Author Topic: Two of a Kind  (Read 363 times)

Description: Best Horror Work

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Offline Lord Palatine

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Two of a Kind
« on: April 21, 2017, 10:23:19 PM »
By: Maleah “Jo” Putman
The following was written by the late Robyn Porter, minutes before she was found dead in her holding cell.

I'm not sure how to explain this, not entirely. The only thing I know for sure is that she is exactly like me. Or, at least, that's what the pictures tell me. The ones where she (supposedly) is depicted, staring directly at the camera with the smile of a blossoming serial killer. In high definition, as if taken with a professional's camera—but somehow I know that is not the case. This may sound a bit confusing at first. It's alright if you don't understand, or have any desire to, for that matter. I don't want to understand myself, for fear of what this could mean. I don't know how she got my address. She has my hair, my eyes, my handwriting. None of her letters have ever been signed, nor have they had a return address; I have no idea what her name is, or where she is. My biggest concern is not the similarities, however. I fear for my life.

The letters are nothing but threats, and those pictures she sends with them are equally, if not more, terrifying. There's something about her that makes it appear as though she's otherworldly. That sounds rather cliché; I realize that. But I'm not one to believe in clichés. That—the fact that I'm even dubbing anything in my life as such—should tell you something. Nothing about this entire affair is making any sense to me. I'd thought about telling my mother, but she puts too much faith in the occult. I felt I couldn't trust her to take it seriously. While I did think it could be possible that this woman is beyond our world (even being a firm nonbeliever in supernatural beings), I knew my mother would blow it far out of proportion. Ironic, considering the severity of it as it is, but she would. I wouldn't be able to get a word in before she was filling my house with sage smoke. Alas, I wound up speaking with her anyway; that was my downfall.

My mother is my only close family. I'm barely 22, so I'm not married or with children. I live alone. That's the part that scared me the most, considering ghosts can probably get through closed doors, and there would be no one around to save me. I should be able to save myself, but how does one protect against something they've never encountered before? My biggest concern is actually for my mother. . . now that I know what's going on. But I can't tell you about that just yet.

The day I got the first letter, I'd been in a fight with my mother, and I'd left her house in tears, though she's the one who probably should've been crying. I have a sharp tongue when I'm angry. I say things I don't mean and that I end up regretting. And I'd said some pretty mean things to her before I left. This may sound like rambling, but you need to trust me when I say it's important. I'd called her some mean things, and when I got home, the letter was in my mailbox. Of course, I knew immediately that something was off, due to the vacancy in the return address's spot and the handwriting that eerily matched mine. I put it on the kitchen table, mulling over worst-case scenarios about what had happened with my mother (being the worrier that I am). I went to take a much-needed shower and ended up forgetting about the letter in the process.

For some odd reason, as soon as I woke up, the letter was the first thing that came to mind, and I was suddenly, inexplicably horrified. I didn't even bother putting clothes on before I walked out to the kitchen. The white envelope was right where I'd left it. Sitting down to brace myself for the worst, I carefully peeled away the seal, like I do with the wrapping paper on gifts. When I finally pulled the pages out, I was surprised to find that there were only two. That's usually how many there are—one page of threats and one picture. Silly how the picture could be so high-quality and printed onto a plain white sheet of copy paper.

The handwriting was neat, but it wasn't exactly eloquently written. The thoughts are scattered and things are often misspelled. I still have it; I still have all of them. She likes to say “She'll miss you.” 'She' as in my mother, most likely; I think that's the clearest indication that she plans to end my life.

The pictures give me the same feeling of dread. She could send those without the letters and I'd be just as scared. They show the woman, of course, but they're the most disturbing images I have yet to come across, in part because she is exactly like me. There is no blood or gore in the photo, nor anything else grotesquely explicit. It's simply her, with no background. She's depicted with no expression in all of them, and she's almost always looking straight at the camera. Usually she's sitting in different positions, sometimes in a chair, sometimes with legs crisscrossed. Her hands are never visible. That's all there is to the photos: her sitting there, staring at me with those familiar eyes. The most doll-like look I've ever seen on anything remotely human.

The letters started getting worse. The intimidation became blatant threats on my life, ranging from a simple “I'm going to kill you” to things I can't relay here. I was crying myself to sleep every night, too afraid to tell anyone what was going on. I had a constant headache from the stress.

They began appearing inside my house rather than my mailbox. I'm still gripped with fear at the thought of her inside my house. Has she looked through my things? Some of my figurines are missing. I'm almost certain they're with her.

That's beside the point; I'm getting off on tangents. What matters the most is the conversation I had with my mother yesterday. I went to her house like I do every few days or so, but this time I was unable to conceal the terror I was feeling. She pestered me to tell her what was wrong until I finally decided that I needed to tell someone, and that my mother was probably the best one to confide in. I began by telling her that she needed to take me seriously, even though I already knew she would. My nerves were shot. I was trying to be cautious with everything I did and said. When she promised to listen and understand, I took a deep breath and began telling her everything. I explained the contents of the letters in great detail. I told her about the pictures. I was crying as soon as the first words left my mouth, and didn't stop until after I was done, while she silently tried to calm me. She'd had a very grave look about her from the moment I'd mentioned the anonymity of the letters.

My mother then told me then something that still chills me. She said, “I know.” Of course, I had no idea what this meant, and told her so. She went on to explain to me that she knew exactly who was plotting against me in such a horrific fashion, and why. She told me then that I was the victim of someone in my family. Someone who'd never gotten to see the world as a living being.

Mom claims to be a psychic medium. I'd never believed her until she told me she could talk to, and had spoken with, my particular stalker. The spirit, as she called the woman, was restless, and held a grudge against me. But my mother had never expected this to happen. She'd thought she had it under control. And my twin sister, who'd died in childbirth, had never shown signs of aggression. She simply seemed sorrowful when she spoke with my mother.

The words that mom was speaking to me weren't completely registering. I heard them, yes, but they passed through my mental fingers; I couldn't get a grip on them. I believed her, and I do now, more than ever, but at the time I couldn't fathom what she was saying. A dead twin seemed the least reasonable answer. I stopped crying. I felt numb. I'd never believed in these things, and now, it's the only choice I have. But she should never have told me.

I slept at her house that night. I woke up in the middle of the night, and the guest room was freezing. It took me forever to get back to sleep—not only for the cold, but because I was scared.

When I got up the next morning, I didn't remember having fallen back asleep. I left the room as quickly as I could've; I'd overslept and mom hadn't woken me up. I found her dead in her bed a few minutes later.

She may have been strangled, but you have to believe me when I say I didn't do it. Maybe if someone believes me, then others will start to. I know it's probably the most preposterous thing you've ever heard, but you must understand. I loved my mother. I would never have done anything to hurt her. I'm writing you this I hopes that I can be helped.

Please, listen. I think I'm next. I haven't gotten any letters since they put me in here, but I know she's still watching. I can't help but be afraid of what she's going to

The report by Ms. Porter was never completed. She was found dead in her cell at 13:47 on September 3rd.
« Last Edit: April 21, 2017, 11:23:38 PM by Lord Palatine »


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