The thought of this being the last night Abigail Wilkes would sleep was inconceivable. Sleep was a given. Sleep deprivation manifested from an unsettled being. An existence void of sleep was unheard of, tantamount to death.
The shadowy room consumed Abigail, thrusting her in and out of a deep, satisfying slumber. After a hectic day of rowdy teens, angry adults, and authoritative instruction, she sunk into her haven, heavy, unable to finish her algebra homework. A less stressful day of napping couldn't keep her alert in math class. Abby hated math. But this wasn't that.
Abigail's bed skirted the large window that lay parallel to the door. Her high profile, queen mattresses elevated her off the ground, which she preferred. She hated sleeping near the floor or whatever lurked under the bed. The closet was at the foot of the bed. It stayed closed. She never recovered from her very real childhood fear of monsters in the closet.
Sophisticated comfort was what she wanted. Abby was sixteen going on thirty. The bed was adorned with a complete bedding set, six pillows, and a dust ruffle to mask the mess below. Two wooden nightstands flanked the headboard, providing a resting place for her keys, phone, and whatever else she was compelled to remember on her rush out the door every morning.
Sprawled out, surrounded by homework papers, and the dreaded math book clutching her chest, it was clear preparation for bedtime wasn't a forethought. Fully dressed, Abby passed out with one leg hanging from the bed. Sneaker on the dangler. The other, the hot foot, left bare. Two mismatched pillows engulfed her head such that one wrong turn promised a slow descent into unconsciousness and maybe worse.
Unable to resist her body's craving, Abby's jaws locked like death catching every fly entering through the window left ajar, allowing the cool fall breeze to join the impromptu slumber party.
Ring.
The phone shrieked. Abby sprang up. Fear of detection was the only noise that could raise a lifeless teen. The ringer was set to low to avoid unwanted attention but rang out like a bullhorn in contrast to her hushed lair. Abby silenced it to vibration before it could alert her parents.
The caller refused to relent. The jack hammer shuddering from the muted notification moved the phone an inch. Abby grabbed it to keep the jumper from diving off the bedside table. Partially blinded, she looked at it, observing a new text message. She squinted in pain as her eyes worked to decipher the message.
"Why won't you talk to me?"
Who the hell are you? Abby thought in language she knew her parents wouldn't approve. She allowed her mind the disobedience her physical self hadn't the nerve to endeavor. Probably the wrong number. Rolling her eyes, she blindly navigated to the power button and the screen went black. Abby collapsed into her cloud-like blinders and eased back to sleep.
****
In a small, twelve by twelve room, walls adorned with nothingness and floors of concrete, a single wooden desk sat. The structure saw better days, along with its old rusty folding chair companion. The room was dimly lit by a lone pedestal lamp from the seventies. A relic depicting fruitful times of the past or hard times of the present.
There sat a figure. Peaceful. Back to the door, sitting tall and firm. Posture perfect by chiropractic standards. Animatronic.
"Playing hard to get I see" the caller declared in an unstirred tone. A voice both serene and spine-chilling.
Placing the phone on the table, the person rose from their seat, appearing unbothered by the rejection. At unearthly speed, the individual turned to the wall and delivered a cannon blow, meeting its victim with unimaginable force, launching drywall-laced shrapnel across the room and onto the floor.