"One More"
I woke up this morning completely alone. Now, I know how that sounds. It’s normal for a lot of people my age to wake up alone, especially if they’re single like me. But I don’t live on my own. I moved in with my grandmother last year after she had a stroke. My grandfather died a few years ago, so she had no one to take care of her other than my parents, and that wasn’t happening. I’ve been giving her the proper care she needs for months now, and it’s been strenuous, but I have nothing better to do with my time. But, this morning, when I woke up, my grandmother was… gone. Not like dead gone, just gone.
At first, I figured she’d wandered off. It happens sometimes; she’ll end up in our neighbor’s garden or in Grandpa’s shed. But I still couldn’t find her after checking all of her usual spots. After that, I started to panic a little bit. Where could she have gone? Did someone find her and bring her to the police station? My stomach was twisted in a knot as I imagined all of the horrible possibilities while dialing 9-1-1.
“We’re sorry, the number you dialed is not currently in service. Please try again.”
What the Hell? How could 9-1-1 not be in service? I frowned, figuring I’d somehow dialed it 9-1-2 or something stupid like that. But I tried again and got the same response. I didn’t know what was going on. I figured that it was a lost cause, and at least tried to call my parents’ house. It rang once. Twice. Three times. By the sixth ring, I was growing exasperated. ‘C’mon, Dad,’ I thought. ‘Get out of bed.’
The first time I heard the voice mailbox, I wasn’t too surprised. The phone was on the other end of the house from my parents’ room, it would take them a little bit to pick it up. I didn’t even get nervous the second time. By the third, I decided to leave a message.
“Hey, it’s Rick. Grandma’s not here. I think she might have wandered off again. I can’t get in touch with emergency services. If you could pick up the phone now it would be great. Please… Pick up the phone… Guys…” I sighed. “Alright, I’m gonna call again now. Pick up when I do. It’s your son.”
My fourth time calling home, it went straight to voicemail. I groaned loudly in frustration and hung up, immediately dialing again. This time, it picked up halfway through the third ring. I perked up in an instant.
“Hello?” I greeted cautiously. No response. “... Mom?” Nothing. “Dad?”
I couldn’t even hear breathing on the other end of the phone line. It was complete silence. For a moment, I thought that whoever picked up had hung up immediately, but the call was still ongoing.
That’s when the noise started.
A low, long groan on the other line. Like someone had gotten punched in the stomach. It sounded pained; the sound you’d expect someone having a heart attack would make if they could speak.
“Dad?!” I assumed, my heart beating in my throat.
No response. Just louder groaning. Like a door creaking open. I was starting to feel sick with worry. It was overwhelmingly upsetting.
Then, I heard shuffling. The sound of the phone being handed off to someone else. My fretting ceased for a moment. Finally, someone was going to explain what was happening. I heard my mother clear her throat.
“Hello?” She greeted.
“Mom,” I sighed gratefully. “What’s going on?”
“Who is this?” She asked, voice cheery.
“Mo- it’s… Rick, Ma. What was that sound? Is Dad hurt?”
“Your father’s fine, Rick. What’s going on?” Something about the way she asked that sent chills down my spine. It was almost mimicking the way I’d asked her the same question. I shivered.
“Grandma’s missing. I can’t find her, and I can’t get ahold of anyone.”
“... One more,” Mom said after a while. Her voice was lower than I’d ever heard it, more stern than I knew she was capable of. I swallowed.
“What?” I questioned, voice shaking.
“I said one moment,” she replied, her tone once again cheery.
The groaning started up again after that. My knees were starting to give out, and my stomach was in knots. I sat down on the couch, feeling dizzy with fear. I didn’t really know what was happening, only that it was bad. The groaning didn’t last as long this time, softening to a light hum after a few seconds. Then, the shuffling noise again.
“Ricky,” my grandmother’s voice greeted me. I shook my head in disbelief.
“Grandma?” My voice was barely above a whisper. “Where are you?”
“I’m here,” she said.
“What are you doing at Mom’s house?” I asked. She hummed thoughtfully.
“... I don’t know. Why don’t you come visit?” I gulped.
“You should be here,” I said. “How did you get all the way to Mom’s?”
“Come visit,” She repeated in the same tone.
As soon as she said that, the groaning started again, and it didn’t stop. It grew increasingly louder and more pained-sounding. Eventually, I couldn’t bear it anymore, and I hung up the phone, wiping my sweaty palms on my shorts. I decided that I needed to go on a walk, get some fresh air. I’m not the most active person, but I always feel restless when I start to get nervous. A walk would calm my nerves, and I could assess the situation.
That was when I realized just how bad things were. At nine in the morning (on Sunday of all days), most people are awake. I didn’t expect to bump into anyone I knew or anything like that, but I expected at least some sign of life. Kids riding their scooters on the road, an old man mowing his lawn, at the very least a car driving by! But there was no one. Now, I live in a fairly small town. Our population is diminutive, but it’s not a ghost town.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up when I registered that I was alone. Something about walking down a street that was completely silent only worsened my anxiety. Trying to brush it off as some weird fluke, I continued my stroll.
Then I noticed something strange. Every empty house that I walked by had two things that were off about them. For one, their cars were either completely destroyed (slashed tires, smashed windows, keyed doors, etc), or gone altogether. And for two, all of their doors and windows were wide open. It was like they were attempting to air out their house. ’Or flee,” I thought. ‘Escape through the nearest opening.’
All of the tiny hairs on my body stood up straight, my skin goosing. I turned around and started sprinting home. Now, again, I’m not a fit person. I’m probably fifty pounds overweight. I haven’t run that fast since I was a little kid. I wasn’t far from my house, but every second of that run was torture. Not just physically (Although I will admit that was a hindrance; I really need to get in shape. Maybe I’ll take up cardio if all of this blows over.), but mentally. In full-panic mode, my brain started to play tricks on me. I’d hear the echo of my footsteps just a second too late for me to believe I was really alone, and in that moment, the thought of someone being with me was infinitely more terrifying than being alone. I’m thankful for that panic now. Without it, I might not have been able to get home in time.
As soon as I entered my house, I locked all the doors and windows, shut all the blinds, and shut myself in my bedroom. I moved my bureau in front of the door, just in case, and immediately pulled out my cell phone. I didn’t have any missed calls or text messages; or any signal, for that matter. I’m surprised I even have power at this point. Maybe I should have shut off the lights. Oh well. Too late now.
It couldn’t have been that much longer when the banging started. Terrible, loud banging, as if dozens of people are slamming their entire bodies against the walls of my house. In fact, I’m sure that’s exactly what’s happening, although I’m doubtful that whatever’s doing it is a person at all. They’re certainly not human.
Along with the banging came the voices. First my mom. Then my grandma. Then my dad. After a while, I started to hear nearly everyone I was close to. My uncle, who died when I was twelve. My best friend from elementary school. The first girl I kissed. Terrible, loud banging accompanied by terrible, loud voices. They’re all saying the same thing, in near-perfect unison.
“One more.”
“One more.”
“ONE MORE.”
“ONE MORE.”
I’m writing this because I’m pretty sure I’m going to die. If whatever’s outside gets inside, I have nowhere to go. And if the way my walls are shaking is any indication of the future, I’m sure they’re going to get inside pretty soon. If you’re reading this, don’t get freaked out. Trust no one. Lock your doors. Good luck.
