Creative Writing

The Whisperer


She woke up in an abandoned warehouse.  Assessing her surroundings, she realized she had no idea where she was. Her clothes were dirty and she hurt in so many places that there was no way of knowing where each pain originated.  She wasn’t all that cold, but she was shivering. Why am I shaking?  It was fear, pure and simple. Gingerly, the girl got up off the ground.  She began to wipe at her clothing absentmindedly, but stopped herself.  As if that would make a difference.  Her machinations wouldn’t begin to wash away all of the dirt, the pain…the uneasiness.  What happened to her?  How did she get here? Even more frightening, who was she?  Who am I?

Her stomach knotted and she got such a strong sense of foreboding that she knew she had to get out of there.  After a couple of steps, she tripped over something substantial.  Was that a body?  Too afraid to turn back, she continued walking.  It was so hard to do this safely because there was barely any light in the warehouse.  She intuitively knew that time was of the essence, so she kept moving.  Finally, she reached the door and walked through it.  So happy that she made it out of the building, she no longer wondered why she wasn’t in any more pain.

She ended up on a relatively empty street.  Without any clue of who or where she was, she had no idea where to go.  Wait, I can go to the police!  She decided that the next seemingly sane person she saw, she would ask where the nearest police station was.  She kept walking and eventually ran into a woman.  She tried to ask the woman for help but it was like the woman didn’t care.  The woman reacted to the girl, but didn’t respond to any of her requests.  It was almost as if the woman was ignoring her.  What am I going to do? 

Despairing, she began to cry.   What do you do when you know something terrible has happened to you but you have no idea of how to deal with it?  As she wandered, she saw a group of teenagers leaving a diner across the street.  She ran up to them, again, trying to ask for help, but they wouldn’t even acknowledge her. Feeling hopeless, she crossed the street to the diner’s entrance and walked through.  There was no one in the front of the establishment so she moved to call out a greeting. 

“They can’t help you.”

She turned around to see a man sitting in a booth in the farthest corner. Finally! What did he mean they can’t help me?  Wait.  How did he hear me?

“Exactly what I said, they can’t help you. None of them can.”

Frantic. Why? Why? Why? Why? Repeated over and over in her head.

And then he answered…

“Because you’re dead.”


© 2013 by Dollf8ced


One thought on “The Whisperer

  1. It’s not fair that after all these years, there’s no applause or at least a thank you for piecing up this nice story. Don’t want to know what happened after because it caught me. More like a reason why some of these dreadful zombie films are surviving for it seems they took their history from you but had to change characters and some technical *ish.

    I felt every bit of the story and I can now move to see how it ended- no matter how sad or happy it may be.

    Nice one!

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