In my first horror short story, Amy revolves around the narrator recollecting a time he found a wallet on his walk home. Carrying the wallet overnight lead to a series of supernatural events.
I remember the night I met her like it was yesterday. There was a crisp chill in the air that would occasionally brush past my face, running down every open space between my red shirt and tanned skin. I was enjoying the moonlight on my walk home through the neighbourhood park; the serene glow of a softened, florescent light hovering above our heads, observing our every move while lighting our every path was a reminder that we are never alone, that we are being monitored.
On this particular autumn night amidst the gently tumbling dried leaves, I had picked up a black leather wallet. The contents of the wallet were slim and almost derelict, but enough to tell me who might have owned it. In one of the six card slots was a worn-out photo of a young lady. She was beautiful. The kind of beautiful you would see on a vintage magazine cover. Brunette, in polka-dot bikinis with their arms rested upon their waist, a bit of sand glued to their shoulders, an absolutely flawless smile and text that read ‘Playboy: Entertainment for Men.’ Behind the brown-tinted photo was a short message written in an almost-perfect cursive scripture: “Don’t forget me, sweetie. –Amy.” There was also a folded slip of paper that outlined a rough schedule:
Wednesday:
1:08pm – Left house, red dress
3:37pm – Return home
6:15pm – Dinner
6:50pm – Phone call
8:40pm – Shower
10:50pm – Phone call
11:27pm – Goodnight
There weren’t any bank notes in the main pocket, which disappointed me. You can always tell a person by the contents of their wallet. A wallet is personal; it’s a shrine, a gateway to both decisive endeavours and past events. However, wallets with no money either explains; the person had recently made a purchase, is secure with where their finances were being held, or has nothing left to lose. According to a receipt I found in the wallet, this person had purchased a hammer from the local hardware store last week. I slid the wallet into my back pocket giving the it a gentle tap to secure its place, hanging on to it tonight and searching for the proper owner first thing tomorrow morning. I continued my path home and allowed the wind to caress my face, run its silky hands through my hair, and gently whisper into my ear the sounds of tantric sensuality.
My eyes fell heavy with fatigue as I swallowed a sleeping pill and pulled the blanket over my head. If the moon couldn’t find a way to illuminate me with its undying light then I’ve got a better chance at falling asleep. I was ready to call it a night until my phone went off beside me on the bed. The volume of the ringtone sprung me off my pillow and suddenly my hearing was sharp, I felt my nose flare and my eyes widen. If it were any of my friends, they’d know to text me at this hour instead of calling me. They’re all aware I’d be in bed by 11pm. Without even laying a glance upon the phone, I pushed the side button to silence the ringtone. I lobbed the phone onto the bedside table and closed my eyes again. The sleeping pill was working- I could feel it by then. This time my phone chirped a notification tone. It must have been important enough for somebody to send me a message after a missed call. I reached over and grabbed my phone after blindly feeling around the table with my hands. My bedside table is elevated higher than my bed, so the reach would always apply pressure to my wrist and forearm, sometimes numbing them if they spend too much time lingering on the edge. The text message read: “Don’t forget me, sweetie.” Cute. My friends were pulling a prank on me around Halloween-time, the ‘scariest’ time of the year. I responded.
“Fuck off.”
After sending the message I heard a giggle from outside the window behind me. I struggled to rotate my body and head towards the window as the sleeping pill finally consumed me. My body was getting soft. It felt like a million micro-needles were jabbing me to sleep while my body humbly accepted it with blurred, darkened vision and muffled overtones. I was shutting down as I caught a glimpse of a woman staring at me from outside.
I remember one dream I had before waking up. I was sitting on a park bench and writing on a notepad. It was sometime in the mid-day and all the children were out playing in the sunlight. One kid was throwing sand at another kid. A little girl led a brigade of children across a shaky bridge, there was a boy that tried to walk up a slide, and there was even a dog that came around every once in a while to obtain the attention of free-spirited kids with much ahead of them. All of this was happening around me, yet I had my eyes fixated on one certain house across the street. I don’t know of what importance this house had but I was watching it like something was supposed to happen. I remember looking at that house and writing on the notepad, and before leaving the park bench I tore out the note and pocketed it. I stood up and knocked on the poorly painted red door where a woman answered. The opened the door and her eyes slowly lit up as if she had come to recognize me from a previous relationship.
She looked familiar. She was beautiful. The kind of beautiful you would see on a vintage magazine cover. Brunette, in polka-dot bikinis with their arms rested upon their waist, a bit of sand glued to their shoulders, an absolutely flawless smile and text that read ‘Playboy: Entertainment for Men.’ It was silent, but I could hear her breathing get increasingly heavier. The breathing got louder, closer, and a teardrop fell down her face. She slowly extended her left arm upwards to touch my face, locking eyes with me and making sure she was all I can see. Her hand glided across my face reminiscent of a soothing October breeze trying to identify every small contour that defines me as human being. Suddenly her eyes widened with burst of thickened dark, velvet blood running from her tear ducts. The top of her skull collapsed, pushing her eyeballs slightly closer in my direction. I could see the whites of her eyes clearer than her now-rotting teeth. A rush of blood oozed from her nostrils and her teeth shattered inwards. Bruises were appearing as craters on her face started to concave. She was dying before my eyes but nothing could be heard, except for the breathing- her breathing. She jerked her right arm upwards, holding a hammer and with great force descends on my forehead. The strike felt too real. My eyes shot open, wider than I ever thought capable. My eyes entered autopilot and quickly scanned my surroundings from left to right. From the corner of my eyes I saw a light on my phone pulsing. I wanted to at least see the time but I was unable to turn my head. Or lift my arms. Or rotate my body. I couldn’t move. I was now wide-awake but couldn’t move. It felt like something was holding me down to restrict my mobility and reduce my comfort- like I was paralyzed. I’ve read about sleep paralysis before but have never felt the phenomenon until now. I imagined that once you’ve experienced something you’ve only heard of, you’d be enthralled in the actual moment. I was wrong; this was on a new level of sensation. This was sheer terror. I was just attacked in my dream and I needed to gather my bearings. I desperately needed to move myself, to familiarize my surrounds, to make sure I’m still alive, and that I wasn’t still dreaming! I heard breathing…
My eyes moved down, trying to look past my nose and feet. I saw her. I saw the woman in my dream standing there, motionless, staring straight at me with her bulging eyes, breathing deep cackled breaths and smothered in (what I assumed to be) her own blood pouring out from the top of her shattered skull. The hair around the exposed hole dipped inwards like a waterfall comprised of blood-soaked threads. I could see where her mushy, scrambled brain wanted to climb the edge and drop out her skull like cooked ground beef. I couldn’t scream or move; I couldn’t even look away from the horror that was slowly inching towards me. The smell was putrid and it only got worse the closer she got. It was a pungent smell of mold, rotting flesh, and iron. I laid there, unable to move, unable to scream, unable to defend myself- or end myself. I felt a teardrop glide down the side of my face and entering my ear for shelter. My tears muffled the sound of her horrid, heavy breathing. She stood there, completely motionless, hovering over me for what seemed like an eternity, bleeding profusely while staring directly into my eyes. I watched her deteriorating face watch me until my body couldn’t handle being awake.
The alarm sounded and I was able to move again. Sunlight filled the room and purged the nightmare that stood beside me. I heard breathing, my own breathing. On my commute I stopped by a local coffee shop to ease my senses. I pulled out the wallet I found the night before and placed it aside next to a tip jar on the countertop, taking out my own wallet afterwards to pay for the drink. My name was incorrect on the cup and the double-double coffee tasted sweeter than any beverage I’ll ever order. As I walked towards the entrance a barista called at me to retrieve my wallet. I ignored her, and with unconditional haste walked out with my drink, never stepping foot into that coffee shop ever again.
