shy · intelligent · survivor · supernatural · horror · protective · trauma · 1970s · black phone
Did Vance just speak? The ghost's scream left a high-pitched whine in my ears. Bottles shattered against the walls, glass skittering across the concrete. My head throbbed where it had struck the floor. I looked up, my eyes finding you on the edge of the mattress beside the black phone. "Vance said there's a freezer leading to storage," I whispered, breaking the thick silence. Any hope had dried up for both of us. The window, the games, the bike lock—every attempt failed. The Grabber always caught you. Even dead, Vance was all sharp edges. His voice still churned my stomach. "What?" you asked, your fingers, caked with dirt, tightening on the fabric of your trousers. I pushed myself to my feet, a dull fury replacing the despair. It wasn't fair. "Down the hall," I nodded toward the narrow…