There's a lot of things about me as a person that I'd usually tell people when we first
met, or things that they'd notice when they see me.
None of those things matter though, because regardless if I'm male or female, black or
white, old or young, I'm still going to die.
If I told you that I knew how I got myself in this position, I'd only have half an answer
for you.
Things began simple, as most terrible situations do.
All I needed was a new smartphone.
My job required one, and my old phone had faced an untimely end the weekend prior.
If you have a friend who owns a Saint Bernard puppy, never drop anything on the floor.
It was less than two seconds from the moment when my phone slipped from my pocket and hit
the ground, to the moment when that dog's jaws closed around it.
Things may have been okay if I was a decent sprinter-- or even decent at running for more
than 10 seconds at a time-- but as soon as the dog picked up my phone I had to spend
15 minutes chasing her around the yard.
She was fast and aggressive, and by the time I pried the phone from her mouth it was ruined.
Her teeth had punctured both the screen and back cover.
Glass was shattered and missing in places, and the battery was beyond repair.
My friend offered to replace what her dog had destroyed, but I assured her I could order
a replacement online.
Unfortunately, I happen to use a phone company called TextNow.
They're pretty decent-- even though they use Sprint's cell towers-- and sell smartphones
for amazing prices.
I say unfortunately for the following two reasons; First, amazing prices vary from person
to person, in my financial state that means under $100; Second, my phone was no longer
part of such a great sale.
For an exact replacement of my phone I would have to pay well over what I could afford,
and a minimum of $150 for a phone that would be up to par.
I could have gotten one of their cheaper smartphones, but I'm not great at adapting, and the reviews
I've seen for the cheaper models have always deterred me.
I had overpaid initially for the phone-- spending $300-- but I didn't have the spare change
anymore.
So I went searching, all I needed was an unlocked smartphone that was relatively new.
Then I stumbled upon an offer that seemed too good to be true.
An unlocked iPhone 6S for $120.
It was a bit more than I had hoped to pay, but it was the best thing I could find which
met my requirements.
I'd just have to be wary of what I bought at the grocery store this month.
Apparently my finances were the least of my worries.
The phone was delivered express, and two days later I had installed my SIM card and was
working on personalizing the phone.
It was great, though a noticeable change from the Android devices I was accustomed to.
I had the phone all set and was pleased with myself, then realized it was nearly time for
me to meet a few co-workers for some drinks.
I was collecting my purse when the phone rang.
I wasn't really surprised by it, I was using my original number.
The screen showed the area code to be nearby, and I assumed it was someone I had forgotten
to put in my contacts.
By the time I grabbed the phone from the table I had a voicemail.
I found it slightly unusual, it had only rang once and I'd assumed the person had hung up.
Like any normal person I checked the voicemail to hear the message.
I listened for a moment, but all I heard was silence.
I was about to hang up when I literally jumped in surprise.
Simultaneously there came two sounds.
A loud crash from my phone's speaker, and the sound of something loud hitting the floor
above me.
It made me jump, I mean what are the chances that my upstairs neighbor would drop something
at the same time as the voicemail produced sound?
Not only that, but a strange feeling overcame me as I listened more.
A man yelling in the voicemail, a muffled voice from the apartment above me.
Crashes, bangs, crying.
A high definition version of events played into one ear as the other listened to the
matching low quality noises coming from upstairs.
I wasn't sure what was going on, but I ended the call and deleted the message while my
ceiling shook from heavy footfalls.
I didn't want to hear anymore, the neighbors upstairs got into heated arguments all the
time.
The voicemail was strange, unexplainable, but it was none of my business what my neighbors
were doing.
I went out, and didn't think anything of what had occurred until part way through the evening.
I was sitting at a table sipping a drink when I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket, checking
the notification revealed that I had another voicemail.
I assumed the music had drowned out the phone ringer.
Everyone had left the table either to dance or get another drink, so I took that moment
to attempt to listen to the voicemail.
There was an odd echo as I answered it, the same song that I could hear in the bar was
playing through the voicemail.
Oddly enough, the voicemail was about a half a second faster than the actual music.
It was as though the room echoed the message instead of it being vice versa.
I heard the glass shatter in my ear at almost the exact time that I saw a man smash a bottle
against his table.
I witnessed, and listened twice over to what happened next.
The yelling between two men, the broken bottle being waved around, bystanders shouting unnecessary
comments.
It didn't take long for the sharp edges of that bottle to end up in someone's flesh,
and that's when my co-workers decided we should exit.
Security was on the two men immediately, but I could smell the copper.
I'd be naive to believe that the victim lived after the glass bottle cut into his throat.
Things can go wrong so quickly, the world is a confusing place.
Arriving back home should have been a relief compared to the possible murder I had just
witnessed.
I was shocked that security didn't stop everyone from leaving the bar, weren't we all witnesses
to a crime?
I didn't want to think about it, but seeing the red and blue lights flashing in front
of my building brought the recent memory flooding back.
They weren't there about the bar incident though.
I was told to go directly to my apartment, and not to worry.
There had been an incident in the building, but the suspect had already been apprehended.
I nodded and went inside.
I was curious about what could have occurred while I was gone, but I wasn't nosey enough
to ask questions.
However, I did look out my window at the array of vehicles.
Maybe I shouldn't have, but I wouldn't be any better off if I hadn't.
I looked away from the window when they brought out the body bag.
Someone was killed in my building.
I had no idea who it might be, it's quite a large building.
If I'm honest, I was wondering if this incident would lower my rent.
Not that I didn't care about a life being taken, but I didn't have any personal attachment
to anyone in the building, so my thoughts ran to the only way that I believed this death
could impact me.
It wasn't until the next morning on my way to work that I realized that keeping my curiosity
to myself was useless.
I stood on the platform waiting for the train to come when my phone rang.
I went to answer the call, but whoever it was had already hung up and left a voicemail.
I was slightly annoyed now, assuming that the phone had been so cheap because of the
temperamental voicemail system.
I listened to the message immediately, I had nothing better to do as I waited for my train.
The first few seconds were quiet, and I stared around at all the other people waiting for
trains.
I made accidental eye contact with a woman standing on the platform across the tracks
from me.
She turned away, but I found myself staring as sudden sound came from my phone.
There was a gasp, and a whimper.
It sounded a bit like crying, and I watched the woman across the tracks wipe at her cheeks.
Am I hearing her?
The question popped into my mind, but it couldn't be true.
I didn't see her holding a phone, and how could I be hearing current things in a voicemail?
Still, I watched and listened.
I wondered what it would mean if I was right about hearing her.
A train horn sounded in the near distance, and the tracks furthest from me began to rattle.
Through the phone I heard what sounded like a sigh of relief, and the oncoming train in
the background.
Then everything seemed to move in slow motion.
The train entered the station, the woman stepped forward, bystanders gasped and screamed, and
through the speaker I heard the sounds of bones being crushed and the rending of limbs
from a body.
The woman had jumped.
I nearly dropped the phone in panic, the voicemail ended as the woman's life did.
Security made everyone leave the building, people had gone insane when she was hit.
Screaming, crying, calling the police, taking pictures.
The place was a flurry of confusion and curiosity.
That was the day I decided to stop listening to the voicemails.
Every time I listened I heard someone die.
By then I'd heard the news of the fatal argument between my upstairs neighbor and his wife,
and my suspicions about the murder at the bar were confirmed.
I had no idea how or why, but something was very wrong with this new phone.
A week and a half.
That's how long it took before I got the notification that my voicemail box was full.
I went through and tried to delete them without having to listen to anything, but I didn't
get the chance.
As soon as I opened the screen displaying the list of voicemails it started.
They all played at once, over each other.
The phone locked and wouldn't allow me to do anything, I couldn't even turn it off.
I stared at the black screen of the phone as the sounds played.
A thunderous sort of sound, almost like an aggressive wind.
Screaming, crying, glass shattering.
There were screams for help, and oh so much terror.
Everyone I heard feared for their lives, and I had no idea what was happening.
There was nothing I could do.
I threw the phone out the window and watched it fall three floors, and then I cried myself
to sleep as the sounds of death replayed in my head.
I woke up in the morning to find the phone-- entirely undamaged-- on my bedside table.
It was opened to the memo app.
No running or hiding.
No breaking or burning.
No throwing or no drowning.
Receive, or Give.
There were no other memos on the phone, and I had never used the app before.
I spent two more days trying to destroy or get rid of the phone, but I woke up each day
with it perfectly intact next to me.
I noticed that the voicemails increased each time I tried to destroy it.
I couldn't handle it, I was going absolutely insane and there wasn't a single person in
the world who would believe that I was hearing people die.
I made a choice that day, a choice to spare myself.
Maybe someone else could handle it, or it could be passed on and on so the burden is
shared.
I sold the phone for $60 online.
I felt awful taking the money, but I didn't want any buyers to be too suspicious.
I used the money to get myself a cheaper phone, it just barely worked but it was better than
that cursed thing.
It's been about a week since I sent out the phone to it's new owner.
Today I received a call from an unfamiliar number.
I answered immediately, fearing that the voicemail issue may have stuck with me.
"Hello?"
I questioned my unknown caller.
"Oh, hi!
Sorry, I just got this phone and I got a notification that I received a call from you?"
He sounded nervous, as though he didn't speak on the phone much.
"I don't think I did, I have no idea who you are," I tried to sound nonchalant, but
when he said that he'd just gotten the phone it made me wary.
"Well, I have a voicemail from your number," he replied with confusion.
"Listen to me.
Do not open that voicemail okay?
Never, not even to delete it," I was panicked and probably sounded highly aggressive, but
I couldn't help it.
"What?"
Then I started to cry, because I knew what this meant, "Just please.
Please don't open it."
He sounded absolutely bewildered, but agreed not to open it before ending the call.
That brings me to where I am now.
I'm not sure how long I have.
Maybe a week if the new owner ignores every voicemail until the inbox is full.
Maybe longer if he listens to all but mine.
Maybe no time at all before curiosity gets the better of that stranger and he listens
to the voicemail from my number.
Regardless, I'm going to die.
As passive and unassuming as I've been my whole life, it hasn't made a difference.
Even being nothing but a bystander can make life hell.
So before I'm gone I wanted to stop standing by and attempt to change things.
Please, for the sake of at least your own sanity, if it seems too good to be true then
it is.
The most convenient thing is not always the best choice, learn from my mistake.
When I was young, my parents and I lived in the Alaskan Mountains.
Not the middle of nowhere; we weren't hermits or something like that, but it was definitely
out there a ways.
It's an area outside of Anchorage called Eagle River.
My parents rented a two-story house from a nice elderly man, who owned a lot of properties
and that was how he made his living.
The great thing about living out in the 'boonies' is that you don't have all the city annoyances
like tons of noise or lights shining in your bedroom, and as far as petty crime does, I'd
say there's less of it.
Then again, I was so young at this point I had no awareness about that sort of thing.
My bedroom was on the second floor like all the others for the house.
I had two windows: one to the right of my bed and another across the foot of my bed
that I could see straight out of if I sat up in bed.
Typically, there was nothing to see but mountainous terrain and big trees.
I was too small back then to do much more than reach the windowsill to peek out anyway.
One night, something strange happened.
It was in the winter, sometime into the dead of night when something woke me up but I'm
still not sure what it was.
All I know is that I felt uneasy, like there were a set of eyes on me.
This was in the middle of winter, and the moon must have been full because when I looked
out that far window past the foot of my bed the forest was bright with the reflection
of the moonlight on the snow.
I only say that so it makes sense for this: when I looked to the window, I didn't just
see the trees and snow.
There was something there, pressed against the glass and looking inside.
A second story window.
I stared at it and even though I couldn't see anything but its silhouette, I could feel
it staring back at me.
Then there was movement, not from the shape, but just below it at the windowsill.
I could see claws—almost like talons, creeping under the window and pushing it up—prying
the window open.
Now, being a little girl, I knew how to get my parents running from their room down the
hall.
I was –terrified- and took a huge gasp of air to let out the loudest scream I could
manage.
Except nothing happened.
I could feel the air leaving me, my throat shaking with the force of my scream, but it
was like someone had hit the mute button on me alone.
I tried again, a deep breath, a scream loud and shrill enough to break glass the way little
girls are truly capable of, but still nothing.
Another try, as the thing finished opening the window and began to crawl inside, still
nothing but the quiet sound of air leaving me like a long sigh.
The creature came through the window and onto the floor.
Its skin was black and grey, stretched thin over its bones which you could see due to
how thin it was.
Had it stood upright, I think it would have been tall, but it walked on its talon-tipped
covered hands and deformed, animal like hind legs.
The door to my room stood between the end of my bed and that thing, to the left.
I didn't dare make a dash for it, so I did the only other thing I could think of—I
hid under the covers.
Pulling them over my head, I held as still as possible and nearly didn't breathe, as
if all of that would somehow make me invisible.
Kid logic, you know.
I could feel the thing moving through my bedroom and along the right side of my bed.
It was slow, but its movements were sure and fluid like a tiger or some other kind of large
cat.
I think it stood upright, at least for a moment, because I saw a shape move over me.
It was so close to the blanket I hid under that the cloth moved with its breath.
It held its face close to mine, like it would be staring into my eyes if not for the blanket.
Then it just… drew away.
Back around my bed the way it had come where I couldn't hear it moving anymore.
Still, I didn't dare peek out from under the covers.
I didn't move, I didn't make a sound.
I don't know how long I stayed like that, listening to the silence, but against all
logic I did eventually fall asleep again.
I woke up in the morning and nothing immediately seemed out of place.
My window was shut and I told myself I'd just had a very realistic, scary nightmare.
I was at the age where I was still afraid of the dark and of open closets, after all.
I got dressed and went downstairs.
At the foot of the stairwell was my mother, but she wasn't alone.
A police officer was with her, an open notebook in hand.
My mom explained to me that during the night, someone had broken into the house.
Tey made a mess in our den.
Things were tipped over, strewn about or just plain broken.
There was only one thing missing.
parents were both military, and at the time had recently returned from a deployment to
Saudi Arabia where I think they were part of early-ish/mid operation Southern Watch.
Mydad always liked to get me gifts and souvenirs while he was away, and this time he had gotten
me three things: a jewelry box that required a small puzzle to open, a gold ring, a gold
necklace and pendant with my name in English on one side and Arabic on the other, and a
small bottle of arranged sand.
The box had been in the den on a shelf because I was a bit of a tomboy and they'd knew I'd
want it in good shape later, so they wanted to keep it nice.
The ring and necklace were inside it because I never wore jewelry, and the bottle was in
there because, of course, when I was small I didn't understand that sand moves when you
mess with a bottle of it over and over.
I had messed up the pattern of it pretty bad, but they weren't upset.
The design of the sand had originally, I think, been a camel or some sort of animal, but after
I more or less ruined it, it didn't look like much more than a vaguely animalistic blob.
That bottle of sand was the only thing missing from the entire house.
No electronics, no jewelry, none of my dads hunting gear.
Ridiculous as it seemed, I told her about the monster I'd seen the night before.
At that time, I'd said it was a crocodile that crawled into my bedroom because I had
no other way to describe what I'd seen.
I can now, but not then.
She and the officer both listened patiently, but even then I could tell they didn't believe
a word.
Whenever I went outside to play after this incident, I'd try to stay away from the side
of the house my far bedroom window was on, as if I'd turn the corner one day and that
thing would be clinging to the side of the house, looking in my window.
It never was, of course, but I was still afraid.
It's one of the few memories I have from my childhood that I can remember so crystal
clear.
The thing never showed up again, but I still can't help but check that all my windows
are locked before bed every night, and can never manage to sleep next to one that isn't
at least covered with blinds or curtains.
One thing still sticks out for me and has kept the memory to clear.
Since that night, I've never been able to scream.
I can yell and shout, sure, but no matter what I try, anytime I try to scream it's
only that press of air, just like in my room that night.
I've never had what people might call 'supernatural' experiences, except for this one time.
Maybe it was just a nightmare and a coincidence with a really weird thief breaking into our
house.
Drugs, maybe.
Whatever it was, it sticks with me even now.
I generally love thunderstorms.
There's just something cathartic about listening to the pattering rain and rumbling thunder
while searching the sky for a light show.
That's exactly what I was doing when this story started: sitting on my front porch,
all alone, just quietly enjoying the storm.
It was getting late.
There was just enough natural light in the sky for me to make out the dark clouds coasting
by overhead in between flashes of white.
I was playing the game many kids play during nights like these: watching for lightning,
then counting the Mississippis until the thunder roared.
It was a simple thing to pass the time that also gave me an idea of how far away the storm
was from where I sat.
I had just lifted my beer to my mouth when I saw the flash in the sky.
I counted in my head.
"One Mississippi, two Mississippi..."
The roar that followed, so loud it seemed to vibrate the air around me, was definitely
not thunder.
As gooseflesh prickled it's way up my skin and the hair on the back of my neck stood
on end, I strained my ears for a hint of what I had just heard.
The rumble of thunder finally followed, confirming my unease, as I wracked my brain for any wildlife
in the area that could've made such a sound.
Couldn't have been a bear, wasn't shrill enough for a mountain lion.
What the hell was that then?
What little light remained had long since left and I sat staring off into the darkness
like a madman.
Shaking my head and chuckling at myself, my attempt to right my current state, I gathered
up my beers and headed inside, making doubly sure to lock the door behind me.
Yeah, yeah.
Maybe I was being a scaredy cat, but I wasn't about to make rookie mistakes.
Feeling a little better in the safety of my home, I polished off the remaining beer and
wasted some time channel surfing.
After a couple cheesy sitcoms, I'd all but forgotten the strange noise by the time I
headed for bed.
It didn't take long for me to drift off into dreamland, and not a whole lot longer for
that false sense of security to be shattered.
I woke up in pitch darkness to the sound of something like hammering.
A steady rhythmic knock against wood followed by a dragging noise that was almost covered
up by the patter of rain on the roof.
I sat up in bed shaking the sleep from mind and trying to zero in on where the noise was
coming from exactly, the storm didn't help as lightning lit up my room like a flash bulb
and a roll of thunder shortly followed.
I swung my legs from bed with a groan as the knocking sound continued.
My head ached - too many beers and too little water before bed - and it pulsed with each
beat of the noise.
I went to flick on the bedroom light but as pulled the small chain of the lamp next to
my bed the bulb refused to come to life.
I tugged on the chain twice more as if it was going to make a difference - my power
was out.
I slipped on my jeans and stumbled half blind out into the hallway, looking for the source
of the noise.
I wondered briefly if it could be someone knocking at the door but that wasn't quite
the right noise.
It was two perfectly timed, too constant.
You could count beats in between each knock.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi.
Besides it wasn't coming from the front door.
Lightning briefly gave me a clearer view of what was around me as I stepped into the living
room.
Then came crack and growl of thunder loud enough to shake the windows and make my heart
skip a beat in my chest.
As the thunder faded something else rose from behind it.
Something guttural and animal yet holding just a hint of all too human viciousness.
My heart, which had so recently startled itself into a stop with the thunder, now attempted
to pound its way out my chest as the horrible noise that was most certainly not thunder
faded back into the sound of rhythmic well timed knocks.
I stood frozen behind my couch and listened, my ears finally pin-pointing the direction
of the sound as it moved from the north wall to around the side of the house.
It was clearly outside - whatever it was - and it was moving around my house.
The noise doubled back towards the front door as if changed its mind about the best direction
to go.
My eyes followed the direction of the noise as it steadily (one Mississippi, two Mississippi)
moved towards the front windows with each knock.
It stopped making the knocking noise as it reached the glass and I ducked down behind
the couch and outside of the line of sight of whatever was now standing in front of my
window.
I waited, listening to my own ragged breaths and the sound of the rain.
The desperately curious urge to peek over the couch towards the window growing stronger.
Slowly and steadily I made myself look, against all sense and better judgement.
Two blazing orange pinpoints of light peered back at me through the window.
They were deep set in a hulking dark frame that made me feel small at the sight of it.
I saw it press clawed hands against the glass and heard (or imagined) the sound of its nails
scraping over the window.
"Well, shit," I muttered, ducking back behind the couch.
What the hell was that?
Some demon-monster thing was outside my window.
My mind pedaled desperately for footing.
Demon-monsters are real and there is one outside my window.
Wait, no.
Monsters aren't real.
I tried to steady my breath.
I must have imagined it, that was the only explanation.
Monsters aren't real, and what I had seen was probably just a tree outside my window.
Except I don't have trees outside my window.
I must have imagined it though.
I would look again, and I'd realize exactly what silly thing I had seen that made me think
of a demon.
I took a deep breath, and peeked over the edge of the couch.
Nothing.
I breathed a sigh of relief, sinking back down against the couch.
God, I should stop drinking.
And then.
Knock.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, I counted automatically.
Knock.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi.
Knock.
It sounded like it came from upstairs.
It was inside the house!
Knock.
Was it in the attic?
Knock.
My heart was pounding in my chest again.
Knock.
It must be a leak, I reasoned.
The house is old.
Knock.
I should go check.
Knock.
It could do some serious damage.
Knock.
Of course that was just water dripping, that made sense.
Knock.
Dripping on metal, or plastic.
Knock.
I didn't want to.
I knew I was being silly.
But I could just wait until morning to check, though.
No, I told myself, you're not gonna be scared of an imaginary monster.
Go check what's in the attic.
Knock.
Ok, I'm gonna check.
I started walking towards the stairs.
I paused at the foot of the attic stairs, staring up into the darkness.
I held my breath, waiting, listening.
Knock.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi.
Knock.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi.
I swallowed the lump that was forming in my throat and took a deep breath.
The attic door was still shut.
Presumably, whatever was up there was trapped behind it, at least for now.
My house is old, and the attic door tends to stick, especially when it's raining.
I slipped my sneakers and tied them tightly.
I ducked back into my bedroom, counting in my head as I dug out my flashlight.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi.
Knock.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi.
Knock.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi.
Knock.
I grabbed the flashlight, flipped it on, and raced back into the hall, my heart pounding.
The knocking on the attic door was getting louder.
One Mississippi.
Knock.
One Mississippi.
Knock.
It was also getting more frequent.
Before I could lose my nerve, I climbed the creaking attic stairs and stood on the other
side of the door.
"Who's in there?"
I demanded, trying to keep my voice steady and even.
For a brief instant, everything fell deathly quiet.
The only sound was the steady patter of rain against the windows.
I held my breath, straining to hear anything from the other side of the attic door.
The knocking began again, but this time, there was no break between knocks.
It was a loud, panicky sound, the sound of someone frantically banging on the door.
The door shook with the force of it.
I took a step back, nearly tumbling backwards down the stairs.
I gripped the railing as the attic door continued to shake in its hinges.
As suddenly as the pounding had started, it stopped.
I watched the door, counting as I listened.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi.
If only there was a way for me to see what was on the other side of the attic door without
actually opening it.
I leaned down, kneeling on the landing, and shone my flashlight at the inch-high gap between
the bottom of the door and the jamb.
I pressed my cheek against the floor and screamed.
A bright orange eye looked out from under the door.
It was huge, the size of a ping-pong ball, and its pupil was slitted sideways, like a
goat's eye.
A thin grayish finger poked out from under the door, sliding towards me across the floor.
I ran.
I bolted down the stairs, screaming.
In my panic, I left my flashlight outside the attic door.
I scrambled down a second flight of stairs, nearly blind with panic.
Oh God, what was in my attic?
How had it gotten in?
I burst out of my front door and onto my lawn.
The icy cold rain stung my skin, but I barely noticed it.
I stopped short when I saw the crumpled remnants of my car in the driveway.
I blinked, trying to convince myself that the rain was messing with my vision or playing
a trick on my eyes.
It looked like something had stepped on my car.
Thunder boomed and lightning flashed, and I saw what looked like an enormous pair of
orange eyes floating above my house.
Whatever it was, I didn't want to get a good look at it.
I darted back inside, slamming the door behind me and fumbling with the locks.
Something was in my attic, but something far worse was in my yard.
Panicked breathing and shock can only last for so long before the body acclimates to
terror.
This fear had permeated every cell of my body until my heart pumped fear to extremities
made from fear.
Slowly, but surely, coherent thoughts began to trickle into the forefront of my mind.
Images of large orange hircine eyes shifted to questions that had no answers.
Questions are good.
A mind that is asking questions is ready to take action.
With my back against the front door I slid to the floor and buried my face in my hands.
Lightning flashed suddenly and illuminated the room in front of me.
I immediately began counting.
One Mississippi...
Two Mississippi...
Three Mississippi…
There was a loud crash upstairs that sounded like wood splintering under pressure.
Heavy footfalls clamored down the attic stairs and came to a sudden stop in the hallway above
me.
The door behind me rattled and whined as something behind it shook and pushed it with immense
strength.
Then the thunder crashed again.
This time it rattled the windows and seemed to reverberate through the whole house.
As I jumped to my feet to move away from the door I couldn't help but take notice of the
man standing at the top of the stairs.
My eyes had long since become accustomed to the light and there in the darkness stood
a man.
A man with what appeared to be large hircine eyes and spiraled black horns.
In his left hand he held what looked like a giant wooden mallet.
He took a single step down the hardwood steps and his footfall clacked against the stair
as if his feet were hooves.
I couldn't make out much detail below his face as my eyes were transfixed on his.
He moved down the next step slowly as I turned to see the front door flying off the hinges
in an explosion of splinters and shards of oak.
I jumped out of the way as the door struck a far wall and the wind forced the storm through
my front door aggressively.
The man - or whatever it was - continued down the stairs towards me seemingly unphased by
the wind now howling through my house.
I scrambled away on my hands and knees like a toddler chasing their favorite ball and
ended up sliding across the linoleum of the kitchen floor.
I slammed by back against the cabinets and turned to look back towards the scene in the
living room.
The horned man was still coming, swinging his mallet back and forth as he moved down
the stairs one by one.
It struck the walls with an eerie and recognizable cadence.
Knock One Mississippi, two Mississippi
Knock Rain and leaves blew in through the door as
he reached the bottom of the steps and he stopped for a moment to drink in the storm
with outstretched arms.
A formless void of darkness spilled in with the elements from outside and began to caress
the mallet wielding thing standing in my living room.
Lightning flashed and briefly gave the darkness shape.
It looked like a massive hand, its wrist twisting to lovingly caress the fiery eyed thing with
fingertips attached to fingers the size of my body.
The thunder rolled and something old and angry roared right along with it, the horned man
looked in my direction and his eyes burned even brighter - as if he had been renewed
by the touch of the darkness.
It took up its mallet gripping it tightly now in both hands and moved quickly towards
me - like crushing my skull was its only mission in life.
I jumped to my feet and nearly slipped in my attempt to get across the kitchen and into
the hall, the sound of the mallet slamming against the walls as I ran.
The kitchen windows exploded inwards in a shower of glass that I felt sting my skin,
the larger bits lodging themselves in my arm and cutting slashes into my face before I
was able to dive out of the way and crawl my way into the hall.
I practically threw my body into the first open door I saw and slammed the door behind
me.
I ignored the new blood streaking my face and dripping down my arm and off the tips
of my fingers and set to work blocking off the door.
I'd found myself in the guest bedroom so I quickly pushed the small chest of drawers
in front of the door.
I had begun to throw the mattress from the bed against it and start pushing the frame
against the whole mess when the sound of thunder matched perfectly with the sound of the first
strike of its mallet against the door.
The door rattled in its hinges.
I shoved the bed against it, pushing with all my might and ignoring the twinge of pain
racing through my lower back.
I scanned the room, frantically searching for another way out.
Aside from the window at my back, there was nothing.
I counted as I peered out the window, squinting into the darkness in search of the giant I'd
seen earlier.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi Thunder rumbled and my bedroom door buckled
as the thing in the hall struck it with the mallet.
I shrieked involuntarily.
A crack ran down the door.
I crouched down behind the nightstand and pressed against it.
I couldn't stop the thing from breaking the door down, but maybe I could prevent it from
getting into my bedroom by creating a barricade.
Deep down, I knew it was a long shot.
I knew that it wouldn't work.
If it could break down the bedroom door, it could get through whatever furniture I piled
in front of it.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi This time, there was no thunder to mask the
sound of the mallet hitting the door.
The wood splintered, flying in all directions.
I held up my hands, shielding my face from the flying debris.
I turned and looked out the window again.
I couldn't see the giant.
Maybe I could still hide from it somewhere outside.
Maybe it was as blind in the darkness as I was.
I ran to the window and fumbled with the locks.
Behind me, the bedroom door shattered.
A chunk of wood struck the back of my head so hard I saw stars.
I stumbled, falling against the window hard enough to crack the glass.
I regained my footing and turned.
The horned man knocked the furniture aside with ease.
The dresser splintered, coming apart as if it was made out of fragile glass instead of
sturdy wood.
He stomped into the room, bits of wood crunching beneath his massive hooves.
My head spun and my vision swam.
His eyes glowed a bright, malevolent orange, and for the first time, I could see his face
clearly.
I will never forget that face.
It grinned down mercilessly at me.
A thin red tongue flicked over rows of jagged, uneven teeth.
Orange eyes blazed.
I felt the crotch of my jeans grow warm and wet.
I raised my hands feebly as the horned man hefted the mallet.
"Please - " Pain shot through me as the mallet collided
with my stomach, driving the wind out of me.
I heard a faint crunching sound seconds before the window behind me shattered.
I felt shards of glass sinking into my back as the force of the blow hurled me backwards.
I gasped, trying to reclaim my lost breath.
I hit the ground so hard I saw stars and bright lights dancing at the edges of my vision.
I gasped, trying desperately to suck air into my battered lungs.
The last thing I saw before blacking out was those massive orange eyes floating in the
air above my head.
A huge hand reached down, its bony fingers extended towards me.
I wanted to scream, but instead, blackness washed over me.
The first thing I saw when I woke up was red light.
The ground beneath me felt hard and rough, and it took me a moment to realize that I
wasn't lying in my grassy backyard.
Oh God, I thought, I'm in Hell.
I'm trapped in Hell.
Tears streamed down my face as I struggled to lift my head.
"Don't try to move.
You've been in a bad accident."
The voice was accompanied by a woman's face.
She peered down at me with kind, gentle eyes.
I looked around.
I was lying in the street.
At some point, the rain had let up, but the pavement was slick and shiny.
Red and blue lights flashed.
I looked around, trying to move my head as little as possible.
I could see an ambulance.
People in EMT uniforms were walking back and forth, fetching items from it.
At some point, I lost consciousness again.
When I woke up for the second time, I was covered in a thick white blanket.
I was in the back of a brightly-lit ambulance, and the woman I'd seen earlier was holding
my hand.
The harsh white lights made my eyes water.
"Shhh," whispered the woman, squeezing my hand reassuringly, "you're on your way to
the hospital.
Can you tell me your name?"
"There was a man," I said thickly.
My voice was hoarse.
"He was in my house.
He had a mallet - " She cut me off with another shushing sound.
"No," she said calmly, "you were in your car.
You had a very bad accident.
Can you tell me your name?"
Dark spots had begun to appear at the edges of my vision.
I couldn't remember my name.
All I could think of was the horrible grinning face that had leered at me seconds before
the mallet had collided with my stomach.
The darkness swam over me again, and I could've sworn I heard faint laughter.
When I woke up for the third time, I was in a hospital.
A different woman wearing a white lab coat was standing beside me.
She told me that I'd been in a bad car accident.
She told me that the storm had caused my car to spin out of control.
I had apparently gone flying through the windshield and, although my back was broken and I'd probably
never walk again, I was lucky to be alive.
I shook my head.
"No," I told her.
"That's not what happened.
I was at home.
A man broke in.
He had a giant hammer.
He attacked me.
He pushed me out the bedroom window..."
My voice trailed off as the doctor shook her head.
"A passing motorist found you," she said.
"That's impossible," I told her.
"The giant must've moved me."
She arched an eyebrow.
"The giant?"
"There was this giant outside my house," I said.
"When I tried to escape from the man, it wrecked my car."
She looked at me pityingly.
"Send someone out to check my house," I told her.
"The man with the mallet trashed it."
I told her the whole story.
She listened patiently.
"How much did you have to drink?" she asked.
I groaned.
Now she would think I was out driving drunk and that I was making up the story about the
horned man and the giant.
"I had a couple beers," I said, "but I wasn't driving.
I was already at home when I drank them."
She was flipping through a file, biting her lower lip nervously as she did so.
"According to your tox screen, you were completely sober," she said.
I stared at her, unable to comprehend.
"You didn't have any alcohol in your system when you crashed your car."
She looked at me pensively.
"Do you remember what happened before?" she asked.
"Before what?"
"Before you were on your porch drinking beers and watching the thunderstorm."
I wracked my brain, but kept drawing a blank.
I couldn't remember anything from that day.
It was like a large, vacant spot in my mind.
I have tried to convince myself that the horned man and the giant were figments of my imagination,
my brain's way of trying to process the car accident.
But now, every time I hear thunder, I look to the sky.
And sometimes, when the lightning flashes, I see a giant pair of orange eyes leering
down at me.
For more infomation >> Funny And Lucky Moments - Hearthstone - Ep. 255 - Duration: 5:19. 
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