It was the night of my twentieth birthday, just before I went to bed after a chilled but very successful birthday. At first I thought it was a manifestation of my paranoia. I still had this irrational fear of a murderer being in my house when I was closing the place off and was getting ready to go to bed. I always hurried up the stairs as soon as the lights were all turned off; scared something would grab my ankles through the gaps between the steps of the stairs. My heart shot up into my throat and started hammering like mad as I heard the whisper. I stopped dead in my tracks and all I could do was listen intensely if I would hear the whisper again. I knew it wouldn't happen. I knew that because it happened almost every night that I thought I heard a voice, but it was the ruffling of clothing or something else. It never actually was a real voice.
But it had been.
It must have been a full minute that I stood there in the middle of the hallway with my breathing heavy and the thudding in my chest too painful to bear. When I was sure it was in fact just a figment of my imagination let out the breath I was holding with a relieved sigh. Then, suddenly, another whisper just as I was about to step into my bedroom. My hand had been hovering over the handle. It had come from my bedroom. I was so sure because I heard my name being whispered clear as day. There was no doubt about it. A gasp left my mouth unwillingly as the soft whispering of my name filled the air around me. Petrified with fear I froze. Maybe I just imagined that one as well. I couldn't have been real, right? I had checked all the doors and they were all locked. Besides, it was ludicrous to think that there was somebody in the house. It was childish and dim-witted to think that for only a second. So even if my ears where so sure that they'd hear somebody call my name, the muscles in my hands and arm moved so I could open the door of my bedroom. It creaked as I slowly pushed it open. My breath left my lungs in shallow puffs as I was unable to calm the panic that had settled in me. I smashed on the light switch and the room was lit up with a bright orange light. My eyes scanned the room; the twin sized bed made from white painted wood, white simple nightstands on either side with drawers and table lamps with a glass neck , dirty beige carpet on the floor with multiple unidentified stains and other stains I still knew how they got there, a simple floor to ceiling white closet in the corner and my desk beside it that was full of clutter. Nothing out of the ordinary. My mom had made my bed as neatly as the beds made in hotel rooms. The pillows were fluffed and colourful throw pillows were stacked against each other and brightened up the room. I couldn't care less for it at that moment. I let myself fall on my stomach without thinking and looked under the bed. Aside from a few lonely socks and dust there was nothing to see.
I shot up as quick as lightning, bumping my head against the edge of the bed in the process. The puffs of air became even more shallow as I locked my eyes upon the corner that the voice had come from. My heart had stopped, even though I could feel it pounding hard against my chest bone together with my lungs felt trapped between my ribs. The sound had come from my closet. Slowly I could to my feet. I felt conflicted as I took a step towards the closet. What was I doing? How stupid was I for stepping towards the closet where there was this big possibility that a murderer was hiding in there? What would I do anyway when there was a person in there? What if he – or she – had a knife? A gun? A baseball bat? But I had to confirm that there was in fact no one in that closet. Because there couldn't be. Those things only happened in Criminal Minds and NCIS; in TV-shows. There was no way there was a human being in my closet.
My head was spinning as I looked at myself in the mirror that was stuck on the front of the closet. My chest was heaving up and down rapidly and I looked like a deer caught in the headlights. My mouth was slightly ajar as I desperately tried to suck in enough air. There was nothing to fear; it was all in my mind and there was not a possibility that there was another person in my room. Shaking all over I slowly lifted my hand and pressed it against the mirror. Taking a massive gulp of air I slid open the gliding doors agonizingly slow. I tilted my head to the side so I could peek inside. I suppressed the urge to close my eyes. I expected to only see a face in an empty closet but I saw nothing more than my clothes hanging from the iron pole that was suspended between the two wooden walls of the closet, my shoes thrown in an unorderly mess on the bottom and boxes on the top shelf. I hastily pushed the clothes to the side but was only met with the back wall.
As in slow motion I lifted my eyes up towards the only shelf in this closet. As much as the thoughts kept running through my head saying I was still making this up, my ears weren't deceiving me and my eyes definitely weren't as well. There was a shoebox sitting in the far left corner of the shelf hidden behind a clear see-through plastic box. I wouldn't have seen it from where I was standing if it wasn't for one reason only; there was light coming from under the lid of the shoebox.
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Dreamer of Death || A Open Novella Contest II Entry || IncompleteFantasy
A cursed family heirloom and vivid daydreams that seem to come alive once written down. At the night of her twentieth birthday, Thea's life takes an unusual turn and she's undecided if it's a good thing or not. Especially when people start getting...