Prologue #3
The breathing continues, unchanging, and my irritation deepens into disgust.
I jab my finger hard against the screen, ending the call before tossing the phone roughly onto the counter. “Asshole,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head to dismiss the lingering chill at the base of my spine. But that’s what I get for answering unknown calls.
I grab the milk again and pour it hastily into my cereal bowl, some splashing over the edge onto the counter.
Great. Just what I needed. With another irritated sigh, I shove the milk back into the fridge, kicking the door shut with my heel.
I swipe the bowl off the counter, milk dripping down one side as I head toward the living room.
I glance back at my phone one last time before leaving the kitchen, half-expecting it to light up again. It stays dark and silent. Good. Hopefully, whoever the hell that was got the hint.
I set my bowl down on the cluttered coffee table and fish around for the Roku remote, finally spotting it partially hidden beneath an old notebook, another stack of mail, and a half-eaten bag of Salsa Verde Doritos.
Dropping onto the loveseat, I tuck my legs under me and set the remote in my lap as I reclaim the bowl, spooning a generous bite of cereal into my mouth.
Cinnamon and sugar explode across my tongue, briefly calming my jittery nerves.
I take another bite, then turn on the television and click Netflix.
I scroll idly through the app, barely registering the titles flicking past, before I spot Supernatural and select it without hesitation. It’s my comfort show. I always feel better when watching my boys.
“What season tonight, Calypso?” I ask absently, glancing toward the kitchen as Calypso wanders into the living room. She jumps gracefully onto the back of the couch and stretches out behind me before kneading my hair.
I chuckle quietly, reach behind me, and scratch gently behind her ears. “How ‘bout season three?” Calypso purrs loudly in agreement, settling comfortably as I click on season three and hit play on the first episode.
I’m barely five minutes into the episode when my phone buzzes again, sharp and intrusive from somewhere in the kitchen.
The upbeat tones of “Final Girl” by PI3RCE cut through the dialogue between Sam and Bobby, right in the middle of a conversation about Sam’s obsession with breaking Dean’s demon deal.
I sigh and pause the episode, eyes narrowing toward the kitchen like I can glare the sound into silence. My brows pinch as I debate whether it’s worth checking. After a beat, I shake my head. Whoever it is can wait. I’m officially done with mystery callers tonight.
I unpause the episode and crank the volume a little higher, loud enough to drown out any other noise trying to get my attention.
But barely another minute passes before my phone starts again, this time rapidly chiming with multiple text alerts in quick succession. Annoyed, I groan loudly, slamming the remote down beside me on the couch.
“Seriously?” I mutter, irritation sharpening my voice as I shove myself up off the cushions. “This better be good.”
I march back to the kitchen, cereal forgotten on the coffee table. Snatching my phone off the counter, my stomach tightens when I see messages from Unknown plastered across the screen. A prickle of apprehension runs down my spine as I unlock my phone, quickly tapping open the text alert.
My stomach drops as I read the messages, one after another.
UNKNOWN:
Have you ever felt that subtle, creeping sensation prickling along your spine, that someone’s unseen gaze is fixed on you?
You should listen to that feeling.
You put all that effort into locking your doors and windows. Such a waste of time.
I found a way inside long before you ever realized something was wrong.
You’re going to look real pretty in red, I can already picture it.
My breath catches sharply in my throat, and my heart starts beating a frantic rhythm in my chest as I stare down at the messages.
I read them once, then twice, my eyes darting across each word, desperately searching for some sign that this isn’t real—that it’s just some twisted prank from someone with a messed-up sense of humor.
But even as I tell myself that, unease tightens around me like a vice. The apartment suddenly feels too quiet, too still, the walls pressing closer than they did a few seconds ago. My stomach knots uncomfortably, dread pooling deep inside me.
Who the hell is this?
With trembling fingers, I open the message app again, thumbs hovering uncertainly over the screen. My thoughts race, panic clouding my head. Should I even reply? Am I just giving them exactly what they want by engaging with them?
But I have to know. I have to know if it’s a sick joke or something more serious.
Taking a shaky breath, I force myself to type, my thumbs stumbling awkwardly over the keyboard as the words appear on the screen:
ME:
Who is this? What do you want from me?
My finger hovers over the send button, hesitating. Then, heart hammering against my ribs, I press send and hold my breath, waiting.
Instant regret washes over me as several more messages quickly flash across the screen.
UNKNOWN:
I want to carve out your insides and paint the walls with your blood.
My knife will look real nice coated in your blood.
A sob catches in my throat as I hastily dial 911, my hands trembling as I press each button.
Calypso hissing and growling snaps my attention away from the phone as the operator answers. My heart jolts painfully in my chest, and I whip around, eyes landing on Calypso, crouched low, ears pinned back, and the hair on her back raised as she faces the living room.
Then my gaze shifts, following hers, and the world seems to freeze.
A dark figure stands motionless in the center of my living room, silhouetted by the dim glow of the hallway light behind it. The closet door hangs wide open behind the intruder, shadows spilling out like ink.
“Oh god,” I choke out, my voice strangled, barely audible.
My whole body trembles violently, knees going weak as I stumble backward, pressing myself flat against the kitchen doorframe. Fear rushes through me, cold and consuming, locking me in place as I stare at the faceless shape in my home.
The large figure stands rigid, its head tilted slightly to the side, as if it’s curious or fascinated by my terror. The expressionless white mask glows faintly under the dim lighting, cold and emotionless, sending ice racing through my veins.
“911, can you state your emergency?” The operator’s voice crackles urgently through my phone, distant and muffled by the roar of blood pounding in my ears.
My gaze drops from that empty mask to the glinting blade hanging loosely beside the intruder’s thigh. Panic floods my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs. The knife shines ominously, catching the dim glow of my television, its sharp edge gleaming like a promise.
“Hello? If you need help, say something, or press a key,” the operator says, their calm voice sharply contrasting with the nightmare unfolding before me.
My breath comes in shallow, desperate gasps. All I can manage is a strangled whimper as the intruder slowly—deliberately—raises the blade, pointing it toward me like a silent threat.
“H-help,” I choke out, the word barely audible, breaking into fragments as terror overwhelms me.
My hand goes limp, and the phone slips through my trembling fingers, clattering loudly against the wood floor. The sound echoes through the sudden silence.
My only lifeline skids just out of reach.
Screams erupt from my throat, and without a second thought, I turn towards the front door and attempt to open it, forgetting that I had put the chain in place.
“SHIT!” I cry out as I fumble with the chain, sliding it halfway before I’m grabbed from behind, a gloved hand pressing firmly against my mouth to silence the scream that attempts to break loose.
I thrash in the intruders’ arms, muffled screams slipping past the hand.
“Shush,” they whisper-growl harshly into my ear as a long and serrated hunting knife moves into my view, the tip pointed at my chest.
“P-please!” I cry out, my plea stifled beneath the glove. Tears roll down my cheeks as I catch a distorted view of the intruders and my reflection in the blade.
“It will all be over soon,” the intruder’s low voice growls in my ear again, followed by a dark chuckle. I continue to thrash and claw at the hand as they raise the blade several inches off my chest.
“Please, no!” I cry out as the intruder swings the blade down, missing their mark and instead driving it deep into my shoulder.
Another scream erupts as searing pain tears through me.
The blade digs into my clavicle as it is pushed deeper into my shoulder.
The intruder’s grip on me loosens, and I drop to the floor, the blade still embedded in my shoulder.
Tears continue to flow down my cheeks as I reach for the knife’s handle, my fingers wrapping around it.
But before I can pull it out, the intruder kneels into me, their knee digging into my stomach as they wrap their fingers around the handle tightly, crushing my fingers with a bruising force before quickly ripping the blade out of my shoulder, blood splattering against the white mask.
I let out another bloodcurdling scream upon its removal; however, my screams are cut short when the blade is once again driven into me, this time dead center between my breasts.
Blood rises into my throat. I gag and cough, spitting blood as the knife is ripped out again, only for it to be driven into my body several times more.
The distant wail of sirens, the terrified scream of my cat, and the sickening sound of my own flesh tearing are the last things I register before the world around me dissolves into darkness.