𝗙𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗡𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝘁 𝗙𝗿𝗲𝗱𝗱𝘆'𝘀 | 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐬

𝟏

  "Help me, please!"
 
  "I'm coming, kid! Just. . ." John struggled, wincing as several pointed rocks dug into his skin as he shuffled through the narrow crawlspace. "Listen to my voice - come to me!" Desperately, John clawed at the ground, soot and dust clinging to his fingertips as he inched closer to the source of the voice, an accompanying white light beckoning him. He did not falter.

  Not caring for the wear and tear of his own flesh, John continued to clamber forwards. John's breathing became sharp, the repulsing taste of sulphur causing him to cough wildly, stymying his movements. There seemed to be no end in sight, the shimmering archway in the distance a mere mirage conjured by his own mind to beckon him. You could save him, but you won't. You'll let him die again, won't you?

  Just like Michael and just like Charlie.

  "No. . ." John muttered, a steel anger in his voice as he pushed himself further, feeling as though the flimsy support beams holding the cave up were about to give.

  He couldn't stop - not now; not ever again.

  Up ahead, the light flickered, momentarily shrouding John's figure in darkness. The archway, like the jaws of a rabid animal, chomped repeatedly. Muffled screams erupted, John's chest inclining as though all the wind had been knocked out of him in an instant. John attempted to scream - call the kid's name, do something - but he couldn't. His limbs went rigid, his entire body shutting down in an instant.

  There was an awful ringing in his ear as he succumbed to blood loss, one that seemed to pull him back - inform him that his time had come.

  I'm sorry; I'm so sorry.

---

  John's eyes suddenly flickered open, immediately intuited by a ray of sunlight that protruded through his window. Right, back here again, he thought to himself, almost wishing that he'd be cast back into whatever hellscape he was just in. It was probably better than this. The ringing had not stopped, either, persisting even after John had woken up. As he thought about getting up to relieve himself of whoever was calling, a petite figure glided into the room, her brows knitted-up in annoyance.

  Hazel was standing in the doorway that led to the kitchen, arms crossed.

  "If you don't answer that bloody call!" she exclaimed, huffing. Unphased by the sudden outburst-it was an extremely common occurrence given Hazel's less than tolerant character-John merely shrugged.

  "I'm on it, don't go plotting my murder just yet," John said off-handed, waving her away.

  "As if I haven't already," Hazel remarked snidely, though with a hint of playfulness as she retreated back into the kitchen again.

  John chuckled. "Hey, then other 'nerds' and 'geeks' like me will flock to this place with all their Ouija Boards and spirit boxes, bet you'd love that," he said to Hazel's chagrin; she looked as though she wanted to toss a mug at him.

  "Not a chance," Hazel said with a scoff. John quickly darted over to the landline, stopping briefly to psyche himself up for whatever interesting character was waiting for him on the other end before taking the phone off of the hook.

  "This is John Ruth of the Mesquite Paranormal Society," John said, attempting to sound polite. There was nothing else from the other end, just some feedback. "Hello?"

  "Hello, John," a woman said. There was something so sinister about the way she said it. It could have been John's tired mind playing tricks on him, but he could have sworn it sounded strikingly familiar. Then again, there was nothing wholly unique about the woman's voice. It was rough and hoarse, as though she had been smoking excessively for years.