the secrets of ocean shores - a paranormal murder mystery

Chapter 20

Chapter 20. Kella

Darkness is a noun meaning "the partial or total absence of light". D-A-R-K-N-E-S-S. Eight simple letters, yet they summarized everything anyone would need to know about the room in which my trembling form resided. My hands were unmovable, set in crimson locks, rubbing tightly against my strained wrist. My ankles were tied up similarly, red creeping up my usually pale skin from the tightness of the bonds. The shock still hadn't quite settled itself nicely in my bones. It lay outside of the room, banging on the door, trying to let itself into my body. Words were unformable- and not just because of my sheer confusion. A tight piece of cotton wove around my mouth, making it ten times more difficult to speak words. My blonde hair had been twisted back into a neat braid, crawling down my hoodie. It shook, as afraid as my very own soul was. A million questions crowded my mind, and I couldn't answer a single one of them.

Two voices, far enough that their words came out as whispers to me, and yet close enough that I could still listen in, bickered. The first voice was weathered by time, and yet calculating and sharp. "I told you to not kill off the girl! She could be particularly helpful." She scoffed, a slow, shallow noise of disbelief.

The other woman stiffened up tightly. Her sharp tone carefully said, "You were the one who told me to kill her in the first place! It's not my fault that you changed your mind." My eyes widened, dark orbs of chocolate fear. The voice was Rahni's. Commanding. Sharp. Deep. A very unforgettable voice. A voice that carefully chose every single word, picking the ones to inspire fear in you the most. "Senile old woman." She muttered under her breath, the unmistakable noise of her heel urging forward adding to the insult. 

The first woman let out a low, venomous growl, and chose to ignore her words, instead speaking with precaution. "The girl is probably awake. We should check on her." Their footsteps sped up, heels clinking against the rough wood floor. The 7 foot tall door frame swung open, and the same fear from before flooded me all over again, seeing the glacier eyes of none other then Rahni Porter staring down at me. "Miss Ravenwood. I see that you are awake."

My screams were muffled, pressing up against the cloth as though to urge it away from my mouth, to rid my face of the sandpapery feeling, to let my words and thoughts and cusses free from my bloodred lips, rose red from the scar that cut across them so harshly. But the cloth fought back, and Rahni eyed the struggle from afar. "I see you don't care for your current conditions. If it were up to me, you would be dead by now. But alas, my mother believes that for some reason we need you around."

Ah. So the other woman talking was Johanna Porter. I had my suspicions, but this was the first absolute confirmation. My eyes grazed up and down her, and it was hard to suppress a gasp at her appearance. She licked her lips seductively, letting her strangely large, saliva-dripping tongue cross roughly over her rose puckers. Her front teeth, sharpened to the point of a knife, gleamed in the light, promising a quick and simple death. "Kella Ravenwood. We meet again. Under much less pleasant circumstances, but it is what it is." And when she smiled, my head twisted itself into circles. 

Her visage seeped with a crimson miasma, cascading in rivulets down the contours of her limbs, painting a macabre tapestry of suffering. I shrieked, the shrill cry clawing its way from the depths of my soul, only to be swallowed by an abyssal silence that seemed to mock my terror. Her epidermis, once a dignified mint hue, now played host to a ghastly array of gashes and lesions, a canvas of torment stretched taut over the bones, with the occasional flap of skin dangling grotesquely like a grisly, unfinished sculpture. Each scar and incision spoke of unspeakable agony, the very fabric of her being marred by a savagery that defied the most heinous of imaginations. Her eyes, sunken and lifeless, bore into me, as if the very essence of her pain had leaked from the sockets, leaving behind only the vacant stare of a creature long since lost to the embrace of madness. Her form, a twisted parody of humanity, stood before me, a silent testament to the depraved artistry of unseen torturers. The air grew thick with the cloying scent of decay, a sickly sweet perfume that mingled with the metallic tang of fresh blood, as the room itself seemed to pulsate with the rhythm of her unyielding anguish. Her skin, a tapestry of ruin, fluttered with the slightest movement, revealing the raw, pulsing flesh beneath, a grisly dance of horror that transfixed me with its visceral brutality. Each breath I took felt like a desecration, as if I were inhaling the very essence of her torment, and with every heartbeat, the room grew smaller, closing in around us, a prison of unspoken fear and abject revulsion.