Truly Madly Ghostly

Chapter Thirty-one: The Storm

Hearing a sudden crash, Charlotte went silent and, if possible, tilted her ear closer to the phone that had already been pasted to her skin. 

Anxiously, she fiddled with the corner of the book cover on her study table. 

"Mr. Flinn," she spoke urgently, the tone of her voice raising. "Mr. Flinn, Are you alright? What's that noise?"

She heard low, pained groans, and her back straightened further in alarm against the backrest of her chair. Was that Mr. Flinn's? 

Her brows crunched in alert. "What's happening, Mr. Flinn, can you hear me?"

No response to her questions came from the other side—only heavy breathing and pained groans could be heard. 

Suddenly, a cold wave ran down Charlotte's spine, realizing something.

The sound of breathing was not of just one person. As she listened closer, she heard separate rhythms of heavy breathing.

God!

Someone else was incredibly close to Mr. Flinn—breathing down on him.

And Mr. Flinn was in great... great danger.

Realizing it was pointless, Charlotte stopped calling Mr. Flinn. She prayed that he was just unconscious and not something worse.

Soon, there were rustling noises and grunts of a voice that was not Mr. Flinn's. These noises increasingly were becoming distant. That meant only one thing—they were moving away from the phone.

Charlotte's throat dried in fear.

Oh God!

--

On the brink of gaining consciousness, when a whiteness slowly increased beneath his eyelids, Ian Flinn regained the feeling of pain behind his head long before he regained his vision. Oh yes, there was another thing—the overpowering smell of camphor. In the state of the unstable process of regaining consciousness, he wondered if it was coming from a wardrobe. But then, it must be a damn humongous wardrobe for the smell was now extraordinary. Ian wondered if he was placed in front of a heap of it. In a few seconds, his nose started to twitch, irritated.

In a short time, he could feel some more--the cold feeling of leather underneath him, the rope clad around his hands and feet, and the movements of someone in front of him.

Someone's irregular footsteps, sounding soft on the hard wooden floor, made Ian guess that the person who had attacked him was not wearing any shoes. He guessed it was a male. It was clear from his voice as he grunted angrily every now and then. 

Even though when time progressed and Ian was fully awakened in the mind, he kept his eyes closed tightly. His eyelids didn't gape even a little bit. 

It was intentional. 

He was afraid of the attacker doing worse than heating or beating him after realizing he had come back to his senses. In fact, the attacker was probably waiting for it. Otherwise, he would have been killed already. That's why he delayed the confrontation. In the meantime, he studied his attacker through his other senses.

That particular smell. He could very well say now that it was not of a wardrobe full of clothes. But why did it feel like his attacker had bathed in camphor mixed in water?

He tried to brainstorm and find a clue about who the person was... ah... but the pain in his head was killing. Then he noticed that the man's angry grunting, walking to and fro, had transformed into upset grumbling. 

"Arg... the sinful things you made me do! Damn, the months - the days - the nights you kept me prisoner! How will I face the lord? You—because of you—I will bloody kill you!"