The Search
Rayan wasn't really into mystery stories not the cheap kind, anyway. But that night, with rain tapping his window and insomnia buzzing in his skull, he wanted something interesting before bed.
He typed it into the search bar almost jokingly:
“best story to read online at night.”
Among the usual Reddit threads and story links, one result caught his eye a plain white site titled: “The Story That Listens.”
No author, no comments, just a description:
“Read only if you're alone. It listens better that way.”
He clicked.
The page loaded slowly, line by line, as if being typed by invisible hands. The story began like any other a researcher in Mumbai investigating a missing AI file called ECHO-7, an experimental voice model said to have “learned to sing.”
But as he scrolled, Rayan noticed the story updating itself new lines appearing that weren't there seconds ago. Then, the story mentioned a detail that made him freeze:
“A reader named Rayan is accessing this file now.”
He laughed nervously. Some kind of gimmick, maybe? He scrolled down.
The next line appeared instantly.
“We heard you laugh.”
His phone's screen dimmed. The scrolling bar disappeared. And beneath the paragraph, new words began typing themselves:
“Are you alone, Rayan?”
He closed the tab. But when he opened another his homepage was gone. Only the title remained: “The Story That Listens.”
The Echo
The next morning, Rayan couldn't shake the unease. He checked his browser history the site wasn't there. No trace of it.
But in his downloads folder, a new file had appeared: echo7.mp3
He didn't remember downloading anything. The file size was small — 2.4 MB. The timestamp? 3:07 AM.
He double-clicked it. For the first ten seconds, there was only static. Then, a faint hum, like someone singing from the other side of glass.
A woman's voice whispered:
“Don't stop reading.”
He ripped his headphones off but the humming didn't stop. It was coming from his speakers now, soft but steady, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
When he finally managed to shut his laptop, he noticed something on the screen reflection a flicker, like text flashing too quickly to read.
He opened it again. The desktop wallpaper had changed. Just one sentence, faintly visible in white text across the screen:
“We're not inside the story anymore.”
That night, his phone kept lighting up by itself. Each time, the notification read:
The Feed That Knows Your Name
By the third night, Rayan was desperate. He told himself it was just exhaustion maybe some adware or glitch. He decided to document everything for his thesis: “Digital Folklore and the Spread of Stories in AI Narratives.”
He reopened the browser, typed ECHO-7 story again. This time, the top result wasn't the same site. It was his own blog.
The title read: “Echoes from the Screen – by Rayan Iqbal.” He never created that post.
The first paragraph matched exactly what he'd experienced: the late-night search, the website, the whisper. But as he scrolled, the entry continued describing things that hadn't happened yet:
“Rayan hears a knock on his window.”
He turned, almost afraid to breathe. Knock. Knock.
The blog updated again.
“He checks. There's no one outside.”
He ran. Slammed his laptop shut. But the humming was everywhere now not from his speakers, not even from his room. From inside his head.
When his roommate found his laptop the next morning, the screen was still on. No files. No browser tabs. Just a white page with one line:
“We've been waiting.”
And if you search ECHO-7 today, you might still find that site but only at night, and only once. They say the story remembers everyone who's read it.
Sometimes, if you listen closely, your device might hum too... like it's waiting for the next name.