Original story below, but you can find a completely revamped version in my collection "The Hand in Mine: and six other twisted stories with an Emotional Core", available on Amazon!
I wake up to the annoying drone of a lawnmower, and I frown before I remember I’m staying over at my sister's. I hate ground floor apartments.
I dig myself out from under the heap of blankets and leave the bedroom, desperate for my caffeine fix. An abrupt sound to my left replaces the lawnmower, startling me, and I turn to it.
I freeze when I see two men standing in the living room, as stunned as I am.
They’re dressed like exterminators, complete with uniforms, cylindrical tanks, and gas masks.
My mind whirs to the beat of my racing heart.
They have to be disguised burglars who weren’t expecting anyone to be home today.
They bypassed the security system.
I have to get someplace safe.
The apartment door is all the way across the kitchen.
The only safe option is to backtrack.
Just a second into our unforeseen encounter, I turn and dash back to the bedroom, where I lock the door and grab my phone.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“This is Zoe Park. There’s been a break-in, two men, and they’re still here.” I give the address. “It’s my sister’s apartment. She’s at work, I’m home alone and I’ve locked myself in the bedroom.”
“Alright, Zoe. You’re doing well. Officers have been sent to your location. Can you tell me what they look like?”
“They’re dressed like exterminators and are wearing gas masks.”
The doorknob rattles, and I run to the window, only to frown when I see the other “exterminator” outside. My sister chose this apartment for its robust structure, but if these guys made it past the security system, a bedroom door and window won’t be much of a challenge. I have to buy myself time.
I throw the phone on the bed and drag one of my sister’s hefty nightstands over the thick carpet until I’ve blocked the door. I then hook a scarf around the leg of the dresser and pull with all my might, sweat cascading down my face as I heave it in front of the window.
I grab the phone again, panting. “I blocked the door and window. That should give the police enough time to show up. Are they almost here?”
“You're doing well, Zoe. Can you tell me what they look like?”
“I told you, they’re dressed like exterminators and are wearing gas masks.”
“What about eyes? Hair color? Anything can help.”
“No, I couldn't catch their faces. Why does it matter? They’re still trying to get in, just come here and catch them!”
A gruff voice sounds from behind the door. “What's going on here?"
"A witness, officer," another voice replies.
"We'll handle it."
My breath freezes in my lungs, my hand pressing the phone to my ear in disbelief.
The lawnmower starts up again, louder than before, masking any further dialogue outside the room.
“The police are in on it?” I whisper, my voice taut. "Are you in on it too?"
“Zoe, close your eyes. How did your morning start today?”
“What!” I hiss, my incredulity escalating. “How’s that going to help? You're in on this, aren’t you!”
“Zoe, I’m trying to help you. Trust me. Close your eyes and imagine it's this morning. You wake up and?”
“I fucking wake up …
... to the annoying drone of a lawnmower, and I frown before I remember I’m staying over at my sister's. I hate ground floor apartments.
I dig myself out from under the heap of blankets and leave the bedroom, desperate for my caffeine fix. An abrupt sound to my left replaces the lawnmower, startling me, and I turn to it.
I freeze when I see two men standing in the living room, as stunned as I am.
They’re dressed like movers, complete with uniforms, boxes, and bandanas covering their faces.
My mind whirs to the beat of my racing heart.
They have to be disguised burglars who weren’t expecting anyone to be home today.
I take a fearful step back, and I unintentionally break the trance that'd kept us staring at each other.
“Ohh, did my sister let you in?” I blurt out before they can make a move. “You keep going! I’ll just go get changed!”
My jabbering baffles them long enough for me to make it back to the bedroom, where I lock the door and fumble for my phone.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“There are two robbers in the living room.” I give the address, my voice shaking. “It’s my sister’s place but she’s at work. I’m home alone. Please, hurry.”
“Alright, Zoe. Remain calm. Officers have been sent to your location.”
“How do you know my name?”
“It’s in the system. Zoe, can you tell me what they look like?”
“They ... they’re dressed like movers, with bandanas over their faces. They know I’m h—”
A knock petrifies me as a deep voice booms from behind the door. “Ma’am, we need you to sign a waiver.”
I blink, flabbergasted. I didn’t expect them to fall for my impromptu performance. I guess I'm a better actress than I thought, and I'm more than happy to keep up the charade if it'll keep them oblivious.
“Sure!” I chirp. “Just give me a few minutes!”
“If you can sign it now, we can continue without delay.”
“You can slide it under the door, I’ll sign it and slide it right back!”
“Ma’am, please come out so we can arrange things properly.”
“Okay, I'll be right out,” I say, hoping my nerves aren’t cropping up in my tone. “Feel free to grab a drink from the fridge while you wait!”
The doorknob rattles and my heart drops. I run to the window and peek through the blinds, my heart dropping further when I see the other “mover” standing outside.
“You're doing well, Zoe. Can you tell me what they look like?”
“I told you, they’re dressed like movers with bandanas over their faces,” I reply in a tremulous whisper.
I stifle a scream when the man throws his weight against the door.
“I’ve got the police on the phone!" I yell, my voice cracking.
Instead of them bailing, as I’d hoped, the door shudders again. To my horror, the other man begins jostling the locked window.
Fear warps my voice. "Why aren't they running away?"
“You're doing well, Zoe. Remain calm. Can you recall their facial features?”
I jump with a tight whimper as a vicious slam rocks the door, and I slide under the bed, trembling.
"Please, are the police close?"
“Remain calm, Zoe. Can you recall anything about their facial features?”
“No, I can’t! They were covered!”
The abuse on the battered wood stops, and relief fills me when I see another shadow beneath the door.
"What's going on here?" a gruff voice asks.
"A witness, officer," the "mover" replies.
"We'll handle it."
A chill spreads beneath my skin, my clammy hand pressing the phone to my ear in disbelief.
The lawnmower starts up again, louder than before, masking any further dialogue outside the room.
“The police are in on it?” Panic seizes my lungs. “The police are in on it!”
“Zoe, remain calm. Close your eyes and tell me how you started your day today.”
“What!” I yell, my voice squeaking with frantic distress as the door shudders and splinters.
“Zoe, I’m trying to help you. Trust me. Just remain calm and close your eyes. Imagine it’s this morning. You wake up and?”
“I w-wake up ...
... to the annoying drone of a lawnmower, and I frown before I remember I’m staying over at my sister's. I hate ground floor apartments.
I dig myself out from under the heap of blankets and leave the bedroom, desperate for my caffeine fix. An abrupt sound to my left replaces the lawnmower, startling me, and I turn to it.
I freeze when I see two men standing in the living room, as stunned as I am.
They’re dressed like painters, complete with uniforms, respirators, and rollers dripping with the red paint that coated the walls.
My stunned mind stumbles as my heart races.
One of the men lunges at me, and I scream and run back to the bedroom, where I lock the door and grab my phone with trembling hands.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“There are two strange men in the living room, painting it. I ... I don’t know why they’re here.” My voice shakes as I give the address. “It’s my sister’s but she’s at work, I’m home alone hiding in the bedroom. Please, send someone quick!”
“Alright, Zoe. You’re doing well. Officers have been sent to your location. Remain calm. Can you tell me what they look like?”
“Did ... didn’t you already ask me this? Did I tell you my name? Why do I feel—”
“What's going on here?" a gruff voice asks from behind the door.
"A witness, sir," another voice replies.
“Well, handle it."
My blood turns to ice and I scramble under the bed, whimpering as my clammy hand presses the phone to my ear.
“Please, help me,” I whisper through my tears.
“Remain calm, Zoe. You're doing well. Can you tell me what they looked like?”
“Th-they’re dressed like painters.”
The lawnmower starts up again, louder than before, masking any further dialogue outside the room.
"Zoe, do you recall anything about their faces?”
“No, th-they're wearing masks. Please, are the police almost here?” I jump with a terrified squeak as the door splinters. “Oh, God, please help me! They’re getting in!”
“Zoe, remain calm. Close your eyes. Tell me how your morning started today.”
The lawnmower groans louder as the door falls apart.
“Help me!” I plead between frantic sobs. "Oh, God, they’re almost in!”
“Zoe, remain calm. Trust me. Close your eyes. Imagine it's this morning. You wake up and?”
I curl into a ball, weeping as I screw my eyes shut. “I ... I w-wake up …
... to the annoying drone of a lawnmower, and I frown before I remember I’m staying over at my sister's. I hate ground floor apartments.
I dig myself out from under the heap of blankets and ... wait …
Why does the lawnmower sound like it's coming from inside the house?
Frowning in confusion, I leave the bedroom, my feet cold inside their slippers. The droning gets louder and louder, but it tapers off to silence the moment I enter the living room.
I freeze when I see two men standing in the center, as stunned as I am.
They’ve got chainsaws, their faces splattered with red.
My sister is there too.
All over the room.
I’ve barely registered the horrifying display before one of the men charges at me. A terrified wail blares from my throat as I hurl myself back in the bedroom, lock the door, and fumble for my phone with trembling hands.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Help, please, help,” I sob, trying to keep my quivering voice coherent. “My sister ... two men killed my sister with chainsaws ... please help!”
“Alright, Zoe. Remain calm. Officers have been sent to your location. Can you tell me what they look like?”
That voice.
Those phrases.
That question.
I frown in agitated despair, my breaths spasming as tears stream down my face. “What’s ... what's happening? You ... did we talk before?”
“Yes, Zoe.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m here to help you remember. And you’re doing very well this round. Can you tell me what the two men look like?”
“What's going on here?" a gruff voice asks from behind the door.
"A witness, sir," another voice replies.
“Well, handle it."
The chainsaws start up again, cutting through the door, and I scurry under the bed, whimpering as my clammy hand presses the phone to my ear.
“Please, help me,” I whisper through my tears. “Are the police almost here?”
“No, Zoe. They didn’t make it in time.”
“They’re not going to make it?” I squeak in panic.
“No, Zoe, they didn’t make it.”
“Wh-what?”
“You've already been through this seven months ago. You’re in a coma now. We’re stimulating your last memory in hopes of identifying your attackers and your sister's killers."
My fitful breaths puff against my trembling veil of hair. "Th-this a memory?"
"Yes, Zoe. We apologize for stimulating it multiple times, but our technique is not immune to memories altered by trauma, disbelief, guilt, and grief."
I flinch as shards of wood explode across the room, the chainsaws' roars deafening.
I stifle a sob. "I s-survived this?"
"Yes, you're a fighter. And the doctors have done a wonderful job making sure you'll live a decent life once you regain consciousness and undergo therapy. Zoe, do you recall what the men who killed your sister and attacked you look like?”
I clench my jaw, determination slicing its way through my nauseating fear. “... yes ...”
The End
~~~
(Read on for a Behind the Scenes)