Lost Phone Part 8

Thursday, December 17th, 2009 – 9:40am

(Nora)

I opened my eyes to a haze of white light and the hollow buzz of fluorescent lamps overhead. My head spun, nausea coiling low in my stomach, and for a moment, all I could do was blink slowly, trying to force the world into focus. Shapes moved around me—pale figures in sterile uniforms, mouths moving without sound, hands reaching for machines that beeped and clicked in frantic rhythms.

Someone was standing over me—a nurse, her face a pale smear of concern—muttering words that slid uselessly through the fog of my mind. I shifted slightly, and the scratchy sheets beneath me whispered against my skin. Everything felt too bright, too sharp, as if the world had been stripped of its softness.

Across from my bed, slumped on the floor, was a woman. Blood soaked her clothes, her skin marred by raw, angry wounds that glistened wetly under the hospital lights. I stared at her with a detached kind of horror, like watching a distant storm you know will never reach you. Somewhere deep inside, I knew I should have been afraid—should have screamed, or cried, or recoiled—but my body was too heavy, my mind too slow.

I closed my eyes again, retreating into the dark for a few precious seconds. When I opened them, my hearing had sharpened, the world beginning to make a cruel kind of sense. Two nurses were carefully lifting the woman into a wheelchair, their faces tight with something between fear and pity. They wheeled her away, her head lolling weakly to one side, and I was left staring at the cold, empty space where she had been.

"Nora? Nora, can you hear me?" A man's voice—calm, firm—cut through the fog. A doctor leaned into view, his face lined with worry and something else... something almost like relief.

I nodded, my throat too dry for words.

He asked me questions—my name, my age, the year. I answered automatically, each word scraping out of me like sandpaper. His pen scratched hurriedly over a clipboard, and when I finally rasped out, "I want to go home. Where are my mother and father? Please, I want to go home," the doctor smiled kindly, as if I were a small child asking for a bedtime story.

"They're already on their way," he assured me. "Just rest. You'll be home soon."

Home.

Time folded and collapsed around me. One moment I was in the sterile confines of the hospital, and the next I was bundled in the backseat of my parents' car, their voices a gentle hum around me. They asked me what I wanted for breakfast, if I wanted to go shopping, if I wanted new art supplies, a new phone, a new anything. Their smiles were wide, bright.

I stared out the window, watching the city smear past, and felt... nothing.

There was a hole inside me where something important should have been. I was supposed to be happy, grateful, relieved. I was supposed to be laughing, crying, hugging them tight. Instead, I floated above it all, disconnected, adrift.

We spent the day like actors trapped in a poorly written play.

They made my favorite pancakes for breakfast, drenched in syrup that tasted like ash in my mouth. They took me to the mall, bought me clothes I barely looked at, shoes that pinched my feet, trinkets that gleamed hollowly under the store lights. They treated me like a fragile doll—something precious and breakable, something that might shatter if they looked too hard.

But none of it filled the emptiness gnawing at my chest.

At dinner, over the clatter of silverware and the murmured nothings of family talk, I finally found the courage to speak.

"I feel... wrong," I said. The words felt raw, torn from somewhere deep inside. "I feel like something's missing."

My mother reached across the table, her hand warm and soft against mine. "It's normal, sweetheart," she said, her voice smooth and soothing. "You’ve been through so much. Give it time."

My father nodded, his smile unwavering. "You're safe now. You're home. Everything will go back to normal soon."

Safe. Normal.

I smiled back at them—a brittle, broken thing—and dropped my gaze to my plate. I toyed with my food, my appetite smothered by a growing sense of unease.

Something was still missing.

It was late. The clock blinked 2:47 AM when I woke, my heart thudding uneasily against my ribs. A weight pressed down on my chest, something formless and cold. Without thinking, I slid from under the covers and padded barefoot down the stairs, each step creaking faintly in the silence.

In the main hall, I stopped.

The door.

Someone was outside.

I couldn't see them. I couldn't hear them. But I knew—somehow—someone was waiting. Waiting for me to open it.

I reached for the keys on the nearby stand, my hand steady despite the tremor running through my spine. The lock clicked open. The door swung wide on silent hinges.

An old man stood there, hunched and shivering, the lamplight casting long, hollow shadows across his figure. He looked less like a man and more like something death had forgotten to claim—skin hanging loose, eyes sunken, a body tortured by years, decades, of suffering.

He extended a trembling hand. In it, a phone. An ordinary, black, unremarkable phone.

"Here," he rasped, voice low and broken. "Take it. It's yours."

Without hesitation, I reached out and took it. The moment it touched my fingers, he turned and vanished into the night, swallowed by the darkness beyond the porch.

I closed the door, locked it again, and climbed the stairs in silence, the phone cold and heavy in my palm.

Back in my room, I sat on the bed, staring down at it. The screen was black, dead. The house was silent, save for the distant murmur of the heater and the rhythmic beat of my own heart.

The cold seeped into me, numbing my fingers, my thoughts. Yet I wasn't afraid. I knew—whatever this thing was, it carried something I needed.

After a few seconds, the screen flickered to life.

A message appeared in stark, white letters:

"Hello Nora."

I smiled. A slow, detached, almost dreamy smile.

Shadows spilled from the phone, pouring into the room, climbing the walls, swallowing the windows, drowning the light. They slithered and writhed, and somewhere deep inside, I giggled, the sound bubbling up like a child’s laughter.

"Hello," I whispered back, still smiling.

In an instant, the shadows lunged, tearing into me, forcing their way into my chest with a violence that ripped a scream from my lungs. The pain was excruciating—pure, blinding agony. I doubled over, clawing at my chest, my screams echoing through the house.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs.

My parents burst into my room, their faces twisted in panic, their hands grabbing at me, pulling me close. I clung to them, trembling, gasping, the phone forgotten on the floor, broken.

"I... I had a bad dream," I sobbed into my mother's shoulder, my voice shaking.

They hushed me, smoothing my hair, murmuring soft reassurances as they held me tight, rocking me gently until my trembling eased and my breathing slowed.

Until I drifted back into sleep.

But deep down, in the hollow place where the shadows still clung, I was happy, cause finally I was complete. 

Friday, December 18th, 2009 – 2:53am

(Abigail)

I woke up with a sharp intake of breath, my hospital room bathed in the sterile half-light of early morning. The clock on the wall blinked: 2:53 AM.

I tried to sit up, but a jolt of pain shot through my legs, raw and deep. Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to swing my legs over the edge of the bed, each movement sending flashes of agony up my spine. Most of the doctors and nurses had left hours ago, the night staff reduced to a skeleton crew who rarely ventured down this dim corridor.

I clutched the edges of the bed, trying to steady my breathing, trying to gather my fractured thoughts. Flashes came to me—a whirlwind of guilt, shame, confusion.

How could I have done that? How could I have been so weak?

I had given up. I had taken that cursed phone, walked it right to poor Nora's side.

And Mark... Mark had been there too. He’d taken the phone, hadn't he?

Was he alright?

A wave of nausea rolled through me, guilt and worry colliding in my chest. Mark. Nora. 

I needed to find my phone, to call him, to hear his voice—to know that he was still himself, still alive.

I glanced around the room, my heart sinking. My phone wasn't there. More likely was back to my apartment. 

Panic scraped against my ribs.

I needed to find him. I needed to know what I'd done.

I found my clothes and dressed up, every motion a raw, shivering agony. Thankfully, my wallet was still tucked into my jacket pocket. I limped quietly down the empty hallways, the dim lights buzzing overhead, and slipped out through the main doors into the frozen night.

I signaled to a cab the moment I stumbled onto the street, the neon sign flickering in the dark.

When the cab pulled up, I climbed inside and gave Mark's address, my voice barely a whisper.

Friday, December 18th, 2009 – 2:29am

(Mark)

It was almost 2:30 AM.

I sat slouched behind the wheel of my car, parked a few houses down from Nora's family home. The night pressed heavy against the windows, the cold gnawing at the edges of my awareness. My body ached from exhaustion, muscles stiff from sitting in the same position for too long, but I didn't dare leave. Not yet.

I had spent the entire day trailing Nora and her parents. Watching. Waiting. Making sure that everything—everything—was truly over.

At the mall, I kept my distance as she wandered from shop to shop, her parents hovering close by, fussing over her like she might shatter at the slightest touch. I watched as she stared blankly at the colorful displays, smiled on command, laughed when prompted. A puppet with severed strings.

I followed them home, parking a discreet distance away. For hours I had been here, watching the house.

And despite the weight of exhaustion sinking into my bones, I felt—for the first time in days—relieved.

Nora was safe. The worst was behind us.

Sure, the poor girl was still lost in the fog of her own mind, still trying to catch up with a "normal" life after everything she had endured. But her parents were there, their every movement saturated with love and fear, trying their damned best to keep her anchored.

I rubbed a hand over my face, the scratch of stubble against my palm grounding me for a moment. I stared up at the dark silhouette of the house. All the lights were off now, save for a faint glow in Nora's room. Safe. Normal.

Finally, it was over.

I leaned my head back against the seat, closing my eyes for just a moment, letting the thought settle into me like a warm blanket.

Tomorrow, I promised myself. Tomorrow I would find Abigail. Apologize for everything we had gone through. Tell her she was right to fight as long as she did.

Tonight... I could rest.

I started the ignition and looked one last time at Nora's house, my gaze lingering for a few moments longer than it needed to. Then I pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the still, sleeping streets.

The exhaustion hit me in waves now, my limbs heavy, thoughts sluggish. By the time I reached my apartment, my body moved on autopilot. I poured myself a generous glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the soft light of the kitchen. No ice. Just fire.

I took a slow sip, savoring the burn, then headed to the bathroom. I stood under the shower for what felt like forever, letting the scalding water beat the tension out of my body. My muscles finally loosened, my mind going deliciously blank.

After drying off and throwing on something comfortable, I sank into the familiar embrace of my couch. I lit a cigar, the rich smoke curling lazily through the air, blending with the warmth of the whiskey that still sat in my hand.

Time slipped by. When I glanced at the clock again, it was just past 4 AM.

For the first time in what felt like years, I was completely relaxed. I drained the last of my drink, stubbed out the cigar, and stood up, ready to collapse into bed. No alarm. No interruptions. Just rest.

But then—a knock.

Soft. Delicate.

It came from the front door.

I frowned, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Who the hell would be knocking at this hour?

I approached cautiously, instinct already stirring. Before I could even peek through the peephole, the door burst open with a deafening crack.

Nora.

She stood in the doorway, her body soaked in blood from head to toe, still in her pajamas. Her hair clung to her face in sticky strands. Her eyes locked onto mine with a calm, eerie clarity.

"Mom and dad are gone now," she said, her voice sweet as honey, rotting at the edges. "And you will join them."

In the same instant, every light bulb in the apartment exploded. The windows cracked like brittle bone, the mirror in the hallway shattered with a sound like a gunshot.

I lunged for the gun in the drawer by the couch—but before my fingers could even graze it, she raised her hand.

With a single flick, an invisible force lifted me and hurled me backward, smashing me into the coffee table. The wood splintered beneath me, the wind knocked from my lungs.

Darkness fell like a curtain.

The only light left in the room came from her eyes.

That vivid, unnatural green glow.

She stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind her. Every inch of space devoured by shadow.

I could barely move, my limbs trembling, breath ragged.

She was smirking now, barely containing laughter that danced on the edge of hysteria.

Shadows slithered out from behind her, thick tendrils stretching across the floor. They wrapped around my wrists and ankles, cold and wet and strong as iron. I struggled, but they held me fast, pinning me like an animal to the floor.

She knelt beside me, her smile wide, gleaming, eyes glittering like a child opening a long-awaited gift.

Then the tearing began.

Her fingers were like razors, methodical and slow, pulling me apart piece by piece. She avoided the fatal cuts, choosing instead to savor the moment, to stretch it, to make sure I felt every inch of the pain.

And I did.

I felt every goddamn second of it.

Friday, December 18th, 2009 – 4:02am

(Abigail)

I arrived at Mark's apartment and stepped out of the cab, the cold biting instantly into my skin. The main entrance was ajar, wind pushing through the gap, flaring the edges of my coat. That door should've been closed. Locked.

A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature crept up my spine.

My body was screaming with pain, every step a raw reminder that I was far from healed. I had no plan, no backup, no weapon. Just a certainty in my gut that something was horribly wrong, and Mark was in danger.

I hesitated at the threshold.

I could turn and run. Save myself. No one would blame me.

But I wouldn’t abandon him.

I clenched my teeth, bracing against the ache in my legs, and started up the stairs. Third floor. By the time I reached the second, the metallic stench of blood hit me like a slap.

I swallowed hard. My heart pounded. I kept going.

I reached his apartment door and moved fast, quiet. What I saw made me stop dead in my tracks.

Nora.

She was laughing—a high-pitched, deranged sound that scraped at my nerves like glass. Shadows surged around her like a living storm. In front of her, Mark was pinned to the floor by writhing tendrils of darkness, his body a canvas of blood and ruin.

Then his eyes met mine.

Or I thought they did.

I didn’t think. I grabbed a jagged shard of broken glass from the hallway and charged. With everything I had left, I drove it into Nora’s back. Again. And again. And again. Blood sprayed across my face and arms, but I didn’t stop.

She shrieked—a sound that split the air like thunder.

The shadows recoiled from Mark and lashed out at me. In an instant, they coiled around my arms and legs, hoisting me into the air.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

She turned slowly to face me. Her eyes blazed, her grin stretched wide and hateful.

"You filthy whore," she hissed. "You will wish you were never born."

Then she began to pull.

The pain was tremendous. My joints screamed, ligaments tearing, bones cracking under the force. I felt like my arms and legs would rip apart at any second.

But Nora didn’t stop there.

More shadows poured from her, slithering toward me, and I watched in horror as they gripped my skin and began to peel it away.

Piece by piece.

I screamed. Loud. Helpless. Unending. The agony was indescribable, too vast, too deep. Every old wound split open again under the strain, a chorus of pain across my body.

Then—a gunshot.

The sharp crack echoed through the apartment like thunder.

I felt the pressure lessen. The shadows shivered, faltered.

Nora's head snapped around.

Mark. Still alive. Barely.

He held his gun with both trembling hands. Blood dripped from his fingers, but his aim was true. He fired again—straight into Nora’s head.

I collapsed to the floor as the shadows around me recoiled.

Nora smirked, even as her body began to fall.

"She is mine," she whispered to Mark. "And you can do nothing for it."

He pulled the trigger again. And again.

With every shot, darkness poured out of her, dissipating—but not vanishing.

Instead, it twisted. Shifted.

And surged into me.

All of it.

The last thing I saw was Mark—his face a mask of horror, eyes wide and wet—rising to his feet and stumbling toward me.

Then the shadows swallowed everything.

And a voice curled through the void like smoke:

"Now you are mine to play."