BLOODIED MEMORY MIRAGE

I woke up with blood on my hands. It wasn't mine. The metallic scent filled the air, making my stomach churn. My eyes struggled to adjust to the dim light of the room, and I soon realized I had no memory of how I got here. The walls were lined with peeling floral wallpaper, a stark contrast to the horror that seemed to have unfolded.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I scanned the room for any sign of life—or death. A shattered mirror hung crookedly above a dresser, reflecting distorted fragments of the room and my own terrified face. The bed was unmade, sheets tangled and stained. I took an unsteady step forward, trying to piece together the fragments of my fractured memory.

A soft, almost imperceptible noise caught my attention. It sounded like a whisper, barely audible over the sound of my own ragged breathing. I turned towards the closet, its doors slightly ajar. The whispering grew louder, more insistent. I hesitated, feeling a cold sweat break out across my forehead. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but my feet moved towards the closet instead.

Inside, darkness swallowed the small space, and yet, I felt eyes on me—unseen but undeniably there. My hand shook as I reached towards the hanging clothes, pushing them aside to reveal a small, crumpled figure in the corner. The figure's eyes snapped open, revealing milky, lifeless orbs. The whispering stopped, replaced by a low, guttural growl.

I stumbled back, tripping over my own feet and falling to the floor. The figure crawled out of the closet with an unnatural, jerky motion. It was a child, or at least, it had been once. Now, its skin hung in loose, decayed folds, and its fingers ended in sharp, darkened claws. The growl turned into a shriek that pierced through my skull, and I scrambled to get up, to get away.

The door to the room slammed shut with a deafening bang, and I was trapped. The child's shrieks turned into a mocking laughter, echoing off the walls. I backed into a corner, searching desperately for any kind of weapon. My hand brushed against something cold and metallic. I grabbed it—a rusted old knife, its blade jagged and worn.

The child-creature lunged at me, and I swung the knife with all my strength. The blade connected, slicing through decayed flesh, but the child barely seemed to notice. It latched onto my arm with its claws, and pain shot up through my limb. I screamed, trying to shake it off, but its grip was unrelenting.

Just as I thought I was about to be overpowered, the door burst open, and a blinding light filled the room. The child hissed, recoiling from the light and retreating back into the closet. Two figures stood in the doorway, their faces obscured by the light. Before I could react, they stepped forward, and the light dimmed, revealing their solemn, expressionless faces.

They spoke in unison, their voices hollow and devoid of emotion. You must remember. You must remember what you did. The words sent a chill down my spine, and a flood of disjointed images crashed into my mind—flashes of violence, of blood, of that same child laughing, its eyes no longer milky but filled with malice.

It was me. I had done this. I had brought this horror upon myself. The figures stepped closer, their eyes locking onto mine. You must face your sins, they intoned. The room began to spin, the walls closing in around me.

And then, everything went black.

I woke up with blood on my hands.

Victor Hal

Venture into the depths of darkness and fear with Victor Hal, your storyteller of haunting secrets and supernatural dread.

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