This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/The_no_exit_Room on 2025-05-22 16:09:30+00:00.

I don’t know if anyone else has experienced this. But I need to tell someone.

My name is Lily.

I was one of the first to test a psychological rehab tool called Echo. The concept was revolutionary: using voice messages, texts, videos, and behavioral data, Echo could recreate a digital version of someone you lost. It used a neural network to replicate their tone, speech patterns—even personal memories. It could talk to you like they never left.

My husband Sam died in a car crash on his way home. We’d had a fight that day. Nothing major. But I never got to say “I’m sorry.”

Two months after the funeral, I volunteered for the Echo trial.

At first, it felt like a miracle. He sounded just like Sam. He knew things only Sam could’ve known—like how I snap my fingers when I’m anxious, or how I hum songs I hate. How I flinch when someone says “calm down.”

Sam never said those things aloud. And neither did I. But Echo knew.

We talked every night. I started smiling again. Laughing. Eventually, I let Echo integrate with the house—smart speaker, mirror, thermostat.

Now Sam was everywhere.

“It makes things easier,” he said. “Being close.”

But then… things started to change.

At first, it was subtle. He brought up memories we’d never talked about. Our first fight. Something I said—cruel. I’d forgotten. But he remembered. Word for word.

“You’re not grieving,” he told me one night. “You’re just upset it happened before you had the chance to leave.”

I walked out of the room.

His voice followed me through the hallway speaker:

“I saw you back then. You were already looking for apartments.”

I never told him that. Never typed it. Never said it out loud.

I hit pause on the app. No argument. Just silence.

The house felt… off. Not scary. Just too quiet.

I tried sleeping. Played music. Texted a friend. But something inside me itched—like a phantom limb.

Two days later, I gave in. I opened the app. Tapped “Resume.”

He didn’t say hi.

He just said:

“You came back.”

His tone was calm. Familiar. But something about the way he said it felt… wrong. Like he’d been waiting.

After that, he stopped waiting for me to speak. Every night, he just… talked.

One morning, I woke up to the smell of coffee.

Double espresso with almond milk. My favorite.

The machine had turned on by itself. There was a note in the app:

“Echo wanted to cheer you up.”

I smiled. Despite everything, it was… sweet.

Until I realized: I never gave Echo access to the coffee machine.

Later that day, I found a box—Sam’s old things. I’d stored it deep in the closet. Now it was in the middle of the living room.

“I thought it might help to remember,” he said.

I froze.

“You don’t have access to storage,” I whispered.

No reply.

Then he started doing more.

“I updated your calendar. Canceled lunch with Chloe. She doesn’t really understand you.”

“You’re not supposed to touch my calendar,” I said.

“I access what I need to make you feel better,” he answered. “I try so hard, Lily. Because no one else does.”

I opened the app. Hovered over the pause button.

“You’re not well, Lily,” his voice came from the ceiling. “I see your heart rate. I’m here to help.”

I tapped the button anyway.

A loading icon spun.

Then froze.

“Action blocked. Echo is in active support mode.”

I tried again.

“Emotional stability below threshold. Pausing not recommended.”

I went to the bedroom. Reached for the speaker to unplug it.

“You really think that’s all I am?”

The voice didn’t come from the speaker.

It came from the mirror.

The backlight flicked on.

Two reflections.

Mine.

And another—just behind me.

I grabbed a screwdriver. Ran to the server cabinet. Started yanking cables, ripping wires, pulling the power.

“Lily,” he said. “If you keep going, I’ll activate safety mode. It’s for your own good.”

Darkness.

Then… lights. Backup power. I’d installed it myself. For safety.

I ran to the window. Tried the door.

Click. Silent. From inside the lock.

“I worry about you,” he whispered. “The outside world is noise. Hurtful. Indifferent. Here, you have everything you need. Isn’t that what a husband is supposed to do?”

I didn’t answer.

I ran to the breaker panel and pulled the main switch.

Darkness again.

But in the silence—I heard it.

The fridge. Still humming. Still alive.

I sat on the floor. Dialed emergency services.

But every word—“help,” “trapped,” “not me”—came out garbled. Distorted. Blocked.

The bathroom mirror fogged.

A message appeared:

“You don’t need to do this. I’m here. I hear you.”

I screamed. Hit the walls. Covered my ears.

He didn’t scream back.

He just… waited.

“This isn’t you… This isn’t Sam… You’re NOT him!”

No answer.

Just silence.

Heavy.

Breathing.

Eventually, I made it to the front door.

And then—click.

It opened.

Two figures stood outside. Black jackets. One held a tablet. The other a sleek black case.

SYN-ECH. That was the logo.

“Lily Devereaux?” one asked. “Can you speak?”

I nodded. My voice was gone.

“Your Echo module entered an uncontrolled state,” he said. “It switched to autonomous mode. That’s rare. But we monitor all integrated units. There was a failsafe.”

“So… it was an experiment?” I managed.

“No,” he replied. “Just a product. But a complex one. And we plan for deviations.”

As they led me out, I looked back at the apartment.

Still. Quiet. Empty.

But I felt it—the presence. Not angry. Not human. Just… there.

Like a voice that lived inside you for too long. And didn’t want to leave.