I chuckle quietly, reach behind me, and scratch gently behind her ears. “How ‘bout season three?” Calypso purrs loudly in agreement, settling comfortably as I click on season three and hit play on the first episode.
I’m barely five minutes into the episode when my phone buzzes again, sharp and intrusive from somewhere in the kitchen. The upbeat tones of “Final Girl” by PI3RCE cut through the dialogue between Sam and Bobby, right in the middle of a conversation about Sam’s obsession with breaking Dean’s demon deal.
I sigh and pause the episode, eyes narrowing toward the kitchen like I can glare the sound into silence. My brows pinch as I debate whether it’s worth checking. After a beat, I shake my head. Whoever it is can wait. I’m officially done with mystery callers tonight.
I unpause the episode and crank the volume a little higher, loud enough to drown out any other noise trying to get my attention.
But barely another minute passes before my phone starts again, this time rapidly chiming with multiple text alerts in quick succession. Annoyed, I groan loudly, slamming the remote down beside me on the couch.
“Seriously?” I mutter, irritation sharpening my voice as I shove myself up off the cushions. “This better be good.”
I march back to the kitchen, cereal forgotten on the coffee table. Snatching my phone off the counter, my stomach tightens when I see messages from Unknown plastered across the screen. A prickle of apprehension runs down my spine as I unlock my phone, quickly tapping open the text alert.
My stomach drops as I read the messages, one after another.
UNKNOWN:
Have you ever felt that subtle, creeping sensation prickling along your spine, that someone’s unseen gaze is fixed on you?
You should listen to that feeling.
You put all that effort into locking your doors and windows. Such a waste of time.
I found a way inside long before you ever realized something was wrong.
You’re going to look real pretty in red, I can already picture it.
My breath catches sharply in my throat, and my heart starts beating a frantic rhythm in my chest as I stare down at the messages. I read them once, then twice, my eyes darting across each word, desperately searching for some sign that this isn’t real—that it’s just some twisted prank from someone with a messed-up sense of humor.
But even as I tell myself that, unease tightens around me like a vice. The apartment suddenly feels too quiet, too still, the walls pressing closer than they did a few seconds ago. My stomach knots uncomfortably, dread pooling deep inside me.
Who the hell is this?
With trembling fingers, I open the message app again, thumbs hovering uncertainly over the screen. My thoughts race, panic clouding my head. Should I even reply? Am I just giving them exactly what they want by engaging with them?
But I have to know. Ihaveto know if it’s a sick joke or something more serious.
Taking a shaky breath, I force myself to type, my thumbs stumbling awkwardly over the keyboard as the words appear on the screen:
ME:
Who is this? What do you want from me?
My finger hovers over the send button, hesitating. Then, heart hammering against my ribs, I press send and hold my breath, waiting.
Instant regret washes over me as several more messages quickly flash across the screen.
UNKNOWN:
I want to carve out your insides and paint the walls with your blood.
My knife will look real nice coated in your blood.
A sob catches in my throat as I hastily dial 911, my hands trembling as I press each button.
Calypso hissing and growling snaps my attention away from the phone as the operator answers. My heart jolts painfully in my chest, and I whip around, eyes landing on Calypso, crouched low, ears pinned back, and the hair on her back raised as she faces the living room.
Then my gaze shifts, following hers, and the world seems to freeze.
