Good choice 😈
Option 3 means we escalate the horror. Not louder—meaner, more personal, more disturbing.
This is where the story starts to crawl u
Cynthia did not return to class.
She stayed where she was, seated on the cold concrete floor behind the lecture hall, her back pressed against the wall as if it might anchor her to something solid. The photograph lay face-down beside her, as though even looking at it might invite something worse.
Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.
She told herself to breathe. In. Out. Slowly. The way Mara always said during her prayers. But every breath felt shallow, incomplete—like her lungs refused to fully cooperate.
The bell rang.
Students poured out of the building in clusters, laughing, complaining, arguing. Their voices sounded distant, muffled, like Cynthia was underwater. A few people glanced at her as they passed, curiosity flickering across their faces, but no one stopped.
No one ever stopped.
Eventually, Alex found her.
"Cynthia," he said quietly, crouching in front of her. "You scared me. What's going on?"
She looked at him and almost laughed at how normal he looked. How untouched. How unaware.
"Someone put something in my bag," she said.
His expression hardened. "What?"
She handed him the photograph.
He frowned as he turned it over, confusion giving way to unease. "That's… Janet."
"Yes."
"When was this taken?"
"The day we fought," Cynthia whispered. "The last day."
Alex swallowed. "Who would do this?"
Cynthia didn't answer.
Because deep down, the question wasn't who.
It was why now.
That evening, the rain started without warning.
By the time Cynthia returned to the hostel, the sky had darkened into a bruised purple, clouds sagging low as if ready to collapse. Thunder growled in the distance—slow, deliberate, like a warning.
She climbed the stairs slowly, each step heavier than the last.
Her room door was closed.
That wasn't unusual.
But something about it felt… wrong.
She paused, keys dangling loosely from her fingers.
The hallway was empty. Too quiet. Even the usual chatter from nearby rooms was absent. The lights flickered once, then steadied.
"Get a grip," she muttered to herself.
She unlocked the door.
The smell hit her first.
Sharp. Metallic. Rotten.
Her stomach lurched violently.
"—oh God."
The lights were on.
Her bed was untouched. Mara's side neat, as always. But on Cynthia's desk—right in the center, where she couldn't miss it—sat a small cardboard box.
Open.
Inside it was something wrapped in clear plastic.
Cynthia's legs refused to move.
Her brain screamed at her not to look. To turn around. To run. But fear pinned her in place, forcing her eyes forward inch by inch.
It was a finger.
Human.
Severed cleanly at the knuckle.
The nail was painted.
A faded shade of pink.
Cynthia screamed.
The sound tore out of her throat, raw and broken, echoing down the hallway. She stumbled backward, slamming into the wall as bile burned its way up her throat.
"No—no—no—no—"
Her vision blurred as tears streamed down her face. She clutched at her chest, gasping, her body shaking uncontrollably.
Taped to the inside of the box lid was a folded note.
Her name written neatly on the front.
She didn't want to read it.
She already knew it wasn't mercy.
With trembling fingers, she unfolded the paper.
You took your hands away when she needed you most.
So I brought you one instead.
Cynthia collapsed to the floor.
Her scream this time was silent.
The room filled quickly after that.
Mara arrived first, her face draining of color the moment she saw the box.
"Oh my God," she whispered, pressing a hand to her mouth. "Cynthia… what is this?"
"I didn't do anything," Cynthia sobbed, rocking back and forth. "I swear—I didn't—"
"I know," Mara said quickly, kneeling beside her and pulling her into a tight embrace. Her voice trembled despite her attempt at calm. "I know."
Campus security came. Then the police.
Questions followed. Endless, suffocating questions.
Where were you today?
Who have you told?
Have you been threatened before?
Cynthia answered mechanically, like a puppet reciting lines. The finger was taken away in an evidence bag. The box. The note. All of it.
But the smell lingered.
Even after the room was cleaned.
Even after the officers left.
Even after night fell.
Later, long after Mara had fallen asleep with the Bible clutched to her chest, Cynthia lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
Her phone buzzed.
She didn't scream this time.
She didn't even flinch.
She picked it up.
Unknown Number:
Next time, I won't leave a part behind.
Cynthia closed her eyes.
Somewhere deep inside her, beneath the terror and the guilt and the breaking pieces of her sanity, a single truth settled like a stone:
This wasn't about fear anymore.
This was about punishment.
And whoever was doing this wasn't going to stop—
not until the forest,
not until everything buried was uncovered,
not until blood answered blood.