Page 23 of Grave Possession (Grave #2)

Chapter Eighteen

Mallory

I ’m fuming. I should have known better than to get my hopes up. There was no fucking way he was going to let me call Victoria. I shouldn’t have been stupid enough to believe him.

He’s left again for his night shift, gifting me a smelly, dirty blanket and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He said he would come back with more things for me, but that remains to be seen.

I lift the corner of the mattress, retrieving the journal and pen.

I haven’t written in it since the night I got the shit scared out of me by something I couldn’t see.

I’ve been locked down here for days on end, and not once have I felt even a kiss of a breeze against my skin.

I don’t know what caused it, and I’m not one to really believe in ghosts.

Look at where I live, and the bed I choose to sleep in.

I obviously got a new mattress, but the bed frame still carries the morbid history, so does my massacre house.

However, I still have enough general knowledge to know that a violent death marks the area.

If spirits were going to linger anywhere, it would be here.

The eerie green light from the glow stick illuminates the book as I open to a fresh page and start to write.

I attempt to rein in my anger, channeling it into rational thoughts I can put to paper.

I need an outlet for all the things I’ve dealt with thus far, and the idea of aiding in his capture somehow is recentring.

I’m not stupid enough to lay things out in point form in case he gets his hands on this book, but it will be good for my psyche to have something to look back on, to keep my eye on the prize.

The words start to flow as I put pen to paper and let the tension in my body bleed out onto the page.

Dear Diary,

I have a plan. I hope it works. If not, then let this be a record of my time held captive by a police officer from Crystal Creek.

I wish I knew his name so I could record it for someone to find.

I’ll try my best to gather all the information I can on him, but I don’t need him growing more suspicious of me.

He’s approximately six feet tall with dirty blonde hair and deep blue eyes, average build, with no identifying marks that I’ve seen so far.

He pulled me over but let me off with a warning about two months ago.

I don’t know if there would be a record of that or not, but it was our first meeting.

He’s been killing for years, only leaving bodies at the mill to mess with law enforcement and get off on the thrill.

He killed his mother and staged it as a suicide, like the Henderson Mill victims. I will keep updating as the days progress.

I think I’ve been gone for about a week and a half…

maybe two weeks now, although I’m not a hundred percent sure, not that it matters anymore.

I have no frame of time locked away in this cellar, maybe I can ask for a clock, one that needs batteries or winding…but what will I have to do to earn it? The thought evokes barely restrainable nausea so I steer away from those mental images.

I don’t think I’ll be rescued, so I have to save myself.

Personalizing myself is the first step in doing that.

If we form some semblance of a bond, he will see me as more than just a plaything, an object to enact his sadistic desires on.

Could I swing things enough in my favour to build trust with him?

Could I escape? Could I lure him so deep into my darkness that I come out on top?

Will I still be the same person when all of this is over?

Will I be irreparably damaged? Will I be dead?

That oppressive energy is back, hanging heavy in the air around me.

I try to ignore it, pulling the musty blanket around my shoulders to prevent the new chill from working its way up my spine.

“I know something is here. Either show yourself or fuck off,” I grumble out into the empty room, waiting for something to happen.

The minutes drag on, nothing happens and there isn’t a sound to be heard.

Are the multiple concussions causing paranoia?

Do I have neurological damage now? Am I going mad?

There can’t actually be a ghost here, I have to be imagining it.

But, even as I rationalize the mounting fear away, I know I didn’t imagine the breath I felt against my cheek.

The ghostly hug is too much for me to even comprehend or try to figure out.

I wanted comfort so direly in that moment, I imagined it. End of story.

Clearing my head, I continue to write, shifting my thoughts to the reason I’m still holding on to this shitty existence.

To my Ghost,

You are the greatest thing to happen to me in my twenty-five years of life, and I am so lucky to have been cherished by you, if even for a small moment in time.

I hate that I may never see you again, but if this is how my story is supposed to end, I need you to know that I love you, I miss you, and I forgive you. None of this is your fault, and I don’t blame you or anyone else for not finding me.

The words begin to blur as tears threaten to spill over and a choked sob gets stuck in my throat.

Thank you for breathing life back into me, and showing me a life worth living.

If this time is all we get to have, I am happy we got to experience it.

If we never see each other again, I want you to know that I kept fighting.

Even when I wanted to roll over and die, when I wanted to resist him until he killed me, I kept fighting for the chance to be by your side again.

To see you again, touch you again, love you again.

I’m sorry for the things I had to do to stay alive, the things I will continue to do so I can hopefully find my way back to you.

However, I doubt I’ll still be the same woman you fell in love with.

This experience is changing me, I can already feel it, and I don’t know what that means for us if we ever reunite.

I can’t imagine the weight you carry every day because I haven’t been rescued yet.

I may never be found if I cease to exist, and end up buried in this sea of trees.

If I die, I want you to keep living. When the inevitable pain and guilt start to ebb away, I want you to find a way to be happy again.

I’ll search endlessly for you in the next life, and I don’t doubt for a second that you’ll find me there.

The air is charged, thick from my bubbling cauldron of emotions.

It feeds whatever lurks on the fringes on this plain of existence.

Sadness, fear, hatred, and self loathing pour out of me in torrents.

“RAGHHH, FUCK!” I scream through a broken sob.

I don’t want this. I don’t want to irreparably damage myself to fucking stay alive.

My soul has already been shattered. How much can I take before the pieces are ground into dust and I become someone I no longer recognize?

Nox isn’t going to be able to fix me, it will be impossible.

I’m going to have to let him go if I get out of this alive.

I whip the book across the room, stand on shaky legs, and begin to pace the small area the chain allows me to roam.

Back and forth.

The collar rubs against my neck and I pull on it. Trying to force it off but only making the abrasions on my skin worse. My fingers dive into my matted hair, ripping and pulling at the strands.

Back and forth.

I’m spiralling, although there’s nothing I can do to stop it. My chest constricts and it becomes near impossible to breathe. I gasp for breath, sucking down lungfuls of air that seem to do nothing.

Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

I drop down to my knees, the once unbearable throb now barely a twinge of discomfort.

The pain my kidnapper has caused my body is nothing in comparison to the suffering tearing apart my mind.

Another guttural scream echoes out around me.

I heave in breath after breath, heavily expelling them with the tears now flowing freely down my cheeks.

My body vibrates as anger and despair war with the numbness of dissociation that wants to take over and keep me safe.

I push it away, I didn’t come this far just to float away into the fog that protects me from the worst of my memories.

I drag my broken and cracked nails over my exposed flesh, ripping and gouging at the skin.

Welts form and blood blooms. The familiar warmth of self harm floating over me like a comforting hug.

It grounds me, reverting back to the person I used to be.

In a way, I know that I’m not lost, no longer spinning untethered through my tumultuous sea of unrestrainable emotions.

It’s like falling back into an old familiar habit, a comforting routine that makes the chaos not seem so scary.

My head clears, and my chest unwinds as I run my fingers through the crimson beads, smearing it across my skin.

Its colour an alluringly absurd contrast against my almost paper-white skin.

I feel like I can breathe again at the mere sight of it.

I inch my way back to the mattress, eyes focused on the way my palms are sticky with just a bit of blood as I sit clenching and unclenching my fists.

What would it feel like if they were dripping with it?

It would be warm and slippery until it dried on my skin.

But what would it be like? Blood is thicker than water, but thinner than honey.

The desire to find out what it feels like pulls me under as I picture slicing open my captors chest cavity, harvesting the comforting fluid right from the source.

Blood reminds me that I’m in control, I’m alive, still fighting, and I’m a force to be reckoned with.