An Anonymous Call

Epilogue

The crime investigators came over the next day. They questioned me about my parents, my relationship with Channy, the man from a decade ago, and the man behind the calls. My parents would return in a weeks time, so I had full freedom in that week. But my freedom only lasted for three days. 

I was interrogated, examined-- my entire home was inspected. They would leave when all evidence were fully gathered. Tara accompanied my isolation, only to continue her daily work when my parents were back. She was so kind and caring; she would be great as a mother. 

21st June, 2014:

Weeks had flew by. My phone was recovered, engulfed in sewage waste in a drain in town. I've sent it for repair as it needed full service: the screen was cracked, the contents inside were soaked with wastewater, and it reeked strongly. I could've made a simpler decision-- purchase a brand new model and sell this current one. But I chose not to. I'd carry on the history that I've made with this one, expecting the next adventure.

After enforces from the police chief and investigators, my network operator revealed the caller's identity. Tara informed me that he was indeed a foreign national, living in my country with no visa and permit. He commited many crimes all over the state-- I couldn't list down the various ways by which he harmed and murdered countless citizens who did not manage to break their escape. I was one of them. But I was the only individual who escaped, who discovered his base, who hid among nature from his league. He was an absconding criminal.

He was taken into custody all the way to Colorado. He was charged a death penalty as the result of the crimes he perpetrated. He was gone from this world, it was confirmed by all. 

September, 2014:

I would be awakened by a loud rap on my window every night. The temperature would drop a few degrees, and a chill would run down my spine and I could feel the hairs on my neck stand up. It's been going on for three months now. 

I'd have to wait in bed, staring straight up for an hour. The temperature would return to its original state, and the fears would disappear. It stressed me a lot. I would wake up with eye bags and dark circles and marks on my feet every now and then. Was this a result from the execution of the criminal? 

If I hadn't called 9-1-1-- if I hadn't brought Tara, the police and investigators into my home-- would this have happened? 

I thought twice about it. The loud rap was not a bird or an effect from the wind. It had a cause. Was John Doe back to usher in my frights? 

16th December, 2014:

I had visited the highlands. It was a one-day vacation and Channy had joined the party, along with me and Sai. 

We were spending the night in a suite. The ceramic tiles in the bathroom was well maintained-- the floral decals on the bedroom walls matched the scenery outside the double paned windows: the tea and strawberry plantation brightened the mountainous landscape. A majestic divan sat opposite the dressing table. Crystal chandeliers hung from the plaster ceiling, casting a glass-like shadow over the sitting room. It was any princess's perfect getaway. 

. . .

There was a heavy blanket of mist when we fell deeply asleep. I tossed and turned, sweat dripped from my forehead, my body was aching and I felt uncomfortable-- the bed was crampy with our bodies huddled together, feeling each other's warmth under the fleece blanket. 

I awakened to the same loud rap that has been haunting me for months. I sat up on my pillow, leaning on the tufted headboard. Sai aggressively tugged at the covers as she felt the sinking pressure of the mattress on her left from my weight. 

I blinked my eyelids rapidly, concentrating on the source of the sound. It consisted of three harsh knocks. I supposed it originated from the window, as it would always sound from there. This... 'ghoul' is constantly following me around no matter where I go. 

The room was dark, lit only by the brilliance of the chandelier in the sitting room. From the bed, my view of the mountains outside the window was blurry. The mist blocked out all view of the gorgeous scenery. 

The temperature dropped at least a couple degrees. The procedure was usual: a chill racing down my spine, the hairs on my neck stood up, goosebumps emerging from my skin. 

There was motion on the window that captured my attention. 

There were lines on the mist. The lines were clear. Someone was writing on the vapour from outside, drenching their fingertips with the mixture of dust and rainwater. But there were no fingertips pressing onto the glass window, no skin shown. 

I neared the window slowly in confusion to get a clearer view of the drawing -- or writing. I inched bit by bit, careful not to frighten and fool myself.

No, it wasn't a drawing. It was a numeral. A few digits were written on the window. The style of font was crooked, giving it a branch-like effect. 

When the number was fully written, I murmured the digits under my breath. "Zero... one..." 

As the thought of it struck me, the window rattled violently, causing me to scream, and the lights went off. 

I was engulfed in darkness. Everything was pitch-black. I couldn't see a thing. 

I groped around, searching for the bed or something to hold onto to assure me that I was still in the suite. I couldn't find a thing. Nothing was visible. All I could fumble about was the air that circulated me. 

The number that appeared on the window was the terror that inundated me seven months before. John Doe is back, his conspiracy stronger and more fearful than ever. 

. . .

I couldn't move. I crouched in the gloom. Not a source of light entered my vision. I was encircled my emptiness, darkness, and fear. The last sound that resonated my hearing was the shatter of the crystal chandeliers in the sitting room, falling from the ceiling as its hook detached from the plaster. 

This is what it felt like to be alone, trapped, and enclosed.