The Last Tape

I woke with a violent gasp, lungs burning as I clawed for air that refused to come easily. My pillow was drenched, sweat and tears mingled into something sour and cold against my cheek. I jerked upright and scanned the room like a hunted animal. The walls stood where they always had. The familiar paintings stared back at me. Moonlight slipped through the window in thin silver bars. I was in my house, in my bed. I was safe.

Relief came late but heavy. I exhaled, long and shaking, and reached for the glass of water on my bedside table. My hands trembled as I drank. The glass was empty before I realized it.

It was happening again. Almost every night now.

The clock glowed 3:52 a.m. when I set the glass down. I stacked my pillows behind me and sat there, unmoving, swallowed by the silence. I tried to do what my therapist had told me. Sit with it. Feel it. Name it. According to her, the girl was not real. The dark-eyed face. The soaked hair plastered to her skull. The pale skin stretched tight beneath clinging clothes. The mouth pulled open so wide it looked painful, hanging toward the floor like it might tear her face apart.

An apparition, my therapist called her. A manifestation of fear. Of insecurity.

I was sick of the word manifestation.

None of her techniques had helped. Not in months. Each morning I woke heavier than the last, as though something was draining me slowly, carefully, with intent.

I swallowed the pills she prescribed. I placed lavender sachets in every corner of the room. I slept with the nightlight glowing like a weak guardian beside my bed. It made no difference. I would wrap myself in the blanket, scroll through messages, reply to a few, let sleep claim me. And then she would come.

Always her.

She was too precise to be a dream. I knew every detail of her. The way her wet clothes clung to her body. The tilt of her head. The slow, deliberate crawl toward me. I never slept on my back anymore. Not since the first time I saw her standing in my room, solid and unmoving, as though she had always belonged there.

She had no eyes, but I felt them on me anyway. I felt them pierce through skin and bone, straight into something soft and terrified inside my chest. She would climb onto the bed. She would hover over me. Then she would scream, a sound torn from somewhere deep and ruined inside her, inches from my face.

And I would lie there, frozen.Helpless. With nothing to do but keep looking until it goes away.

Sleep paralysis, they called it.

I did not know who she was. I did not know why she chose me. I did not know why the same nightmare returned every night, unchanged, relentless, like a sentence I could not appeal. I only knew that I would give anything for it to stop.

A dull ache bloomed behind my eyes, the familiar aftermath. My head throbbed in time with my pulse. I reached for the one thing that still worked. Music.

My mother’s Walkman rested beside my bed, worn smooth by years of use. She had left it behind when she left this world, and it was all I had of her that still felt alive. I slipped the headphones over my ears and pressed play.

Her voice filled the dark, soft and steady. The world fell away. There was only me and her song, the simple melody she had once written without knowing how much it would save me later. She had been a composer, brilliant and full of light. We had been a perfect family once. Ten years ago, that felt like another lifetime.

She used to walk home from her studio every night with a smile, satisfied with the music she created. My father, after wasting years inside a corporate cage, had finally found joy coaching football for children at the neighborhood school. We were happy. Quietly, completely happy.

I wondered what she would think of me now. If she would be proud to know I was no longer a deputy, that I was the chief of police in Ashforde. That I had given my life to keeping this town safe, solving crimes most people preferred not to think about, so others could sleep without fear.

The irony was not lost on me.

A chief of police haunted by nightmares. A woman trusted to protect a town who could not protect herself from sleep. I never told anyone the truth. When they asked why I looked so tired, I told them I worked late. It was easier than watching disbelief settle into their eyes.

All of this had begun suddenly. A few months ago, my life had been whole. I had just been promoted. I had a fiancé who loved me, and a family who welcomed me as their own. My father lived with me then. This house, now suffocating, had once been my refuge.

The nightmares took it apart piece by piece.

I grew anxious. Short-tempered. The smallest things ignited fights between John and me until one night I said things I could not take back. He called them unhinged. He ended the wedding. He said he could not live with someone who would not let him sleep in peace.

Misunderstandings spread like rot. His family slipped away from me. My father took a job uptown, a better offer, he said. Soon, the house was empty except for me and the echo of what it used to be.

My mother’s voice hummed gently in my ears. The clock read 4:08 a.m.

If I could turn back time, I would turn it back to May. The nightmares had started earlier, but May was when they stopped letting me recover. I would stop it there, at the moment I still felt like myself. I was exhausted from chasing answers through science and medicine and quiet rooms with soft voices that did not understand.

For once, I did not want to fix anything.I just wanted to sleep like a normal person.

***

A piercing noise cut straight through my ears.

My hand moved on instinct. The alarm went silent, and I slipped back into sleep before my mind could protest. The earphones were still lodged in my ears, my mother’s voice flowing endlessly, as though she had never meant to stop. My back throbbed from spending the night upright, but the ache barely registered anymore. I had grown used to it.

After a few minutes of lying there, bargaining with myself, I forced my body up. A hot shower scalded the remnants of the night off my skin. Steam swallowed the bathroom, and for a brief moment, I let myself believe it could take the nightmare with it.

Mornings were always the same. The sun rose without fail. Neighbours greeted me as I stepped out, their faces lit with something I found hard to bear. Hope. Pride. Faith that felt undeserved. Still, they were the reason I kept moving. I locked the door behind me, grabbed an apple and my car keys, and left.

As I drove, my thoughts drifted back to my mother. I missed her more than usual today. I could see her clearly, packing my lunch before school. The same ham sandwich. Every single day. School. College. Even my deputy years. I smiled despite myself, remembering her smile. Her eyes had shone brighter than any stars above. Maybe that was why the universe took her. Fairness had never been its strength. I had learned that early.

The police station came into view sooner than expected. I parked in my usual spot, gathered my bag and coat, and fixed my hair in the mirror. A thin layer of concealer hid the shadows beneath my eyes. Barely, but it had to work for now.

As I reached the entrance, the doors flung open. An officer stepped out, nodding quickly when he saw me. He was in a hurry, so I let him pass without a word.

Inside, the station felt the same as always. The smell of black coffee clung to the air, mixed with cigarettes and restless movement. Ashforde was a small town. Trouble arrived slowly here. Missing cats. Fake assault cases between feuding couples. Bribery. Petty theft. Nothing dramatic.

I liked it this way. The more of these trivial cases we solved, the more people slept peacefully.

“Good day, Chief,” John, a fellow deputy, said from his corner desk.

“What are you solving this morning?” I asked.

“Somebody stole Mr. Grey’s vintage watch,” he replied, disappointment weighing down his voice.

Another officer passed by but paused, studying my face. “Yes, Ivy?” I asked,

“I respect you, Chief. I really do, but your concealer looks a bit cakey today. Let me fix it for you later in the day.” She rushed off with case files tucked under her arm. I brushed under my eyes, wiping away the excess, and headed to my desk.

‘Isabelle Vance, Chief of Police’ the board sign stared at me from the desk.

A neat pile of files waited for me, either to be approved, closed, or discarded. They were untouched. I sat down and began. I knew most chiefs delegated this work. I never did, it was one of my norms here in this station. There was a strange peace in it. Paper did not ask questions. Files did not dream. This was the only time I could switch my brain off and focus on something where I didn’t have to think about my personal life. As I worked, time loosened its grip on me. Time slipped away unnoticed.

The first file I opened was Nora’s. The Brown family’s Siamese cat, missing last week, but soon the big stamp of ‘Solved’ came into sight, so I kept this file in the ‘Closed’ section.

I reached for the next one when raised voices cut through the station.

A group of officers entered with a boy between them, his hands cuffed behind his back.

“I didn’t do it, I didn’t steal it, please you have to believe me,” he cried with breaking voice,

“Easy,” I said, stepping toward him. “What’s going on?”

“Remember Kim’s Supermarket Theft?” Mason, one of the officers holding him, replied. “He’s the thief. We have his guilty ass on tape.”

“This kid doesn’t believe in CCTVs,” another officer muttered as he locked the cell.

“I have two little sisters,” the boy cried, tears streaking his face. “I had no choice. Why would I steal if I had any other option?”

“Save it for court,” Mason said coldly. “Mr. Kim is pressing charges.”

“Can I see the footage?” I asked. “I don’t want to leave any room for doubt.”

A pen drive was brought to me minutes later. I plugged it into my laptop and began watching. The timestamps were precise. The boy entered the store. Moved quickly. Snacks. First-aid supplies. Juice boxes. He stuffed them into a bag and ran. Mr. Kim followed, but the boy was faster. The theft was clear as day.

Then the footage stuttered.

The frame glitched.

For a fraction of a second, the aisle stood empty. Then she appeared.

A woman stood where the boy had been moments before. Motionless. Soaked, as though she had climbed out of deep water. Her skin was grey, stretched tight over sharp bones. Water slid down her hair and sleeves, dripping onto the floor. She did not shiver. She did not breathe.

Slowly, her head tilted upward. When she faced the camera, my heart stopped.

The room fell away. A sharp ringing filled my ears. Cold crawled through my limbs as I stared at the screen.

It was her.

The hollow sockets where eyes should have been. The drenched hair clinging to her face. The pale, unmoving hands. Her presence felt heavier here, darker.

How was she here? How could she be here? Upon looking closer, her face started seeming unnaturally familiar. As if I had seen her, briefly, somewhere, besides my nightmare. In reality.

“Stacy,” I called the officer sitting in front of my desk, my voice unsteady. “Do you see this woman?”

She leaned closer, frowning. “Um, what woman?”

“Here,” I said, pointing. “Right here. She’s standing right there. She’s soaked.”

Stacy placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Chief, there’s no one there.”

My stomach dropped. The words hit harder than fear. I was sure I had seen her somewhere.

“Are you alright?” she asked softly. “Maybe you should take the day off. Get some rest.”

I shook my head. “I’m fine. Just tired. I’d think about work even at home. Thank you, though,”

“It’s not a problem, ma’am,” she said,

“Oh, also, did we have any drowning cases recently?” I asked her,

“Not many, Chief. Ashforde is a small town, after the Dexter case, people avoid the lake.” she said,

“Can you get all the drowning case files for me?”

“On it,” she nodded and headed over to the documentation drawers.

I stared back at the screen as I had paused the frame to the exact time that her face was visible. I looked as closely as one could. She was so damn clear, how was Stacy not able to see her? This was no longer confined to my dreams.

There was more to this, a bigger reason. There had to be. My nightmares were bleeding into reality, and I was done pretending otherwise. I need to know who she is and why she’s haunting me. I’m not planning to let her take what little of me was left. I’m not insane, overly religious, or a cult believer. I am a woman of facts and I believe that the subconscious is where dreams are given a deeper meaning. All I had to do now was dig further.

Stacy appeared with a pile of three to four case files. “A couple of these aren’t directly related to drowning. Would you need my help, Chief?”

“It’s not a bother, Stace. Appreciate your help,”

She exited my cabin and I dove into all these cases. There was no chance on Earth that I was going to involve my deputies in a doubt I was yet to confirm. All case files had a picture of the victims, reason of their death, and an entire report made of the investigation completed by the police. Every case was complete. Nothing looked out of place. Except, the last file. It was an old file that felt abruptly closed.

As I opened the file, the victim’s picture slipped out, it was slightly degraded and faded over the years. I bent over to pick it up and as the light fell on it, my heart palpitated. It was her. The case file read, Ronnie Dexter. She looked nothing like how she showed up in my dreams. She was a young, beautiful, brunette, looking too full of aspirations. She looked happy, and not like somebody who’d haunt you.

I started reading her report.

Name: Ronnie Dexter

Date & Day of Investigation: 1st May 1997, Thursday

Time of Investigation: 6:45 pm

Cause of Death: Drowning

Report Summary:

“On the above-mentioned date and time, the undersigned officer visited the premises upon receiving information from the landlord, who reported finding the tenant unresponsive while attempting to collect overdue rent. The deceased, a female adult, was found lying on the floor in a drenched condition, with water present in her hair and clothing. The body exhibited pallor and multiple bruises on the limbs. The eyes were open and the jaw was found partially agape. No signs of external strangulation were observed. No suicide note or indication of self-harm was found at the scene. The body was sent for post-mortem examination, which revealed the presence of water in the lungs. Based on medical opinion, the cause of death was concluded as drowning. Certain surrounding circumstances appeared inconsistent; however, no corroborative evidence was found to establish foul play. As the investigation yielded no further leads, the case was closed.”

A shiver ran down my spine,

I flipped the page to read the landlord’s statement,

Witness Statement

“My name is Quentin. I am the owner of the premises located at St. John Street, where the deceased was residing as a tenant. The tenant had not paid rent for the past 6 months. On the above-mentioned date, at approximately 06400 hours, I went to the premises to inquire about the overdue rent. After knocking on the door multiple times and receiving no response, I used my spare key to enter the house.

Upon entering, I found the tenant lying on the floor and unresponsive. Her clothes and hair were wet, her jaw was torn open with cheek muscles exposed, her eyes were wide open with shock, and she had unexplainable bruises all over arms and legs. I did not touch her and immediately informed the police. I am not aware of any disputes involving the tenant and did not observe anyone else present at the premises. I have no knowledge of how the incident occurred. She was a good kid, a successful writer. Lord bless her.”

Preliminary Assessment

The deceased was found unresponsive inside her rented premises by the landlord, who entered the house to inquire about overdue rent.

The body was found in a wet condition, with water present on clothing and hair, though no active source of water was observed at the scene at the time of inspection.

Multiple bruises were observed on the limbs; however, no visible external injuries indicative of strangulation or sharp-force trauma were found.

The eyes were found open and the jaw partially agape, consistent with post-mortem muscular changes.

No suicide note or written communication suggesting self-harm was recovered from the premises.

No signs of forced entry or struggle were observed at the scene.

Post-mortem examination confirmed the presence of water in the lungs, and the cause of death was opined as drowning.

Certain physical and circumstantial aspects appeared unusual; however, no material evidence or witness testimony was available to substantiate foul play.

In the absence of corroborative evidence and further leads, the death was treated as accidental, and the investigation reached a dead-end.

Signed off by the Sheriff, Ashforde.

When I was still a deputy, I had once found myself in the sheriff’s office on an unrelated matter. He was tense that day, distracted in a way I hadn’t seen before. Papers lay open on his desk, untouched.

I asked him what was wrong. He hesitated, then said it was an old case that never made sense. One of those deaths that refused to sit right, no matter how many times you read the report.

I offered to look into it. He showed me Ron’s final tape, saying nothing that Ron said was making sense to him and that he would be pleased if I understood anything. At that time, all I noticed was how disturbed she looked. Exhausted, even. She was scared, angry, and spoke as if she were instructing the viewer something.

That was where I remembered her from.

I need to reopen Ron’s case. I need to investigate it quietly.

I need to find the last tape.