Echo in the Night|| OC

Chapter Twenty Three: A Cottage Full of Traumatized Queers

TW: mild violence? I'm not completely sure what to put, honestly. Just felt it deserved a trigger warning.

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"Echo!"

Echo's heart pounded like ritual drums, the adrenaline that coursed through her veins made her stomach churn and her body shake. Her legs felt like lead as she pumped them harder, refusing to let them slow. Branches, leaves, anything that disrupted her path were swatted away and given no extra thought. Each intake of panicked breath burned her lungs.

Echo tried to call out again, but nothing came out, still she shouted, hoping she could hear her; hoping that she would know that she wasn't abandoning her, that she was coming like she always did. 

"Echo!"

There was her voice again. Closer. It sounded closer. Echo quickened her pace, ignoring the gut feeling of Déjà vu. The voice was like a Siren's, luring Echo in like a sailor with their soft symphony of entrancing songs, placing them under a spell with their own naiveté just to spill their blood.

A familiar snarl reached her ears; a vicious snarl that echoed, only promising its victim a painful slaughter. The hair on Echo's arms and neck stood on end, a chill ran down her spine like she was whipped with an icy wind.

Unwarranted, Echo's body stopped in an empty clearing. The full moon shone above, illuminating the area like a soft spotlight. This all felt like a distant memory from another life, a life that Echo never owned.

Echo whipped her head around, searching for the source of the animalistic snarl. Every time she turned, the snarling would only come from a different direction. It came closer and closer. It came from every angle. It surrounded her. It mocked her.

"ECHO!"

The voice. The ear piercing scream sounded far off, filled with desperation and fear that made Echo's stomach drop. Echo tried moving in the direction of her voice, but her legs refused to move, like they didn't belong to her; like they didn't take orders from her.

Echo struggled against her invisible hold. The panic that engulfed her was overwhelming. Her breathing turned erratic; her eyes were like a camera lens, pulling in and out of focus as they darted around the clearing with a rapid pace.

The snap of a twig made Echo still. The snarling vanished. An unearthly silence somehow echoed. The only sound was Echo's pounding heart beat that increased by ten-fold. Echo swallowed, reminding herself of her sandpaper of a throat.

The panic was replaced by anticipation, mingling with the thick silence that filled the air.

Echo caught the scent of something familiar. She inhaled deeply, the scent of chocolate, old books, and a meadow invaded her nostrils. It brought her a false sense of security; tucking her in a blanket of faux comfort and safety.

That illusion of comfort vanished with the silence as a broken voice whispered,

"Echo. . . ."

In any other setting, the whisper wouldn't be heard, but it was loud as the gentle gust of wind carried it through the trees.

Echo felt her body turn around, like it wasn't her choice to make — all of this felt like it wasn't her choice, like she was only re-enacting a part of somebody else's life. 

Her breath hitched in her throat, drying it out further. The voice wasn't alone.

Doe-like eyes stared at Echo with terror; terror that could wordlessly persuade a group of gladiators to retreat home with trembled bodies. The little girl's lips quivered violently.