*COMPLETED*
A terrifying rumor taunting the city of Lakewood Pierce has everyone afraid to look in the mirror. To stare at themselves and say a simple "hello". Adolescent children prettified to the bone out of fear that something will get them not...
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The car rolls up the driveway effortlessly, the brakes squealing as the axels come to a stop.
"Are you sure you're alright?" Oliver asks, his tone of voice coated in a thick layer of concern. A part of him hoping that she'd say "no" so that he could spend more time with her tonight.
"I'm fine," she replies, all of Oliver's hopes from before crashing down to the ground.
Oliver presses his lips in a thin line, leaning back in the driver's seat, hands crossed in his lap. Amy opens the car door, stepping out into the chilly November air. She stops mid-step from pacing up the porch stairs and pivots on her foot to glance back at Oliver, whose still in the driveway. The car lights illuminate the tan garage door.
"Thank you," she says quietly, and resumes her move back up the stairs, disappearing into her home without another abrupt halt like before.
The boy averts his gaze from Amy's front patio to the neon green numbers shining on his dashboard.
"9;30," it reads. Unhurriedly, Oliver places the vehicle in reverse and leisurely lets his foot slip off of the grips of the brake pedal. Seconds later, he and his car are gone down the eerily quiet street of Amethyst Drive, the roads vacant and the houses seeming abandoned. No street lights irradiate the cracked sidewalks, weeds growing within the crevasse of the broken concrete pieces.
From behind the walls and windows, Amy notices his presence missing from the driveway. She steps away from the transparent glass that desperately needs a wiping, falling back onto her stiff bed, blankets, and pillows shuffling at the sudden impact of her body.
Her mind deters to the incident from earlier this evening. The sinister being in the corner of the diner, sitting in the always voided table and benches that no one ever claims. The pendant light flickering on and off, uncertain if it should stay on or off. And Oliver so clearly clarifying that there was nothing there as if she was crazy for ever thinking someone was watching them.
She felt this way, sitting in that third booth from the door, she felt crazy. Her mind and eyes deceiving her, hallucinations playing cruel mind tricks on her.
What is wrong with me?! She scolds, lying back on the mattress.
Then, her mind so favorably wards off to the perfectly drawn three on the napkin, looking as if it were printed onto the fabric. The ink sinking in through the delicate cloth, leaving a mark on the smoothly polished table.
Why a three? What does it mean?
She sits up, demoralization plastered certainly on her face. She has never felt so lost and confused in her eighteen years of living, never felt the slight feeling of bewilderment like she does now.
Why a three?
She stands, now. Pacing with large steps to her desk to which is cluttered with essays and papers that will have no meaning very, very soon. She pulls out the wheeled chair, the oak wood floor buckling as she motions to sit down, but before she can fulfill the action, something catches her eye.
And it's staring straight at her from the adjacent side of the street.
Her chest hitches obtrusively. Her hands reaching forward and fumbling with the cord of the blinds, struggling horribly to pull them down.
"He's following me," she breathes, barely able to let the words off her crimson red lips. She rapidly opens one blind and peers out her window, her retinas scanning the area for the sinister being draped in black.
Nothing is there, nothing at all. The sidewalk empty, vacant, deserted. She lets out the breath she was holding in. Her lungs welcoming new air, air that suddenly feels cold. Almost too cold to be coming from the vents placed on the floor.
She sits down, this time, no interruptions. But one thing unanticipatedly feels peculiar. And it's not the frigid air in the enclosed space of her bedroom. It's the fact that she's not alone.
The hairs on her neck begin to stand up straight as she feels bitter air fanning across her skin, like someone's breath. The aroma it gives off is repugnant, smelling of rotting corpses and fresh blood, ultimately smelling like death.
The stench leaves Amy gagging, gasping for clean oxygen that doesn't smell so disgusting. But nothing comes, if anything, the smell only grows, like a poisonous weed on steroids. The smell becomes more perpetual, choking Amy with two bare hands. Its fingers and sharp nails sinking into her neck, deeper and deeper.
She falls to the ground, gasping over and over. Inhaling and exhaling, heaving, feeling as if her insides are going to be let free. She turns over on her back, her breaths quickening with every second that passes. And that's when she sees it again, but this time...it's more horrific.
Sharp claws come wrapping around her wall, coming out of her closet. The nails looking to belong to a demon, one of inexplicable power and force. Amy opens her mouth, as if to scream, but can't. Her voice mute, nothing coming from her voice box.
The skin on the hand rotted, cuts and scars lining the arm as it comes out even more. The claws are lifted from the wall, slowly, the fingers moving to form a sign.
Three
Three fingers.
Amy's eyes dilate in fear, pure horror. The hand shrinks back into her closet, the door slamming shut and shaking the entire house. The smell disappears with it, and all the sudden it feels as if she can breathe again.
And out come the blood-curdling screams.
Echoing down the halls, echoing in the bathroom, the living room, the kitchen. Her screams are almost loud enough for another country to hear, let alone another realm...another realm that is so close yet so far.
A realm that lies on the other side of the mirror.
