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墨書 Inktalez
The white mist from the humidifier twisted and morphed in the air, like ghostly hands stretching and clawing.
Suddenly, the phone on the bedside table erupted with a piercing ringtone that shattered the eerie silence.
I jolted awake, my heart racing, cold sweat instantly soaking my pajamas.
The caller ID displayed a chilling string of zeros, 0000, like the eyes of death staring directly at me.
The once faint hum from the air conditioning vent now roared in my ears, transforming into the deafening thunder of a storm from five years ago, as if it were about to consume me.
"Are you okay?"
A raspy voice came through the phone, scraping against my eardrum like a rusty saw, sending sharp jolts through my nerves.
The phone slipped from my clammy palm, leaving a steaming indentation on the sheets, as if it had branded me, an imprint that wouldn’t fade.
My wife turned over in her sleep, making a soft rustling sound.
Yet that subtle noise made me hear another sound—the scratching of nails against asphalt, sharp and grating, sending chills down my spine.
It felt as if that sound seeped through my fingertips, tainted with the metallic scent of rusted blood, lingering in my mind.
Cold sweat trickled down my ribs into my navel, icy and bone-chilling.
That rainy night from five years ago, that horrifying scene replayed vividly on my retina, as clear as if it were happening yesterday.
The dull thud of a man's head striking the manhole cover echoed again and again, sharper than the creaking springs of the mattress as my wife shifted beside me.
I instinctively touched the wedding ring on my ring finger, the cold metal pressing against my skin.
Inside the band, that indelible dark red seemed to silently accuse me, reminding me of a past I wished to forget.
"Did you have a nightmare?"
My wife's fingertips gently brushed my back, but I recoiled as if shocked, staring at her in terror.
Moonlight streamed through the gap in the curtains, casting a barred shadow across her face beneath her eyelashes.
In my eyes, those shadows transformed into a warning line swaying in the rain at night, separating us into two worlds.
She reached out to turn on the bedside lamp, but I gripped her wrist tightly; in the darkness, the sharp crack of dislocated joints echoed clearly.
I trembled as I picked up my phone and redialed the anonymous number, only to hear the cold prompt: disconnected number.
My heart sank, an ominous premonition rising within me.
I hid in the bathroom stall, shaking as I checked my recent call log, desperately searching for any clue.
The dripping sound from the toilet tank gradually morphed into the sound of raindrops hitting a bomb-proof helmet—one after another, pounding against my nerves.
Five years ago, the man's face from the police dispatch record suddenly appeared in my mind's eye, pale and twisted.
His mouth stretched open, black water spilling forth as if he were a messenger from hell, ready to drag me into the abyss.
The Black Water slowly melted away the distorted reflection of myself in the mirror, and I seemed to glimpse the fear and despair within my heart.
"Would you like some hot cocoa?"
My wife stood at the door with a mug in her hands, her fingers trembling slightly. The rim of the cup clinked against my teeth, producing a sharp sound like porcelain colliding.
The faint blue veins on her wrist reminded me of the photograph of the venous network in the Forensic Report, a sight that was shocking.
At that moment, my service weapon lay pressed against that report, its barrel still warm from the recent discharge.
Four O Seven AM, my phone rang again, like a death knell, pulling me from the nightmare.
I huddled behind the Laundry Basket on the balcony, staring at the screen flashing with the number 0000, fear washing over me like a tide.
The shadow cast by the drying rack tightened around my neck, making it hard to breathe.
Suddenly, the washing machine's drainage pipe spewed forth a puddle of foamy Black Water, creeping over my bare feet—cold and slimy, it made me feel nauseous.
"Don't answer the phone!"
My shout startled a crow outside, its cawing echoing harshly in the silent night sky.
My wife stood frozen in the middle of the living room, her nightgown's belt hanging down to the floor, resembling that bicycle chain from the crime scene photo that had been tightened around a man's neck, sending chills down my spine.
I frantically tapped the redial button, my nails scratching across the screen and leaving five bloody streaks as if I were trying to tear it apart.
Five years ago, the rain began to fall in the living room, the cold droplets soaking my face and my heart.
I saw my reflection holding a gun, the bullet piercing through the frosted glass of the bathroom, blooming a dark red flower on the man's temple.
Blood splattered onto the display screen of the water heater, and the time 04:47 suddenly changed to 04:48 on my phone screen.
Time seemed to freeze at that moment, leaving me breathless.
"Your temperature is so high."
When my wife leaned in, I could no longer hold back and vomited onto the Persian carpet.
The golden needle mushrooms in my vomit resembled bullet fragments pinched by a forensic tweezers, fragments I had hidden at the bottom of the locker in the police station, stacked together with a Wedding Anniversary Card.
As the third vibration pulsed through my palm, I was scrubbing the stain on the carpet, trying to erase that unbearable memory.
The number 0000 flickered in the washing machine drum, swirling with soapy water like a vortex, threatening to pull me in.
I reached out to grab it but touched a clump of wet hair instead.
That lock of hair was tangled in the drain filter, its ends still tied with half of a broken Wedding Ring.
Just as the drum came to a stop, the phone in the living room rang suddenly, its piercing tone shattering the morning tranquility.
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