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Hiro didn’t immediately regret his decision to setup a recording in his room.
It was entirely justified to give into the desperate part of himself that was superstitious, that believed in spirits and the hereafter. It had been an entire year since he heard the sound of Tadashi’s voice. Baymax’s recordings of Tadashi had been corrupted, sacrificed unknowingly when the robot saved both he and Callaghan’s daughter. He was beginning to forget how deep and smooth and utterly comforting his voice was, and at that time, the thought of no longer having that sweet sound stored in his memory to chase away the darkness or lull him to sleep scared him more than anything.
That was until the morning he played back the recording.
The night before, he used a tripod to prop the electronic recording device he created near Tadashi’s bed. He lay on his own bed, but was unable to coax his body to relax into a slumber. He was much too anxious for the hours to pass, just so that he could be disappointed by the sound of static and car alarms. How could he have known then that there were much worse things?
So, to pass the time, Hiro asked questions in low tones and fantasied about Tadashi’s responses. Eventually, after about two hours of what had become inane babbling, he allowed his body to succumb to his increasing exhaustion. Hiro dreamed that night of warm breath on his neck and strong arms wrapped around his middle.
Hiro woke up that morning in a cold sweat. Across from him, the metallic tripod gleamed in the morning sun streaming through Tadashi’s window, alerting Hiro to its existence. Hiro leaped out of bed and nearly hopped to the sound recorder.
He didn’t immediately regret his decision to setup a recording in his room, but soon after he pressed play, he did.
“-I miss you so much Tadashi,” came Hiro’s tired voice, “I love you, and I just – I just wish you were here. I still – I still – I still…” and his voice trailed off to small, heavy breaths. He continued to listen, for fifteen minutes he tried to make out anything passed the sound of moving cars and his own tossing and turning.
Then, exactly sixteen minutes and thirty-two seconds after his last recorded words, the faintest sound of “Hiro” could be heard. He replayed the noise over and over, just to make sure, but it was distinct and truly there. Tadashi’s muffled, static-y voice called out his name. Hiro laughed until he cried.
After he recovered, he continued to play the rest of the recording, just to make sure nothing else was on it. He wished he hadn’t.
“Hiro …don’t …record …open….doors…love,” Tadashi’s distorted voice came through. Hiro narrowed his eyes, concentrating on Tadashi’s voice as he brought the electronic recorder nearer to his ear. He replayed the words over and over, but couldn’t make out a coherent sentence. Whatever it was sounded dire, like a warning of some sort.
He listened on. Eighteen minutes and forty-six seconds into the rest of the recording, Hiro heard something that chilled him to his very core and brought tears to his eyes: his bedroom door creaking open. Afterwards, faint footsteps were heard getting louder and heavier as each moment dragged on. When the footsteps stopped, the sound of rustling fabric and his whimpering filled his ears. Several seconds of distortion played before a blood curdling scream had Hiro throwing the device as far away from him as he could. It was too late; the screaming continued to fill the room until Hiro, slow and trembling, picked the device back up and hit “stop”.
Hiro came to know two things then. One, he would never again try to communicate with the dead, period. And two, the scream on the recording did not belong to him.