The Message
1278 Words
Nyra wakes choking.
Her body jerks upright before her mind catches up, lungs burning as if they’re still full of water. She claws at the sheets, fingers curling into fabric that offers no resistance, no escape. For one terrifying second, she’s back there darkness pressing in, cold ripping through her chest, the violent betrayal of her own breath as it turns against her.
Water floods her mouth.
Her scream never makes it past her throat.
Nyra gasps awake, sucking in air so hard it hurts, chest heaving, heart slamming against her ribs like it’s trying to break free. Sweat slicks her skin, her hair plastered to her temples.
Light spills through the blinds. Pale. Harmless. Morning.
She presses a trembling hand to her sternum, grounding herself in the familiar rise and fall of breathing. In. Out. Again.
“It was just a dream,” she whispers.
Her wrist throbs.
Not sharply. Not yet. Just enough to remind her it’s there. Always watching. Always waiting.
Her phone vibrates on the nightstand.
Nyra freezes.
The sound is soft, almost polite. It shouldn’t feel like a gunshot, but it does. Her gaze drifts toward it, dread crawling up her spine inch by inch.
The vibration stops.
Then starts again.
Her throat tightens. She reaches for the phone like it might bite her.
Unknown Number
Her pulse spikes so fast she feels lightheaded.
She opens the message.
> You screamed when the water hit your lungs.
The world tilts.
Nyra’s breath stutters, the words swimming on the screen as her vision blurs. Her hand flies to her mouth, nausea rising fast and violent.
She did.
She remembers that part with awful clarity the moment the cold shocked her system, ripped the air from her chest, forced a sound out of her that she didn’t recognize as her own. A scream born of pure animal terror.
No one was supposed to know that.
No one could know that.
Her fingers hover over the keyboard, numb.
Who is this? she types.
The message delivers instantly.
No reply.
Her wrist pulses harder now, heat blooming beneath her skin. She squeezes her forearm, teeth clenched.
“Don’t,” she whispers. “Please.”
The phone buzzes again.
Another message. This one with an attachment.
Her heart slams against her ribs so hard it hurts.
Don’t open it.
Her thumb moves anyway.
The image loads slowly, pixel by pixel, dragging the moment out like cruelty by design.
Then she sees it.
Herself.
Younger. Unconscious. Hair plastered to her face with seawater, skin ghost-pale under flashing emergency lights. She’s wrapped in a blanket she doesn’t remember, her body slack in someone else’s arms. Blood streaks down her temple.
The timestamp glows in the corner.
Seven years ago.
The night she died.
A sound tears out of her, a broken, strangled sob. She drops the phone, but it’s too late. The image is burned into her mind, etched deep and permanent.
“No,” she breathes, shaking her head violently. “That’s not possible.”
She never had proof. No photos. No witnesses willing to talk. Just fractured memories and a death certificate that felt more like a suggestion than a fact.
Her hands shake as she scrambles for the phone again, zooming in on the image like she might find an answer hidden in the pixels.
The background sharpens.
Wet sand. Emergency responders. A crowd held back by tape.
And there half-obscured by shadow at the edge of the frame
A man.
Broad-shouldered. Tall. His face turned slightly toward the camera, as if he knows he’s being watched. As if he’s watching back.
Nyra’s stomach drops.
She doesn’t recognize him.
But her body reacts anyway.
Her wrist flares, pain slicing up her arm so sharply she cries out. The phone slips from her grasp as she doubles over, clutching her forearm tight against her chest.
The pain is different this time. Not just heat pressure. Like something inside her is pushing outward, waking up.
“Why?” she gasps. “Why now?”
The sensation ebbs slowly, leaving her skin buzzing, hypersensitive, every nerve ending screaming.
Her phone vibrates again.
She doesn’t want to look.
She does.
> You don’t remember me.
Her chest tightens painfully.
Who are you? she types, anger cutting through fear like a blade. What do you want?
The typing dots appear.
Disappear.
Then:
> You weren’t supposed to live.
Rage flashes hot and blinding.
Then you shouldn’t have saved me.
The reply comes instantly.
> I didn’t.
Her breath catches so hard it feels like her lungs lock.
She stumbles out of bed, pacing the apartment, dragging a hand through her hair. “This is a sick joke,” she mutters. “Someone’s messing with me.”
But her wrist throbs in steady, traitorous agreement with every word on the screen.
The phone buzzes again.
> Check the scar on your ribs.
Her steps falter.
“No,” she whispers, fear pooling thick and heavy in her gut.
She lifts her shirt anyway.
The scar is faint but unmistakable, a pale, jagged line just beneath her right rib. She’s told herself for years it came from broken glass. A car accident. Something mundane.
Her fingers press gently against it.
Pain flares deep and sharp, nothing like surface damage.
Her knees buckle.
Memory slams into her in violent flashes bright lights overhead, the smell of antiseptic, voices arguing. We’re losing her. We don’t have time.
She thought those were nightmares.
Her phone vibrates again.
She can barely see the screen through the tears.
Another image loads.
A surgical room. Cold. Clinical. Her body lies open on a table, chest partially exposed, wires and monitors everywhere. Her face is turned away, mercifully hidden.
Gloved hands hover in the frame.
Holding something dark.
Something slick.
Her heart.
Nyra screams.
The sound is raw and unrestrained, tearing out of her throat as she drops the phone and scrambles backward until her spine hits the counter. She slides down it, shaking, chest aching like it’s being crushed from the inside.
“No,” she sobs. “That’s not real. That’s not”
Her phone vibrates again, relentless.
She doesn’t want to look.
She does anyway.
> You died for ninety-three seconds.
Her vision tunnels.
> They called it a failure.
Her wrist burns like fire now, heat radiating up her arm, into her chest. She curls inward, pressing her forearm tight against her ribs like she can contain whatever is waking inside her.
“Who are they?” she whispers to the empty room.
Another message arrives.
> The same people looking for you now.
A sharp knock sounds at the door.
Nyra’s head snaps up, terror flooding her veins.
The knock is firm. Controlled. Deliberate.
She stares at the door, heart hammering so violently she feels dizzy.
Her phone buzzes in her hand.
> They’re close.
The knock comes again.
“Nyra,” a male voice calls softly through the door.
Her blood turns to ice.
She doesn’t recognize the voice but something about it makes her skin prickle, her wrist throb harder.
“Nyra,” he repeats. “I know you’re awake.”
Her phone vibrates one last time.
> Open your door, Nyra.
She shakes her head, tears spilling freely now. “Who are you?” she whispers, voice breaking.
On the other side of the door, the man exhales, a slow, controlled breath.
“The one who was there,” he says quietly. “The night you drowned.”
Her wrist flares with searing heat.
And then
The lock clicks.
Not from her side.
Nyra scrambles backward as the handle slowly begins to turn.
- Writer
