The Memories That Haunt Me | Completed ✅

Chapter 2 ~ The Icy Touch

Chapter 2

I finish the soup and sit the tray onto the table. Tom hasn't returned, and I'm grateful. I feel horrible for not remembering him. He's my husband. Surely, I should remember something, but it's as if my life has been erased.

On cue, a soft tap sounds against the bedroom door. I sit up, tucking the blanket around my waist. "Come in," I call out softly, but nothing happens. I wait, and after a few moments, the tapping sounds again. "Come in," I repeat, raising my voice, but once again, there's no response.

Slowly, I climb out of the bed and approach the door. When I open it, an empty hallway greets me. I let my head turn, first left, then right, but there's nobody.

My gaze lands on the wall in front of me. An outline marks the wallpaper, a rectangle, darker than the rest of the beige surface. A picture had hung there, long enough to leave this spot behind as evidence of its disappearance.

My eyes travel as I journey, finding more marks, much the same, more missing photos, varying in sizes and positioning, dozens of them. It seems strange, and my nerves become even more on edge.

A loud thud echoes out from somewhere behind me, and I squeak, whipping around as my heart rises up into my throat.

Nothing.

I stare, each breath shallow as I fight to remain silent, waiting for the sound to happen again.

Nothing.

Reluctantly, I continue forward. Three more doors line the hallway, one at the end, and one on each side. I move to the closest and slowly turn the knob.

It's a guest room, decorated in pale pinks and the color of peaches. Floral curtains cover the window, billowing out in the wind pouring in through the opening. I rush over and pull it closed. This must have caused the noises, I rationalize.

The bedroom door suddenly swings shut, slamming so hard the hinges rattle.

I spin around on my heels, almost falling in my startled movement. The room is empty, but I can feel eyes upon me, watching me. I continue to try and remain rational. It was the air pressure that forced the door to close. I'm just stressed, nervous, paranoid, but still, I feel them, burning a hole into me.

Uneasiness settles down upon me, like a hundred pound weight, and my mind begins to play tricks. The more I strain my ears, the more I think I hear breathing, deep and ragged, coming from everywhere and nowhere. "Tom," I call out quietly, the sound echoing out in the terrifying silence.

A painting flies off the wall in response. As if thrown, it hurls its way across the room and into the opposite wall, shattering into a pile of sharp shards and shattered pieces.

With another squeak, I stumble backwards, only stopping when my back meets the wooden dresser behind me.

The breathing starts again, louder, drawing closer. I hold my breath, my heart pounding like the base of a tribal drum.

I close my eyes, clenching them, and as the sounds grow more and more pronounced, so does the beating drum that had once been my heart.

Cold fingers caress the side of my neck, and I collapse. A scream so loud my throat could bleed rips out of me, and the bedroom door flies open, revealing a panicked Tom.

"Hey! I got you," he insists as he rushes towards me.

I stay perfectly still, unable to do anything else. It's as if every muscle was frozen into place the minute that icy touch settled against my skin. It had been real, so real and so terrifying. "Is our house haunted?" I rasp as Tom's arms circle me.

He leans back and studies my face. "Why do you ask that?"

"The picture." I point to the pile of glass. "It just flew off the wall, and then..."

Tom looks to the mess, then back to me, his brow furrowed. "Then what? What happened, sweetheart?" In a tender movement, he pushes a stray hair behind my ear.

"Something touched me," I whisper, my hand coming up to the place where the icy fingers had lingered. I can still feel them there.

What scares me the most, however... more than the photo, more than the breathing, more than the touch itself...

It had been familiar.

My name, this house, the man who was meant to be my husband, all of it was strange and new, but the icy hand...

I know that touch. It lingers on my skin as if I've felt it a million times before.

"It's probably some ill effects from your head injury," Tom says, looking worried. "Let's get you back to bed. Hopefully the storm will pass soon."

He lifts me and begins carrying me back towards the bedroom.

My gaze lingers, once again, on the missing pictures. "Why are all the photos gone?"

Tom stiffens for a fraction of a second. "We were worried they'd become damaged, so we packed them all away."

I eye him, but don't detect any sign of deceit.

Tom lays me down across the mattress and places a kiss against my mouth. I jerk away, and he pulls back quickly. "I'm sorry," he relents, taking another step back with his hands in the air in front of him. "Habit. I'm sorry, Sarah." He appears so torn, so upset and worried.

Guilt gnawes at my gut. "It's alright," I softly say, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I'm sorry. I just..." I pause, eyeing the lightening still flashing outside the window. "I just don't remember."

Tom nods. "I know. It's going to be okay, Sarah. You will."

I smile at him, a soft smile that's forced, but it still seems to help ease him a bit.

"That's the spirit. Get some rest. Hopefully when you wake again, the storm will be gone, and we can get you to a doctor."

I watch him leave me once again, taking in his stiff posture. This must all be so terrible for him. His own wife doesn't remember who he is, is injured, and he's powerless to do anything to help her.

The air grows colder, and I touch my neck again, the icy fingers still fresh in my mind.