It was a while back when my husband, James, decided to
surprise me with a Valentine's Day getaway to a secluded
treehouse resort in the Upper Ozark Mountains.
On paper, it sounded extremely romantic.
Just the two of us, no distractions.
I had a feeling he was planning something more intimate
considering it was Valentine's Day, so I wore something
revealing and teased him the whole drive up there.
Unfortunately the reality fell far short of our expectations.
The treehouse look nothing like the pictures online.
Instead of the sprawling multi tiered bungalow that span the
tops of Cedars, we basically got a rickety house on stilts.
James was furious, and I was upset too.
But we had already paid the deposit and there was no easy
way to cancel. It felt like a lot of money down
the drain. As we entered the small room, I
noticed that it was beginning to storm outside.
Should we worry about this place falling down or something?
I asked, trying not to be pessimistic, but it was hard not
to imagine the whole building collapsing with a gentle breeze
every time we walked. The entire treehouse shook.
James suggested that we should probably stay close to the door,
just in case. Despite the disappointing start,
I still wanted to make the best of our time together.
Let's get into the hot tub, I suggested.
James didn't object and he started the water.
Although it seemed to take forever to get hot and it only
stayed hot for a few minutes. Disappointment continued to
mount and James suggested we get a bottle of wine instead.
He went out to the car in the pouring rain and returned
drenched with a bottle of Chardonnay and a Corkscrew
bottle opener. You look sexy drenched, I teased
him. He got two wine glasses from the
kitchen cabinet, pouring a sum and offering a toast to making
better memories. But as we started to drink, I
had a strange vibe. A premonition if you will.
It crossed my mind that it would be crazy if James somehow bit
into the glass and the wine shards dispersed into his mouth,
cutting him. A few seconds later, that
horrifying scenario played out. He was taking another sip when
the glass abruptly shattered in his mouth and he started to
choke. Everything seemed to move in
slow motion as panic engulfed me.
I tried to help by hitting his back, hoping he would choke up
the blood. I asked if he wanted me to call
911, but he shook his head. Struggling silently, he gestured
for me to help him into the bathroom, where he used his
toothbrush to induce the gag reflex.
I stood there, holding him up as shards of glass fell into the
toilet. After that ordeal, we cuddled up
in bed, not saying much to each other.
I couldn't shake the feeling that the tree house was haunted
or something. Finally, James suggested we
order some food from a local place, since the storm had
intensified, making the whole tree house shake even more.
By this point, James's voice was hoarse from the choking
incident, but he managed to call around to local places to see
who would deliver. We settled on pizza and it was a
welcome choice since I was starving by then.
When the delivery driver arrived, I answered the door
without bothering to get dressed, thinking it wasn't
important. The driver was a young guy in
his mid 20s and seemed taken aback by my appearance, even
though I wasn't wearing anything that revealing how much I asked
trying to get the transaction over with.
He stammered off the total price and gave us the pizza.
James realized his wallet was in the car and rushed outside to
get it. I watched them both out of the
corner of my eye and saw something strange happen.
It looked like the driver had hit James on the back of the
head with something, and I later found out it was a tire iron.
My husband fell unconscious in a matter of seconds.
I couldn't believe what I was witnessing.
The driver, this young kid, marched back up to me and I
stood there transfixed, paralyzed, holding the pizza
box. He had a knife in his hand, and
I was terrified. It could easily slit my throat.
He demanded that I get on the bed and tie myself up.
I complied, climbing onto the mattress, doing my best not to
cry. I begged him to take my wallet
and leave, promising not to call the cops.
As I finished tying my hands, I made sure my feet were loose
enough to fight back if needed. He took my wallet back to his
car and returned with a smartphone, filming me.
I didn't know if it was for his own twisted pleasure, but I was
too terrified to speak unless prompted.
He even spat on me a few times. Finally, he decided he'd had
enough and left before my husband came to.
I remain tied up on the bed for what felt like an eternity,
roughly 30 minutes before James stumbled into the room, frantic
and confused. We called the cops immediately,
but they didn't send anyone that night, leaving us without sleep
and in fear that the attacker might return.
We attended to James's wounds, and I couldn't help but think we
were stranded in the mountains with no money.
James's mother wired us some money through PayPal, and we
made our way back home, canceling credit cards along the
way. James insisted that we both take
self-defense courses, a decision I couldn't argue with.
A few months later, after much hassle with the company, we
managed to get most of our money back.
They admitted that suspicious activities on their property
were not uncommon. It's crazy how we can laugh
about it now, all these years later, but if things had gone
differently, I'm not sure I'd even be here today.
On that fateful Valentine's Day, my wife Sarah and I embarked on
an unforgettable journey, albeit for all the wrong reasons.
This tale haunts me to this day, not only because it marked the
beginning of the end for our relationship, but also due to
the spine chilling encounter with a waiter named Brian whose
intentions appeared malevolent from the start.
Our day commenced with an argument, the roots of which
demanded some explanation. You see, Sarah was a social
media influencer working for a makeup company.
Her job entailed trying on products and promoting them
through YouTube. Typically this didn't bother me
much, but I had yearned for a special and romantic Valentine's
Day, free from work related distractions, a day to exchange
gifts, savor each other's company, and enjoy a delightful
dinner. The problem was Sarah had a deep
seated addiction to social media and it had been a source of
tension for weeks. We had even attempted A10 day
electronic detox trial before Valentine's, which had ended in
a heated argument. The turmoil that morning was
sparked by her client's request for a lengthy makeup video that
would take 45 minutes to an hour to film and edit for her
channel. I initially tried to brush it
off, but as the frustration mounted, I couldn't hold back
any longer. You're just acting so selfish,
Justin, she retorted when I expressed my displeasure about
her phone. Our relationship had always been
plagued by financial troubles, and this argument hit a raw
nerve. It spiraled into a 10 minute
shouting match, a familiar pattern for any couple who'd
been together for a significant amount of time.
Eventually we decided to salvage our plans for the day and head
out for dinner. But before reconciling, I made a
foolish move by canceling our reservation at a new restaurant
Sarah had been eager to visit for months.
My pettiness had taken control, leading to an impulsive decision
that would prove to be disastrous.
Upon arrival at the restaurant, we were informed that our table
had been given away to someone else.
It was Valentine's Day in a small town, and everything was
bustling with couples celebrating love.
Sarah was annoyed, and she retreated to her phone, engaging
with her followers while I tried to find an alternative dining
spot. Our romantic night was
unraveling rapidly. We eventually settled on Olive
Garden, despite it not being her favorite choice.
We arrived just in time for the wine to be served, and there
were surprisingly fewer patrons than expected.
We managed to secure a private booth in the back, but the
frosty atmosphere between us had me anxious.
Sarah's demeanor had turned icy, and she was pointedly ignoring
me as we perused the menu. That's when our waiter, Brian,
made his entrance. He was a few years older than
me, with a darker complexion and a taller frame.
I was so preoccupied with our ongoing spat that I barely
registered the details. His name might have been Brian,
but I couldn't be sure. Brian offered us a sample of the
house wine, which we both declined, opting for bread and
soup instead. He couldn't help but notice the
tension between US and attempted to lighten the mood for a couple
on Valentine's. It sure doesn't seem like you
love each other, he jokingly remarked.
I seized the opportunity to address our issues openly,
despite the risk of escalating the argument.
This wouldn't have happened if you had agreed to keep your
phone off, I told Sarah. She responded sharply.
It wouldn't have happened if you weren't such an inconsiderate
jerk. You know my phone is my
livelihood. The discussion veered towards
our persistent financial problems, and I thoughtlessly
retorted I wouldn't be in so much debt if you hadn't insisted
on an elaborate wedding. And who spends the most money
for the house? It sure isn't me.
You're just a child, Justin. Brian returned with the wine,
visibly affected by our argument.
Before I could make a sarcastic remark, I noticed the intense
anger in his eyes. It was as if he was trying to
suppress a painful memory. Instead of sarcasm, he shared a
haunting story of his own. I was married to my high school
sweetheart for 10 years, he began.
We grew up in a small Midwestern town and never realized how
great our life was until it was taken away.
He recounted an incident where he had been unjustly
incarcerated for two years, leaving his life in ruins.
The injustice and betrayal had pushed him to the brink.
The weight of his words hung in the air as other patrons began
to take notice. An uncomfortable silence settled
over our booth, broken only by Sarah offering her sympathy.
Strangely, this seemed to enrage Brian further.
He slammed his first on the table and rambled about his
failed marriage and the belief that love was a despicable
illusion. The tension was palpable, and I
decided to intervene, hoping to defuse the situation, but Brian
interpreted my gesture as an invitation to confrontation.
He violently pinned my arm behind my back, brandishing a
knife against my head. Sarah's tears seemed to snap him
out of his rage, and he dropped the knife, stammering an apology
before abruptly leaving. One would think that this marked
the end of our harrowing encounter, but it wasn't over.
As we walked to our car, Brian was waiting.
Armed with another knife, he slashed our tires and was on the
verge of attacking us when Sarah's cry for help startled
him and he fled. We reported the incident to the
police, but the anonymous psycho waiter vanished without a trace.
Our eventful evening, complete with Brian's unsettling speech
and terrifying actions, pushed Sarah and me further apart.
That night I found solace at a friend's house, drowning my
sorrows in alcohol. Thanks to that nameless,
deranged waiter, our relationship crumbled and the
road to divorce seemed inevitable.
The scars from that Valentine's Day would haunt us forever.
It's funny how Valentine's Day can twist a knife in your heart
when you're single. Every year it's the same old
story for me. Couples holding hands, romantic
posts all over social media. And there I am, scrolling
through my phone, feeling like the last slice of pizza nobody
wants. But this year, I decided to do
something different, something out of my comfort zone.
I heard about this Valentine's Day gathering for singles in my
area. It sounded cheesy, but what did
I have to lose? I'm just a guy who's been riding
solo for what feels like forever.
Maybe, just maybe, this event could change that.
So there I was, standing in front of my mirror, second
guessing my outfit, my hair, heck, even my choice of Cologne.
But I shook off the nerves, put on my best.
I'm totally cool being here, Smile and headed out.
The event was at this local Community Center, decked out
with red and pink balloons, cheesy love songs playing in the
background, the whole 9 yards. Walking in, I felt like a fish
out of water. There were people everywhere,
laughing, chatting, some even flirting outrageously.
I grabbed a soda from the bar and leaned against a wall,
trying to look casual. While scanning the room, I tried
to talk to a few people. There was this one woman who
wouldn't stop talking about her ex, and another who seemed more
interested in her phone than in me.
No sparks, no connection, just awkward small talk and forced
smiles. It was starting to feel like a
bust, and I was getting ready to bail when I saw her.
She was standing alone in a corner, sipping on a drink,
looking as out of place as I felt.
She had this long, dark hair and a smile that seemed to light up
the room. Something about her just pulled
me in. Taking a deep breath, I pushed
off the wall and walked over to her.
Hi. I'm not really good at this, but
I felt like I had to come over and say hello.
I said, trying my best to sound confident.
She looked up, surprised, then smiled.
Hi, I'm glad you did. I'm not really good at this
either. We started talking and it was
like everything else in the room faded away.
She was funny, smart, and she had this laugh that was
absolutely infectious. We talked about everything,
Movies, books, our worst Valentine's Day experiences.
It was easy, like talking to an old friend.
Before I knew it, hours had passed.
The room was starting to empty, the balloons sagging like the
tired eyelids of the few remaining guests as the event
wrapped up. I couldn't believe I was about
to do this, but I asked for her number.
To my surprise, she wrote it down and handed it to me with a
smile that could have lit up the darkest night.
We agreed to meet up again, and I left the Community Center
feeling like I was walking on air.
It was the first time in a long while that Valentine's Day
didn't feel like a personal jab at my single status.
Walking back to my car, I couldn't help but replay every
moment of our conversation in my head.
She was incredible. For once, I was actually excited
about what the future might hold.
Maybe this was it, the end of my solo journey and the start of
something new. Little did I know, this was just
the beginning of a journey far more bizarre and terrifying than
I could ever imagine. As I drove home, I had a smile
plastered on my face, a stark contrast to the usual frown I
wore on Valentine's Day. I couldn't wait to see her
again. Maybe, just maybe, this was the
turn of luck I've been waiting for.
But as I would soon find out, some things are too good to be
true. The next few days felt like I
was living in a dream. I kept looking at her number on
my phone, half expecting it to disappear, but it stayed.
We texted back and forth, and before I knew it, we had plans
for a second date. I suggested dinner at this cozy
Italian place I knew, and to my delight, she loved the idea.
I was a bundle of nerves and excitement the whole day leading
up to our date. I must have changed my outfit at
least three times. Finally, I settled on something
that screamed casual but trying and headed out.
She was already there when I arrived, looking even more
beautiful than I remembered. Her smile was like a beacon in
the dimly lit restaurant. We sat down and the conversation
just flowed. Naturally, we talked about our
families, our jobs, and our shared love for old school rock
music. She had this way of listening
that made you feel like you were the only person in the world.
I found myself sharing things I hadn't told anyone before.
It was strange, but in a good way.
Dinner was amazing, but it was the company that made the night
unforgettable. We lost track of time laughing
and chatting until the restaurant began to close.
Reluctantly, we left, but neither of us wanted the night
to end. She suggested going back to her
place for a nightcap, and I eagerly agreed.
Her apartment was just as charming as she was.
We sat on her couch sipping wine and continuing our conversation.
But as the night progressed, something changed.
It was subtle at first. Her laughter seemed a bit off,
Her story's a bit more erratic. I brushed it off as nerves, or
maybe too much wine. But then things got weird.
We started to get closer, and that's when I noticed the shift.
Her eyes, once warm and inviting, now seemed cold,
almost predatory. Her voice changed too, deeper,
almost guttural at times. I tried to laugh it off, but a
sinking feeling in my stomach told me something was very
wrong. I made an excuse to go to the
bathroom, trying to collect my thoughts.
What was happening? Was this some kind of joke?
When I came back, she was different, more intense.
She kept saying things that made no sense, and her movements were
jerky, unnatural. Panic started to set in.
I knew I had to get out of there, but when I tried to
leave, the door wouldn't open. It felt like some unseen force
was holding it shut. I turned back to her, and that's
when I saw it. Her face seemed to contort, her
expression no longer human. It was like she was being
controlled by something else, something dark and terrifying.
I remember her voice. It wasn't hers anymore.
It was deeper, sinister, saying things that sent chills down my
spine. My heart was pounding so hard I
thought it would burst out of my chest.
I had to get out. But how?
The windows, They were my only chance.
I rushed to the nearest window, struggling to open it.
She was behind me now, her voice a cacophony of strange sounds.
With a surge of adrenaline, I managed to break the window
open. Glass shattered everywhere, the
cold night air rushing in. I didn't even care about the
cuts from the glass, I just needed to escape.
Climbing out, I hit the ground hard, but I didn't stop.
I ran as fast as I could, not daring to look back behind me.
Her screams filled the night, a sound so haunting it would stay
with me forever. My breath was ragged, my mind
racing. What had just happened?
Who or what was she? Finally, when I was far enough
away, I risked a glance back. There she was, standing in the
broken window, watching me. But her eyes, they weren't
human. They were like black voids,
devoid of all emotion. It was the most terrifying thing
I'd ever seen. I kept running, not stopping
until I reached my car. I drove home, trying to process
the nightmare I just lived through.
What started as a perfect evening had turned into a horror
show. I knew I was lucky to have
escaped, but a part of me wondered about her.
Was she still there, in that apartment, possessed by whatever
that thing was? That night I barely slept, the
image of her twisted face haunting my dreams.
I knew one thing for sure, My life would never be the same
again. As the sun rose, casting light
on a new day, I was left with a million questions and a deep
sense of dread about what might come next.
After that night, everything changed.
I thought I could just forget about her, about what happened.
But it wasn't that simple. Weird things started happening
around me, things I couldn't explain.
It was like a bad horror movie, only it was my life.
I'd find. Things moved in my apartment,
things I was sure I hadn't touched.
The TV would turn on by itself in the middle of the night,
blaring static at full volume. I'd wake up to the feeling of
someone watching me, but no one would be there.
It was enough to make anyone lose their mind.
I tried to tell myself it was all in my head, just stress or
lack of sleep, but deep down I knew it was her.
She was haunting me, or at least whatever had taken over her was.
One night it got worse. I was lying in bed, trying to
convince myself to sleep when I heard it, a tapping at my
window. At first I thought it was just a
tree branch or something, but it kept getting louder, more
insistent. I got up, my heart pounding in
my chest and pulled back the curtain.
There she was, standing in my front lawn, staring up at me.
Her eyes were pitch black, just like that night, and she was
smiling this twisted, unnatural smile.
I dropped the curtain and stumbled back, my mind racing.
How did she find me? What did she want?
I didn't sleep at all that night.
Every noise made me jump and I kept seeing her face every time
I closed my eyes. The next day I was a wreck.
I knew I needed help, but who would believe me?
It sounded crazy even to me. But I couldn't go on like that.
I did some research and found a spiritual medium in town.
I was skeptical, but desperate. I made an appointment and went
to see her. The medium listened to my story
with a calmness that made me feel slightly less insane.
She told me that it wasn't uncommon for spirits to latch
onto someone, especially if they were vulnerable.
She said the spirit that possessed my date was
particularly malevolent. Drawn to my loneliness, she
performed A cleansing ritual on me.
It felt strange sitting there while she chanted and burned
sage, but I was willing to try anything.
When it was over. She told me that I should be
free from the spirits influence. I left feeling lighter, like a
weight had been lifted off my shoulders.
The strange occurrences stopped and I slowly started to feel
like myself again, but the experience left its mark on me.
I couldn't shake the feeling of unease, the fear that it might
happen again. I learned something important
from all this. Our loneliness can make us
vulnerable not just to the wrong people, but to things beyond our
understanding. I still don't know what really
happened with that woman or what that spirit was, but I do know
that I'll never be the same again.
Sometimes the scariest monsters are the ones we can't see.
I remember it like it was yesterday, the sting of
Valentine's Day still raw in my heart.
It was supposed to be a day of love and affection, but for me
it became a nightmare. Just a year ago, I wouldn't have
imagined that Caleb, my boyfriend, would choose this day
to break my heart. Despite the rough patches we had
been navigating, I believed we were on solid ground.
The week before, he had made elaborate plans for us, a
reservation at Red Lobster, taking time off work, promising
an unforgettable evening. But that morning, everything
crumbled. With a single text message.
Caleb decided to end our relationship.
I was in disbelief. How could this happen?
I immediately called him, demanding an explanation.
His voice was apologetic yet distant as he offered up excuses
that sounded like hollow justifications.
I begged him to tell me he hadn't cheated, my voice choked
with tears. His denial did little to ease
the whirlwind of emotions engulfing me.
I remember feeling utterly lost, the pain so acute that self harm
flickered through my mind. But in that dark moment I had an
epiphany. No one is worth that kind of
despair. As I was grappling with this
emotional turmoil, my friend Felicia texted.
Her presence was a lifeline, and I invited her over immediately.
When she arrived, I collapsed into her arms, pouring out my
heartbreak. Felicia ever the protective
friend, suggested we drown our sorrows in alcohol.
It seemed like a perfect distraction.
We got dressed up, I blocked Caleb on my phone, and we headed
out, feeling empowered and ready to forget our troubles.
We hailed a taxi to take us downtown.
Felicia was vocal about her disdain for Caleb and men in
general. The taxi driver seemed tense at
her words, but I was too wrapped up in my own emotions to pay
much attention. Then, as we were exiting the
highway, the driver suddenly accelerated, zooming through a
red light. We were both startled, and
Felicia demanded he slow down. Instead, he turned around with a
feral look in his eyes and pointed a gun at us.
He ordered us to hand over our phones, then drove us out of
town, discarding our belongings into a river.
The fear was paralyzing. Eventually, he stopped at a
secluded cabin and ordered us to stay there.
Seizing a moment of distraction, I whispered to Felicia that we
needed to fight back. When he opened the cab door, I
kicked him and yelled for Felicia's help.
In the ensuing struggle, Felicia managed to grab the gun and
pointed it at the driver, demanding the keys.
With the keys in hand, we made a break for the taxi.
The driver lunged at us, but I managed to fend him off and
jumped into the driver's seat. We drove away as fast as we
could, leaving the man behind. In the aftermath, we discovered
the driver was wanted for murder in another state.
The experience was surreal and terrifying, a stark reminder of
how quickly life can turn on its head.
I went through therapy to cope with the trauma, but the memory
of that day still haunts me. Caleb's reaction when I later
told him about the ordeal was dismissive, adding to my pain.
I still wonder what triggered the driver's actions.
Was it our conversation about men?
Or was it his plan all along? That Valentine's Day remains the
strangest, scariest, and most terrifying I've ever
experienced. It was just another day, the
kind that blends into a life filled with routine and the
mundane. I walked the familiar path home
from a day that had been particularly draining at work,
my mind a swirl of unsorted thoughts and frustrations.
The city around me buzzed with its usual energy, but I felt
disconnected, like a shadow moving among the living.
As I trudged along, lost in my own world, a woman stepped into
my path. She was not the sort of person
who usually caught my attention. There was something about her.
Maybe it was her eyes, or the way she carried herself, that
seemed out of place, like a character from a story who had
accidentally wandered into real life.
She held out a red envelope to me.
A Valentine's Day card for you, she said, her voice barely above
a whisper. Yet it cut through the noise of
the street like a sharp blade. I remember being surprised.
Who gives a stranger a Valentine's card?
I took the card more out of reflex than desire.
It was crumpled, as though it had been carried around for a
while. The woman gave me a long,
piercing look, one that I couldn't quite understand.
Then she turned and melted into the crowd.
It happened so fast. One moment she was there and the
next she was gone. I stared at the card in my hand.
It was just a simple red envelope, nothing special, but
for some reason I couldn't bring myself to throw it away.
I slipped it into my coat pocket and continued home.
My apartment was my sanctuary, a small but cozy place where I
could escape from the world. That evening, as I set the card
on my kitchen counter, I felt an odd sensation, like a whisper at
the back of my neck. I shook it off and started
making dinner, trying to forget about the strange encounter, but
the card sat there on the counter, almost like it was
watching me. I know it sounds crazy, but I
couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.
It wasn't fear, exactly, more like anticipation.
As if the air itself was holding its breath, I finally gave into
my curiosity and open the card. Inside, on a mostly blank white
background were the words Will You Be Mine.
The ink was black, but it had smeared, giving the words a
desperate, almost sad appearance.
There was no name, no signature, nothing to indicate who had sent
it or why. I tried to laugh it off.
It was just a card, probably a joke or some kind of marketing
gimmick, but deep down I couldn't shake the unease that
crawled under my skin. I kept glancing over my shoulder
as I cooked, half expecting to see someone standing there.
But my apartment was as quiet and empty as always.
Night fell, and with it came a sense of isolation.
I closed my curtains, cutting off my small slice of the city
outside. The card lay forgotten on the
counter as I ate alone, the silence of my apartment a stark
contrast to the noise of my thoughts.
I tried to convince myself that it was all in my head, that
there was nothing to worry about.
But as I lay in bed that night, the words from the card echoed
in my mind a haunting refrain in the darkness.
Will you be mine? I didn't know it then, but those
4 words were the beginning of a nightmare that would change my
life forever. I woke up the next day hoping
the weirdness from last night would just be a forgotten dream,
but the red envelope on my kitchen counter glared at me, a
stark reminder of reality. I brushed off the unsettling
feeling and got ready for work trying to shove the card and
it's cryptic message to the back of my mind.
The day was uneventful, but the thought of going back to my
apartment made my stomach churn. As I walked home, the streets
seemed more crowded, more suffocating than usual.
The memory of the mysterious woman's gaze haunted me, and
every stranger's face seemed to hide A secret smirk.
When I finally got home, a sense of dread settled over me.
Something felt wrong. As I put my key into the lock, I
noticed something odd on my door.
My heart raced as I saw it, the same message from the card.
Will you be mine? Smeared across my door in what
looked like dark paint, my hands trembled as I opened the door,
half expecting someone to jump out at me.
But my apartment was empty, just as I had left it.
The silence was suffocating. I tried to convince myself that
it was a prank, some sick joke by a bored teenager, but deep
down I knew it was something more.
I couldn't eat, couldn't sit still.
The cards message echoed in my head, a relentless drum beat of
fear. In a moment of panic, I grabbed
the card and a lighter. I watched the flames consume it,
the paper curling into blackness.
But then the smoke. It was red, thick and swirling,
filling my kitchen with an eerie, unnatural light.
I stumbled back, coughing, my head spinning.
The last thing I remember was the floor rushing up to meet me.
I woke up on my kitchen table, the cold surface against my
skin. Confusion flooded my mind as I
realized I was naked, my clothes nowhere.
Insight. Panic surged through me, my
heart pounding in my ears. And then I saw it.
My blood ran cold as I looked down at my body.
Carved into my torso. Was the word mine.
The pain hit me, then a searing white hot agony.
I wanted to scream, to cry, but the shock held me in its icy
grip. Somehow I managed to get off the
table and stumble to the phone. Each movement was torture, but
fear drove me. I called the police, my voice
barely a whisper, every word a stab of pain.
The police came, their questions a blur in my mind.
I remember the ambulance, the bright lights of the hospital,
the doctors, concerned faces. They treated my wounds, their
words of comfort, distant and unreal.
The police found nothing in my apartment, no clue as to who did
this to me. They asked about enemies, about
anyone who might want to hurt me, but I had no answers.
All I had was the memory of a card, a mysterious woman, and
the word mine carved into me. I lay in the hospital bed, my
mind a Whirlpool of fear and confusion.
The world I knew had shattered, leaving me adrift in a
nightmare. I knew one thing for sure.
My life would never be the same again.
Lying in the hospital bed, wrapped in a cocoon of sterile
sheets and the constant beep of monitors, I felt detached from
reality. The stark white walls seem to
close in on me, whispering secrets I couldn't understand.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the word mine etched in my
skin, a brutal claim that sent shivers down my spine.
The police came again, their faces grim and serious.
They told me they'd found the card, the one I'd burned in my
sink. I couldn't believe it.
How could it have survived the flames?
They said it was intact, unscathed by fire.
And then they told me something that chilled me to the bone.
The message inside the card had changed.
I'm glad you're mine, it read now.
A cold sweat broke out across my forehead.
How was that possible? I lay there in disbelief, the
pain from my injuries A dull, constant reminder of my ordeal.
The world, I knew had been turned upside down, and I was
left grappling with the impossible.
The police had no leads, no suspects.
I was alone in this, a victim of an unseen, unknown stalker.
Days passed in the hospital. Each won, a blur of painkillers
and hushed conversations. Nurses came and went, their
faces a blend of pity and professional detachment.
I wanted to scream, to demand answers, but my voice was a mere
whisper, drained of strength. The thought of returning to my
apartment filled me with dread. Every memory of that place was
tainted, the walls echoing with the terror of that night.
I knew I couldn't go back there, not after what had happened.
The thought of starting over was daunting, but the fear of
staying was far greater. When the time came to leave the
hospital, I made a decision. I would leave everything behind.
My apartment, my belongings, my old life.
I would start anew, Far from the memories that haunted me, the
landlord could have it all. I wanted nothing that reminded
me of that Valentine's Day. The world outside the hospital
seemed different, as if I was seeing it through a veil of
mistrust and fear. People passed me by, unaware of
the nightmare I'd lived through. I felt like a ghost, unseen and
unheard, wandering through a life that no longer felt like
mine. I found a small place on the
outskirts of the city, a modest apartment that offered anonymity
and a chance to heal. The scars on my body were a
constant reminder of my ordeal, but I was determined to move
forward, to reclaim my life from the shadows that sought to
engulf it. As Valentine's Day approached, I
found a strange comfort in my solitude.
For the first time, I was grateful to be alone, away from
the twisted romance that had almost destroyed me.
I had survived, but at what cost?
The question haunted me, a lingering doubt in the back of
my mind. I looked at the calendar, the
date circled in red. Valentine's Day, a day that once
meant little to me, now a symbol of my survival.
I was alone, yes, but I was alive.
And in that moment, that was enough.
My 2020 Valentine's Day was unlike any other.
It started with a sense of anticipation, but ended in a
series of strange and terrifying events that I'll never forget.
You see, my family had to move in early February, so we decided
to postpone our Valentine's celebration until close to
March. Little did I know this decision
would lead to an unforgettable experience.
As March approached, the pandemic hit and it began to
affect our lives. I was one of the first in our
family to be exposed to the virus.
It was a surreal feeling, knowing that something invisible
could change your life so drastically.
But my boyfriend Robbie was determined not to let it ruin
our Valentine's Day plans. He suggested that we celebrate
over Zoom, and I agreed. The days leading up to our
virtual Valentine's Day were surreal.
I felt like one of those kids stuck in a bubble, watching the
world outside while I couldn't partake in it.
I had no symptoms, but I was being locked away from the
outside world, as if I were some kind of criminal.
Saturday finally arrived, and I logged into Zoom, eager for the
romantic surprise Robbie had in store for me.
I had no idea what to expect, but I knew it couldn't be
anything like what he had originally planned.
Robbie had set up his camera at an angle that allowed me to see
his entire room. 2 windows were partially open, letting in a
gentle breeze. He wore a silly blue suede shirt
and a matching tie. Candles flickered and soft jazzy
music played in the background, setting the mood.
It was cheesy in the most endearing way, and I couldn't
help but giggle. He teased me playfully, and I
responded with a flirtatious comment.
Then he waved a bouquet of flowers in front of the camera,
saying, Roses, your favorite. Don't they smell good?
But that joke was in poor taste, because thanks to COVID, my
sense of smell had been completely gone for a while.
Chocolates for you, he said, waving a box of creamy
chocolates near the screen. I was touched by his effort to
make this day special, despite the circumstances.
Suddenly, a strange noise echoed outside Robbie's window, a
scream that sent shivers down my spine.
He asked me to hold on, and my heart raced as I waited,
wondering what was happening. Robbie abruptly left the
camera's view, and I could hear him rushing down a flight of
stairs. Shouting and commotion erupted
outside his window, and it was clear that he was having an
argument with someone. I kept calling his name,
desperately hoping he would return.
It felt like an eternity, but nearly half an hour later,
Robbie finally reappeared on camera.
My relief was palpable, but it quickly turned to concern when I
saw him. His face was marked by a bloody
nose and a black eye. I asked him what had happened
and he replied someone just stole my car.
I'm really sorry, but I gotta go.
I was left in shock, unable to process the events that had
unfolded before my eyes. I didn't hear from him until the
next day, when the police informed us that they had found
his car parked not far from my house.
According to them, the thief had activated the GPS and gone to
the last location Robbie had put it.
It sent chills down my spine, thinking that perhaps they had
intended to rob me next. The police also discovered
traces of gunpowder residue in the car, suggesting that the
thief had recently discharged a weapon.
Robbie confirmed that they had shot at him when he tried to
stop them. My heart sank at the thought of
how close he had come to danger. A month later, Robbie admitted
to me that he believed he knew why they had stolen his car in
the 1st place. He had bought me a promise ring,
an expensive one, and he had left it in the passenger side
seat. It was a shocking revelation,
and it made me realize that our Valentine's Day had been both
the most and least romantic one I had ever experienced.