Whispers at 3:03 - by Mariam Akorede

Chapter Two: Voices in the Dark St. Lorna’s Church had been abandoned for decades. Ivy crawled up its stone walls, and the bell tower had lost its cross years ago in a storm that no one seemed to remember. The townspeople avoided it—some said it was haunted. Others just muttered “bad luck” and crossed the street. Detective Mara Vex had seen plenty of haunted places. But this one felt different—like the silence itself was listening. She ducked under the police tape, flashlight cutting a cone of light through the damp air. The nave smelled of mold and old incense. Pews rotted in rows like broken teeth. Graffiti bloomed on the walls—angry, urgent messages half-washed away by rain. “Vex,” a voice called from above. Sergeant Rick Dunbar leaned over the belfry railing, his face pale in the gray light. “It’s worse than we thought.” Mara climbed the spiral staircase, each step creaking under her boots. At the top, the bell was missing—leaving a jagged hole in the roof where rain pooled on the wooden floorboards. The victim hung in the center of the belfry, bound by a nest of old cassette tapes. The black reels had been wound around his arms, legs, and neck like a spider’s web. His head tilted at an unnatural angle—eyes wide open, staring at something only he could see. Dunbar turned to Mara. “He was a historian. Thomas Greaves. Ran the local historical society out of his garage.” “Cause of death?” “Strangulation—by the tapes.” Dunbar shook his head. “Forensics says no fingerprints. Nothing. Like whoever did this wore gloves. Or…” He trailed off. “Or?” Mara prompted. “Or they didn’t leave prints at all.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Like they weren’t… human.” Mara exhaled sharply. She was a detective. She didn’t believe in ghosts. But the fog and the phone calls were getting under her skin. She stepped closer to the body, her flashlight catching the glint of something nestled in the dead man’s hand. A cassette tape—labelled in black marker:Mara Vex — 3:03 She took it from his cold fingers. The tape was warm—like it had just been played. “What’s on it?” Dunbar asked. “I’ll find out,” she said, tucking it into an evidence bag. But her gut twisted. The killer wanted her to hear it. A message—or a threat. As she turned to leave, a gust of wind rattled the broken windows. It sounded like laughter. Or maybe just the building settling. Either way, she felt eyes on her back. --- Outside, the wind cut through her coat. She thumbed the tape in the evidence bag, fighting the urge to play it right then and there. But instinct said wait. She climbed into her car, flipped the ignition, and for a moment stared at the dashboard clock. 3:02 p.m. A chill ran down her spine.She wouldn’t have to wait long.

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