice that called from the abyss.
For when it fully takes me, I shall call to you next.
Source: Read MoreÂ
