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The past week had been... disturbing. First, a sink full of hot blood and then a mutilated corpse falling out of her closet. Fallon did not feel well; she hadn't ever since she'd seen the red staining the kitchen sink. Despite all the strangeness of it, she had avoided discussing it with anyone, even those who were present for the events. It was as if speaking it out loud would force Fallon to deal with a situation that she wanted to block from her memory. After the incident with the blood, she had sat in her shower for hours, only emerging when she feared she might pass out from dehydration. After the more startling incident with the body in her closet, Fallon had refused to sleep in her bedroom, instead lingering in the study and nodding in and out of consciousness. Eventually, she returned to her room, but she emptied her entire closet, leaving the doors open at all times. She would not have a stowaway again -- or had she had one at all? It was all so confusing, so disorienting. Part of Fallon feared that she might have finally gone insane, that -- somehow -- her OCD had warped her brain so that the entire world seemed a disorderly fun house of horrors.

Raking a hand through reddish-brown hair, she stared at her bare closet, sitting on the edge of her bed. She did this often -- sitting and staring at the blank wall and body-less carpet. Fallon did not like to confide in others, but she felt like she had to do it. Perhaps, if she did, this weight would lift off of her chest. But another Barren Pines student? The thought rattled her. These were people she saw everyday. She didn't want them to think she was crazy. Regardless of all the rumors of multiple incidents, Fallon continued to believe that she was simply going insane.

So she decided to call the only person she could think of who was removed enough from the situation, a person who, if they thought she was nuts, she would not have to interact with everyday. Flipping open her cell phone, she searched for Melinda's number. A phone call might be too direct. Perhaps a text message would be a nice distant way of discussing the thing that had been keeping her up at night.



Fallon read over the message three times before she sent it on, her phone offering a soft tinkling sound to let her know it had been sent successfully. It wasn't like she could open with, "Oh, hey, Mel. I know we have spoken in a few days. So -- have you ever had a kitchen faucet spout blood at you, or a weird corpse fall out of your closet?" No, this seemed like a good starter, a way to gradually work up to the thing she wanted to discuss. Setting her phone on the bedspread beside her, Fallon folded her arms in her lap, trying desperately not to complusively check the phone every three seconds -- which she totally did.

The time that passed between Fallon's initial message and the response from Melinda was terrible. Fallon tried to distract herself with needlework, but when her phone finally went off, she practically dove for it, fingers searching for the keys. She read the message and smiled at the end, happy to see that Melinda had enjoyed it. She had expected no less, but it was always good to hear praise for her work.

Swallowing down any trepidation she might feel, Fallon took her time and composed the next message.



It seemed like an easy enough way to lead into the topic that she felt she needed to discuss. If Fallon said anything to her peers, she might have to talk about it more than she wanted. No, Melinda was a safe bet. Her fingers returned swiftly to the needlework, an easy distraction for an anxious conversation.

It wasn't like Fallon to unload on people, but in her defense, some pretty ******** up s**t had been going on at Barren Pines. Mayhem could be okay -- if Fallon was in control. But she wasn't. And rotted bodies were falling out of her closets, blood filling her sinks, perverse thoughts flooding her mind. Perhaps if she simply spoke to someone else about it she would feel better?

Knitting her brows together, Fallon flipped her phone open, read Melinda's response, and then tried to think of the least awkward and attention-seeking way she could possible word any of this. Would Melinda even believe her? Fallon wasn't sure she believed herself... Tapping a painted nail on the side of the phone, Fallon eyed the screen hard, magenta eyes narrowing. After several moments, she began to type.



"Ouch," Fallon hissed, snatching her thumb back from the phone. The second she had started to finish the sentence, a shooting pain seared through her thumb. Had she cut it while cooking and not noticed? Lifting her finger to the light, she eyed it for tell-tale marks -- but there were none. How odd. Rubbing at the spot, she lifted her phone and began to type again.

This time, her wrist felt as though someone was twisting it. Hard. She let out a tiny yelp of surprise, phone clattering to the floor. What was going on? Determination set hard in her jawline, and Fallon rose from the bed. Crossing to pick up her phone, she tapped the cursor and brought the glow back. "Odd," she said to no one in particular. Fallon began to type again, managing to bang out the letters "b-u-t" as the pain in her hands grew stronger and stronger. Her thumb tapped the space bar, and then it struck. A feeling like a metal rod being slammed into her back.

Fallon fell to the carpet, knees landing heavy. She realized with a groan that she was sprawled out in the same place that the body had once been. Wriggling as best she could, Fallon moved a foot to the right to get out of the spot. Her whole body was shaking. A finger reached for the phone, and another tremor rocked her body. Fallon had never had a seizure before, but it felt like she might be on the verge of one.

A trembling hand pounded against the phone, and Fallon managed to send the following text:



Fallon whimpered on the carpet, curling her hands toward her chest. What the ******** was going on? What was wrong with her hands? She stared at the phone, magenta eyes blinking in confusion. It was too much to focus on now; it was all she could do not to throw up from the nausea that was terrorizing her system. She didn't even realize she had sent a text message at all.

Still sprawled on her carpet, Fallon clutched one hand to her stomach, the other bent weakly by her face. She felt so disoriented, like something invisible was in the room forcing her into submission. Control... where had hers gone? She made a whining noise in the back of her throat, head throbbing. Just out of arm's reach, Fallon's cellphone began to vibrate and a light chiming tone tolled in even beats -- her ringtone. Someone was calling?

At first, Fallon just stared at the phone. She was nervous about touching it, like a mouse in an experiment who'd tried to eat the electrified cheese. But she always answered on the third ring. Always. Her compulsions won out over pain, and Fallon reached for the phone, flipping it open with her thumb. So far -- nothing. She lifted it to her mouth, still too stunned to try and sit up. "Melinda?" she said, voice a bit weak. The entire experience had jarred her, and as she waited for a response from Melinda, she couldn't help but fear that the pain would come back.

Like so many things at Barren Pines, Fallon didn't understand it. She wanted to seek out more answers, to unravel whatever was changing the order of things -- an order she depended on for sanity, but she couldn't do it until her head stopped spinning. "I..." she began, unsure of what to say. She simply let her voice fall into silence, the throbbing in her head gradually receding as if in response to her self-imposed quiet.

Fallon was afraid to speak, her usual active conversation style muted. It was as if she were in a horror movie where a terrifying creature had just run under her bed and now she had to make the decision to lift the bed skirt and wish sudden death. Chalking it up to insanity, Fallon licked her lips and then decided to try again. "I know. I was trying to talk to you about some things that happened to me this week at Ba--UGNH!" If Fallon thought the pain of trying to text the answers was hard, the excrutiating tremors that rocked her body and squeezed the air out of her lungs were worse. Even if she had wanted to say something, there was no way she would be able to do it. It was as if there was an invisible hand gripping her throat and squeezing -- hard.

Her legs kicked out from her body and she made a series of strangled noises. Then, as if someone else was moving her body, Fallon shot a hand out and slammed her phone shut, hanging up on Melinda. If Melinda tried to call back, Fallon would be unable to answer. The pressure on her throat was making things go black. Collapsing back to the floor, Fallon sputtered weakly, eyes searching for some sign of an answer. The only thing she saw were a couple pencil shavings that seem to have been wedged under her door. Andeon. Despite the pain, Fallon wriggled forward until the mess was within hands reach, and slowly, very slowly, she began to collect all the debris in the palm of her hand, sliver by sliver. It made her chest stop swelling, but it did not change the fact that her voice still eluded her, her arms still tingled with pain, and her head was pounding like a truck shooting across uneven highway.

But Fallon did not call back.

She remained on the freshly-vacuumed carpet of her single room at Barren Pines, one hand clutching her stomach, the other rubbing her forehead. Her mind reeled to make sense of what had just happened. A test, she decided, was in order. Struggling to sit up, Fallon pulled her long hair neatly over one shoulder, folding her hands in her lap. Okay. She would try this. Clearing her throat, she tilted her chin up and spoke to the empty room, "A few days ago, while dining with Serenade, a mutilated body fell out of my closet and then disappeared after the lights flickered." Her heart was beating faster than usual, and Fallon waited three beats before continuing. "Before that, I was in the kitchen with Kimmie, and the faucet began to fill the sink with blood. When we tried to get help and came back, everything was back to normal." Again, nothing. She tried one last time. "When Leonette was over to assemble our puzzle, the faces on the box suddenly transformed into grinning skulls. I do not believe she did it." Looking over each shoulder, Fallon waited for the wrath of the invisible attacker to descend upon her.

And yet, nothing happened. Not even a tremor of pain.

Had she hallucinated the pain too? Perhaps she had an ulcer that flared up under the anxiety she felt over talking to Melinda about this? Maybe she was epileptic? All of these were plausible answers to a very bizarre situation. So why didn't they feel right? Fallon hated ruminating on any of this. She simply wanted her life to go back to normal, to fall back into the usual pattern that dominated her days and nights every since she was old enough to make her own decisions. Whatever this was, it made her skin prickle -- and Fallon hated it, despised it, loathed it. Rage, frustration, and anger welled up in her so quickly she feared she might burst.

Instead, she decide to try again. Getting slowly to her feet, Fallon crossed to her desk and pulled out her stationary set. Before she could write the letter, she had to organize each paper, set out her ink and fountain pen, straighten her entire desk, and run a white cloth over the area to get rid of dust. Dipping the tip of the pen, she began to write a letter to Melinda.



Fallon took a breath and adjusted the pen in her hands before she continued.



Her hand stopped cooperating as if it had been suddenly bashed with a hammer. Fallon let out a strangled cry, gripping her wrist. Her hand jerked erratically, drawing thick lines of ink through everything she had written so far until tiny flecks of purple ink speckled her desk and her shirt. Fallon tried to force her hand to keep writing, but the pain got worse. Without warning, she tipped out of her chair, collapsing to the floor and knocking her inkwell over. She watched as the thick, purple ink gushed onto her cream carpet.

"NO," she barked hoarsely. Forgetting the letter, Fallon ran to her bed, falling to her knees and pulling out the first Tupper Ware container. It seemed to contain every cleaning supply known to man. Ripping out a bottle of cleaner mixed with bleach, she staggered back to the spot where the ink had been, placing the empty jar back on to her desk in one quick move.

Dumping the solution onto the carpet, Fallon began to scrub -- hard. Her entire body rocked as she did it, ignoring the remaining pain in her arms, breath coming in short bursts. She scrubbed so hard that the nail polish flaked off her enamel, and then some nails broke, splintering so low that blood flared up under the cuticles. Bleach seeped into the injuries and made it all burn worse, but Fallon was out of her consciousness at the point.

She could only focus on the ink spill, and how desperately she needed to eradicate it. Her phone sat across the room, untouched, ignored.