Page 25 of Grave Possession (Grave #2)

I stare at the spot she once lay, my mind fucked beyond repair.

What did she say? What did she say? What did she say?

Panting, in the full throes of a panic attack, I collapse fully onto the dark hardwood floor, curling into myself.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I rasp.

The chilly floor mixed with the hot sweat painting my skin sends shivers through my body.

I try to regulate my breathing, heaving in precious gulps of oxygen.

I’m hyperventilating and I can’t stop. Lights dance in my vision as darkness encroaches and I can’t stop it when it takes me away.

My body is sore as I try to stand, every movement radiating agony through my limbs.

Staggering, I turn back to the island in the middle of the kitchen.

My head throbs as Mallory’s wail of agony echoes in my ears.

I swipe my phone off the counter top and wobble my way over to the couch.

I’m dizzy, my vision splitting into multiples as I flop down upon it.

What the fuck was that? It felt too real to be a hallucination.

I’m falling apart. I know all too well how lack of sleep and mass amounts of stress can wear on your mind and body.

I’ve just never had something that vivid happen before.

Reality and hallucination have never fused so totally before.

I swear I could feel her touch, the warmth of her blood as it hit my face, the frozen temperature of her body as I held her against me.

Not real, not real, not real. Squeezing my eyes shut, I force the images from my mind, picturing Mallory alive and laughing instead of stiff and cold.

My heart rate returns to normal after several minutes of deep breathing exercises. Sitting up, I finally check my phone. There’s a new text notification, so I open it.

Unknown number:

Attachment.vid

What the hell? Unknown number? Everyone who matters has my number. It’s probably a wrong number. I swipe left, and the little red trash can icon appears. My thumb hovers over the delete button, ready to get rid of whatever junk this is. Just as I’m about to push it a new message comes in.

Unknown number:

She screams so much louder for me.

That freezes my movements, immediate anxiety coiling around my heart.

I swipe away the trash can and reopen the message.

My unease mounts as another panic attack awaits on the fringes of my fracturing mind.

It couldn’t be from the killer, right? He’s never reached out before, not to our knowledge anyway.

It’s probably some ridiculous relationship drama sent to the wrong person, but I have to know it has nothing to do with Mallory.

I click on the video, and it fills my screen.

A woman’s figure enters the recording. She’s crawling away from whoever is filming.

The view drops down as someone grabs the woman and flips her over.

Mallory’s abused face comes into focus and my heart stops, terror constricting it in my chest. Pausing the video, “No!” I roar, fighting the urge to throw my phone across the room.

Standing, I pace back and forth in front of the couch.

“No. No. No. FUCK!” I can’t watch the rest of that.

What if he’s torturing her? What if he killed her and sent it to me?

Suppressing the nausea creeping up my esophagus, I gather my wits, sit back down, and continue watching my own personal horror movie.

“Please! Stop! No more!” she cries. A hand lands on her very injured knee, and she screams in pain.

Fuck. I have to find her. She’s cuffed and helpless, at the mercy of this fucking maniac.

The distinct sound of a belt jingling and zipper descending is heard and Mallory’s quiet “please…no…not again” can be heard before the video ends.

I sit frozen. Mind running a mile a minute with what to do first. She’s still alive.

I can find her. I know it. I have to depersonalize myself somehow so I can watch this again and look for clues.

However many times it takes to find something worth building a lead off of.

Whatever figment of Mallory my subconscious conjured up this morning must have been a warning from the universe.

Kick it into high gear and find her now, or she will be gone forever.

The nausea returns full force and I bolt to the kitchen sink, spewing my guts into it. Heaving up everything until there’s nothing left.

My throat is raw as I break down, sinking to the floor and leaning my back against the cupboards.

I can’t afford to be weak right now. Men aren’t weak.

But I can’t stop the cry that breaks out of me or the tears that escape my eyes.

I’m buckling, breaking, collapsing under the pressure.

My head hangs down between my shoulders as I allow myself this moment to feel the things I’ve been suppressing.

Throwing my head back into the cabinets over and over again as I expel the emotions.

The pain finally registers and clears my emotional haze.

I rewatch the video over and over. Noting the handcuffs, and the log building to the right of Mallory in the video.

It’s not a lot but it’s something to build a lead on.

Handcuffs have serial numbers, and hopefully they can be traced somewhere useful.

I’ll have to share this video with the squad though to get the I.T.

team to look into it. It’ll need definite enhancing to see if the numbers are visible.

Sharing anything with the men at the station risks the lie I wove about working in the city.

I don’t want to be outed to the only suspect I have on my list by going to them for help.

I finally make that coffee I prepared hours ago, and get to cross referencing the many images I received from the forums against the fraction of a cabin I can make out in the video.

Unable to shake the image of Mallory’s bloody, abused body from my head, I throw myself into work until I can barely keep my eyes open.

I’ll find you, baby, if it’s the last thing I do.