Lost Phone Part 5

Thursday, December 17th, 2009 – 4:40am

I remain silent, my words dissolving into the oppressive hush that surrounds me. It’s as though the air itself refuses to answer—an eerie, unyielding void. I force myself to rise, every muscle protesting in agony. My legs tremble beneath me, my back screaming with pain from every small movement. I stagger forward, the world a hazy blur of cold and torment.

Just as I manage to pull myself upright, a sudden, searing sensation explodes along my chest. It feels as if an unseen force has leapt onto me—a vicious, spectral weight that claws and scrapes with a deliberate precision. The pain is unbearable: a brutal conflagration of burning and cutting that etches deep, methodical lines into my skin, like some dark signature being carved into my flesh. I gasp, my vision flickering between stark, white light and an encroaching, suffocating darkness, and then everything goes black.

I wake to a disorienting chill and the sound of my own ragged breathing. I’m sprawled on a cold, hard surface, my skin still burning with the memory of those ghostly scrapes. The remnants of pain pulse in time with my heartbeat, each throb a reminder of that vicious attack. I try to recall what happened—images and sensations colliding in a fragmented haze. There were no voices, no warnings, only that relentless assault of pain and a fleeting sense of something unseen, something malevolent, brushing against me.

My fingertips tremble as I slowly reach up to where the cuts still sting, each mark a precise incision, as if measured and executed with a sinister purpose. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve been marked—tainted by an invisible hand that wants to imprint its darkness upon me. A cold dread wells up inside me as I struggle to piece together the moment before the oblivion, questioning whether this was simply the toll of my own battered body or a deliberate, inhuman act aimed at my very soul.

I force a ragged breath and attempt to stand again, though every step is a battle against searing pain and the weight of an unseen curse. My thoughts spiral into dark questions: Was it the cursed phone again—its malevolent influence seeping into every crack of my life—or something else entirely? I can almost hear it, a whisper from the void, urging me to surrender to the torment. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out all other sound as I edge toward a narrow corridor of dim light.

Every step is accompanied by an echo of that dreadful sensation, and I wonder if the very act of standing is an invitation for further suffering. I remember the sensation vividly—the almost playful yet sinister leap of an unseen presence, its talons scraping my chest with the precision of a scalpel and the cruelty of a predator. My mind reels with the possibility that this isn’t a mere accident of flesh and bone, but a calculated reminder that I am not free from the darkness that has haunted me since that cursed night.

As I press onward, the pain begins to recede into a dull, constant throb—a grim reminder of what transpired. I force myself to focus, to gather the shattered pieces of my resolve as I inch toward a doorway that promises a semblance of sanctuary. My body, battered and trembling, feels alien—every nerve ending screaming out, every scar a story I’d rather forget. And yet, the scars insist on narrating their own tale, a tale of a battle fought in silence against a relentless, unseen force.

In that bleak, uncertain moment, I realize with a sinking heart that this is only the beginning. The night seems endless, and with every labored breath, the chill of dread seeps deeper into my bones. I cannot tell if I’m hallucinating or if this torment is real, but one truth remains: the shadows are alive, and they are coming for me.

I lean against the cold wall, letting the harsh reality of my pain wash over me, and I can’t help but wonder if this is fate’s final, cruel jest. I’ve spent so long chasing answers, trying to piece together the inexplicable events that have shattered my life. And now, as I stand alone in the half-light, marked by an unknown terror, I understand that the cursed force behind it all is far from finished.

With a trembling hand, I reach into my pocket, half-expecting to feel the smooth, cold surface of that accursed phone. But for now, it is silent, as if hiding its secrets behind a veneer of normalcy. I don’t know what dark design has orchestrated this moment, but I am painfully aware that whatever it is, it has left its mark on me—both on my skin and in my soul.

In the quiet that follows, I close my eyes, letting the pain subside into a numb, echoing throb. I must gather my strength, piece together my shattered resolve, and prepare for the inevitable confrontation with the darkness that stalks me. For now, I can only hope that the silence will offer me a moment of reprieve before the night’s horrors return to claim their due.

I’m still here, battered but not broken. And as the light of dawn edges its way through the gloom, I vow to unearth the truth behind these relentless terrors—even if it means facing the abyss within myself.

I drag myself to the bathroom in excruciating pain, each step a battle against the burning, unyielding agony in my body. The hallway lights are dim and unfeeling, and my vision swims with the loss of blood. I reach the door, trembling, and shut it behind me. With a shaky resolve, I remove my top, exposing the deep, ragged scratches and cuts that mar my skin—cuts that refuse to stop bleeding. I stare at my reflection in the cracked mirror, where the dark circles under my eyes have deepened into gaping shadows against my pale, almost translucent face. For a moment, the pain is the only thing keeping me from succumbing to dizziness.

I set about cleaning my wounds with methodical precision—disinfectant, cold water, then careful dabbing with a rough cloth. I wrap each injury in sterile bandages, hoping to stem the relentless flow of blood, even as the numbing ache reminds me that nothing is truly healing. When I finally finish, I lift my gaze back to the mirror, expecting only the tired, bleeding reflection of a broken detective. Instead, I catch a movement—a sinister smirk curling on those familiar lips.

"You think those bandages will help you somehow?" the reflection sneers, its voice a venomous whisper that seems to come from deep within my mind. "You know I can just inflict you more and more... you have seen what I have done to that leech, haven't you?"

A cold shiver runs down my spine as fear grips me, rooting me to the spot. Despite the terror gnawing at my bones, adrenaline keeps my voice steady as I demand, "What the hell are you? What do you want?"

The reflection's eyes gleam with a cruel amusement. "I'm something you can't even understand with your pathetic small brain of yours. As for what I want, it's simple. Take me back to Nora. But you already know that, don't you? I already told you once, no matter how much you continue denying it."

My lips bite down hard, and anger mingles with pain until I bleed—an ugly, raw protest against the truth I've long evaded. The creature in the mirror is right. I remember the phone at Lars' apartment—the screen that flashed "Bring me to Nora." I had dismissed it as a trick of my overburdened mind, a stress-induced hallucination born of the horror and pressure of Nora's case. But now, its reality stares me in the face.

"I won't take you back to her!" , my voice rough with defiance and despair.

The reflection laughs, its tone dripping with malicious certainty. "Maybe you won't... maybe you will. But eventually, someone will—after finding your corpse. I played with the previous filthy being for almost a month. I wonder how long you will sustain it."

At that, a surge of fury overwhelms me. "Fuck you!" I roar, my fist crashing into the mirror with a force fueled by terror and rage. The glass shatters into a thousand glittering fragments, each shard catching the harsh light of the bathroom as it falls away—a final, defiant act against the impossible horror reflected back at me.

For a moment, amidst the echo of breaking glass and the relentless throb of my wounds, I stand alone with my breath ragged and my heart pounding in defiant cadence. The silence that follows is as heavy as the secrets I can no longer deny.

I force myself to crawl toward my room, but my legs betray me. They buckle beneath the weight of exhaustion, and I collapse onto the cold floor. Sharp shards of glass from the shattered mirror dig into my skin as I kneel, each tiny cut a burning reminder of my fragile state. I murmur, "What is going on... what should I do?" My vision begins to blur, and a weak "No..." escapes my lips as darkness nips at the edges of my sight.

Summoning every last ounce of will, I push myself up once more. My limbs tremble as I stagger toward the desk, desperate to grab my phone and call for help. Each step is agony—blood seeping from cuts on my legs and feet, mingling with the pain that radiates through my entire body. I finally reach my room, my hand clutching the phone as if it could be my salvation.

Then, I hear it—a running thud, followed by the heavy, deliberate sound of footsteps drawing closer. A filthy, decomposed voice cuts through the silence, chilling me to the bone: "Sleep already." Before I can react, a massive slap crashes into my face, the force sending me sprawling over my desk. The world spins wildly as I lose consciousness, the last thing I hear a final, echoing taunt mingled with the sound of my own fading heartbeat.

I wake with a jolt, darkness smudging the edges of my vision and a burning ache pulsating where the slap landed. My face stings, and my head throbs as if caught in a vise. For a disorienting moment, I lie there, unable to tell if I’m still dreaming or if this nightmare has only just begun. I can taste copper—the metallic tang of my own blood—and feel a cold sweat dampening my skin.

Slowly, almost painfully, I force my eyes open. The room is dim, its familiar contours warped by my blurred vision. I try to recall the last clear memory: the filthy voice sneering “Sleep already” and that savage slap, then nothing. Now, every breath is a struggle, every heartbeat a reminder of the violence inflicted upon me. I press a trembling hand against my cheek, feeling the sting of fresh cuts mingled with the deep bruise forming beneath the skin.

I attempt to sit up, but my legs, battered and weak from blood loss and shattered glass, refuse to obey. I can feel the tiny shards—like cursed fragments of that broken mirror—embedded in my skin, each one a shard of pain that draws forth fresh drops of blood. My vision wavers as I swallow hard, trying to push through the dizzying haze. "What... what did you do to me?" I whisper into the silence, my voice barely audible.

A heavy thud from somewhere in the room jolts me, and I strain to listen. The sound of shuffling, labored footsteps echoes in the oppressive quiet. My heart hammers in my chest as I realize I’m not alone. I force myself to move, each motion a battle against the relentless pain and exhaustion that threatens to swallow me whole.

I reach out with shaking fingers toward the spot where I last saw my phone, desperate to call for help or even find a clue as to what’s happening. But the phone isn’t there. Instead, the room seems to pulse with an eerie stillness, as if the very air is holding its breath in anticipation of some unspeakable act.

My mind reels with fragments of the monstrous encounter—the mocking reflection, the words that chilled me to the bone. "Take me back to Nora," it had hissed, as though it knew every dark secret I tried to bury. I remember the dread that clutched at me, the crushing weight of a destiny I’d long denied. Now, that same destiny looms over me, an inescapable shadow.

With every ounce of strength I can muster, I pull myself upright, my arms trembling and my vision dimming further. I stagger toward the door, each step a testament to sheer willpower in the face of overwhelming agony. My thoughts swirl in confusion: Was the voice a hallucination—a product of my fraying sanity—or something far more sinister that stalks me in the darkness?

As I draw nearer to the hallway, I catch a glimpse of movement—a faint silhouette in the periphery of my weakened sight. The memory of that decomposed, filthy voice rings in my ears again, its taunting cadence echoing off the walls. I feel a cold dread seep into my bones. My instincts scream at me to run, yet my battered body barely supports my weight.

I try to steady myself against the wall, my fingers sliding along the rough surface as I lean heavily upon it. Every muscle burns with pain, every step a struggle to remain upright. I force my eyes open wider, willing the darkness to reveal some sign of life—some hint of the monstrous presence that has invaded my sanctuary. But there is only silence and the relentless pounding of my heart.

A low, guttural sound—like the rasp of dead leaves—drifts down the hall. I press my ear against the cold door, but no voice answers. Instead, I hear only the sound of my own labored breathing and the distant echo of footsteps that seem to come from nowhere. My mind is a chaotic battleground of terror and determination. I know I must fight this creeping horror, even if every fiber of my being is screaming for escape.

In that moment, standing in the threshold between my shattered reality and an encroaching nightmare, I realize that denying the truth has cost me dearly. The curse, the relentless pull toward Nora, and the taunting whispers of that malevolent reflection are not illusions—they are my reality. And as I muster the strength to move forward, I know that the darkness is only just beginning to close in.

With a final, trembling breath, I step into the corridor, my body battered, my mind reeling, and my soul teetering on the brink of oblivion. There is no turning back now; I must face whatever awaits me in this living nightmare—even if it means confronting the deepest, most unbearable parts of myself.

I crawl, my body protesting every movement, until I manage to pull myself up and sit. The echoing steps from the other room suddenly fall silent, and a cold thought crosses my mind: is it coming back? I wait, terror knotting my stomach, desperate to muster some kind of reaction—even a feeble resistance—but my battered limbs betray me. In the stillness that follows, the creature does not return. Instead, I use the few stolen moments to painfully remove the jagged pieces of glass embedded in my feet. Each shard pricks and draws blood, and warm tears trace along my cheeks before I quickly wipe them away.

"No, I won't break!" I insist silently, clenching my jaw against the agony. Desperation drives me to search for my phone, but it's nowhere to be found. Then, from the deep, oppressive darkness, I hear someone unlocking the main door. Small, tentative steps echo down the hall, growing closer.

"Abigail?" a voice calls—a familiar, yet disconcerting sound. It's my mother's voice. The door to my room creaks open, and through the impenetrable darkness that has swallowed the entire house, I see her figure standing just a few steps away.

"Abigail, are you alright? What happened?" she asks, her tone soft with concern, yet there’s a strange undercurrent that chills me to the core.

I muster the last of my strength and, with a defiant tremor in my voice, reply, "Are you really thinking I will fall for this?"

A pause—a breath, heavy and ominous—then her reply, laden with an eerie mockery:

"No..." she murmurs. "But it'll be fun regardless, reminding you how disappointed your mother really is."

The words slice through me like a blade. I stagger, the juxtaposition of maternal familiarity and cruel disdain tearing at my already fragile mind. Is this truly my mother, or is it that monstrous presence masquerading as her—a taunting specter here to drive me further into despair?

My heart hammers in my chest as I struggle to comprehend the twisted horror before me. The room is shrouded in darkness, and every shadow feels alive with menace. Yet, despite the fear that claws at my very soul, I cling to a shard of defiance. Even as pain surges through my legs and my vision blurs, I force myself to meet those accusing eyes.

In the suffocating silence of that blackened room, I realize that whether it is my mother or a cruel impostor, I must face this nightmare head-on. I tighten my grip on my inner resolve, silently vowing that I will not be broken by the darkness that now surrounds me—even if every step is a battle, and every breath a struggle against the terror that seeks to consume me.

I watch, powerless, as the figure that wears my mother's face—twisted into a grotesque, sinister smile—slowly approaches me. Every muscle in my body rebels in exhaustion; I can no longer fight, can no longer even cry out. My limbs feel numb, disconnected from the will that once made them move. In that final, dreadful moment, I surrender to the inevitability of my own decay.

Before I can register another thought, the creature's hand clamps onto my chin. I feel its nails, cold and sharp, dig into my skin with a searing, unyielding pressure. Pain radiates through me in waves, and for a heartbeat, time seems to pause as the horror of it all sinks in. My eyes widen in terror and disbelief, but my body refuses to resist—it is as if my very essence has become paralyzed.

Then, with a soundless, unnatural slowness, the creature opens its mouth wide—far too wide for any human, a cavernous maw that defies nature. From that void, a thick, black smoke, like a living, writhing gas, spills out. It slithers toward me, cold and menacing, washing over my face and swallowing my senses. The darkness consumes everything, and in that moment, I feel myself fading, as if being dragged into an endless void where time and pain no longer exist.

Everything turns black.

I open my eyes, and once again I’m in that cold, familiar room at my parents’ house. The air is heavy with the stale scent of old smoke and damp humidity—a smell that clings to the walls like memories I’d rather forget. I can hear voices drifting from downstairs, distant and disembodied, as if coming from a realm between dreams and reality.

I rise silently, my feet padding across the creaking floorboards as I follow the murmurs. My heart thumps in my ears with each step, and a chill crawls down my spine. Peeking into the dim living room, I catch fragments of a conversation that send shivers through me.

My mother’s voice, low and brittle with tired disdain, cuts through the silence. “I am tired of her, I really am. Always causing problems,” she says, as though every word is a bitter indictment. I stand frozen, unseen, the words etching themselves into my mind like a haunting refrain.

In the shadows, my father is silent.

“I found cigarettes in her room.. and you know where she took them? Yesterday, she stole them from the local mini market—” Her voice trails off into an accusing whisper.

I can feel the weight of their judgment, the chill of their disappointment, as if the very air around me is charged with a dark, inescapable fate. And in that moment, I wonder if I can ever escape the ghost of who I once was.

“It’s okay, I’ll talk with her. Just stay here, okay?” my father said.

I bolted to my room, my heart pounding as I slammed the door shut behind me. I couldn’t shake the terror that this nightmare would repeat—as it had for the last two years. I pressed my back against the cold wood, trying to steady my trembling hands and the roaring fear inside me.

Then the door creaked open ever so slightly. In that split second, I saw him—my father. His silhouette was swallowed by the darkness of the hallway. He stepped inside without a word, his presence heavy and oppressive. I watched in frozen horror as he slowly unbuckled his belt. With deliberate movements, he removed it and, as if sealing my fate, locked the door behind him.

He advanced toward me with an unnerving calm, nodding for me to be silent. “You should behave, Abigail,” he said in a voice that was cold and commanding. I couldn’t force my eyes to meet his—each glance felt like a betrayal of the only life I had left. I couldn’t comprehend if this was supposed to be normal; after all, it was him, my own father. But nothing about his touch, his calculated cruelty, felt normal. It churned my stomach, making me want to retch.

Those three minutes stretched on, each second dragging by with excruciating slowness. I felt utterly trapped, suffocated by the weight of his presence and my own fear. In that suffocating silence, all I could think was how desperately I longed for an end—a final escape from the perpetual nightmare that haunted me.

I feel his presence linger even after he’s gone, the smell of stale leather and something darker—that sickening satisfaction in his voice when he finally finished.. He casually tossed the cigarettes my mother had snatched from me onto the floor, unlocked my door, and left without another word. In that suffocating silence, I was overwhelmed by disgust and despair. I couldn’t hold back my tears; they streamed down my face in a silent, searing testimony to the years of fear and violation that had defined my existence. I was only 14, yet the weight of those past two years pressed down on me like a curse.

Shivering, I forced myself to stand and staggered toward the bathroom. I needed to wash away the filth of that moment, to scrub the memories from my skin—even though I felt as if I wanted to tear myself apart instead. The water was scalding and unforgiving, a cruel reminder that nothing could cleanse the deep scars etched within me.

Later that night, when darkness cloaked the house in its eerie embrace, there came two soft, deliberate knocks at my door. My heart hammered as I hesitated, and then the familiar, gentle voice of my brother Daniel broke the silence.

"Hello, Abi, did you get them?" he asked.

Barely managing a nod, I replied in a whisper, "Yes, they're in my drawer," and I handed him the cigarettes. His warm, grateful smile—“Thank you, Abi! You are really great”—stirred something fragile within me. For a fleeting moment, amidst the terror and pain that had become my life, I felt a tiny spark of happiness. It was as if, in that brief exchange, I was reminded that I still mattered, even when everything around me was shrouded in darkness.

These memories crash into me without warning, a relentless tide of truth I can’t escape. They aren’t hallucinations—nothing conjured by that damned creature. They are my reality, etched deep into my soul.

I remember my brother Daniel, the one everyone worships, the golden child. Yet behind that adoration, he was the one who twisted his power over me. He’d command me—me, Abigail, his little sister—to do things no child should ever be forced to do: stealing, lying, blackmailing other kids, and so much more. Even as he coiled his demands around me, he whispered that he loved me—a love that felt more like a chain than a comfort.

Then there’s my father. For four long, agonizing years, his abuse left marks not just on my skin but on every part of who I am. He told me he loved me with each cruel act, his touch a bitter contradiction to any notion of protection. I was too young to understand how love could be so broken, yet every bruise, every touch, every memory, reminds me of the relentless torment he inflicted physically and mentally.

And my mother—she knew everything, every dark secret that unfolded behind closed doors. Instead of shielding me, she joined the cycle: hitting, insulting, punishing me as if that were the way a mother shows care. She wrapped her cruelty in the guise of love, leaving me confused and shattered, wondering if this pain was the only language of care I’d ever know.

Each memory is a wound I carry, a ghost that refuses to be silenced. They haunt me, day and night, a constant reminder that the darkness in my past is all too real.

Those four years replay in my mind like a broken record—each memory rising up again and again, but never exactly the same. Every time, the images twist and distort, becoming more intense, more repulsive, more raw. It's as if some dark force ensures that no matter how often I relive the horror, each recollection feels brand new, unyielding, and impossible to get used to. The details, the pain, the shame—they never fade. Instead, they burn into my soul with a fresh, unbearable intensity that traps me in a cycle of torment I can never escape.

"Abigail!! Abigail, open your eyes!!" Mark's frantic voice cut through the darkness, shaking me out of a nightmare I couldn’t quite escape. I felt his trembling hands on my arm, his eyes wide with raw panic as he pulled me back to the present.

"Mark...?" I murmured, my voice ragged and barely audible. My vision was blurred, heavy with exhaustion and the remnants of a fading nightmare.

"Stay with me. We need to go to the hospital," he urged, his tone desperate, laced with urgency.

The word "hospital" echoed in my mind, and with it came a flood of dread. I knew I needed help—my body was failing me, my mind teetering on the edge—but the thought of that place clawed at my sanity. It wasn’t just a hospital; it was Saint Mark’s. And in my tangled, fractured memories, Saint Mark’s was inseparable from Nora. Nora—the one whose fate had been entwined with horrors I still couldn’t comprehend.

"No... not Saint’s Mark..." I tried to speak, my throat dry and trembling with fear, but the words were lost in the consuming void as everything went black again.