Free Skyfire by Doug Vossen

again. 
    “Oh god. What’s happening?”
    Trent dropped to a knee just as the figure abruptly stopped swaying.  Trent was horrified by what he saw next.  The silhouette unmistakably belonged to a little girl.  The dark, misty figure reached behind its body and grabbed the thick chain link just above the massive hook inserted into its lower back.  Each movement was sudden and jerky.  There was no fluidity, no economy of motion, only violence and terror.  What the hell is happening?  The apparition grasped the wide gauge link and thrust its hips as it leapt off the hook, landing a few feet from Trent.
    Trent and the apparition just stared at each other.  C’mon man, just like an IED strike, right?  Calm the fuck down.  “Jessica?” He tightened his grasp on the electrical conduit. 
    The figure stood in silence, phasing in and out Trent’s vision. 
    “Answer me!” yelled Trent.
    The specter slowly raised its wispy left arm.  It pointed at Trent. “HEEYOOOOOSSSS!!!” it shrieked loudly, sounding out each letter of Trent’s last name.                              
    Trent readied the club.  The sound coming from this thing was more piercing and painful than anything he’d ever known.
    The figure continued shrieking as it approached him with great speed.  Trent wound up, left hand over right, fully prepared to swing the club.  But as soon as his hips rotated left, his whole body seized up and he dropped to his knees.  He saw the indistinct wraith directly above him.  His heart was in his throat.  His ears hurt immensely.  I don’t understand.   Everything went dark.

 
    CALLIE
    Callie woke on her couch to a distinct chill in the air and an acute sense of anxiety.  Her body felt sore all over.  She had a terrible headache.  There was a familiar loud, low-pitched hum, the same as what she’d heard emanating from the janitor’s closet at the hospital.  The sun was still down, but a thick layer of fog had descended.  The moonlight coming through the window had a red hue.  What the hell is this?   She reached for a tissue.  Maybe I’m getting a cold.   She blew her nose and felt the tissue quickly become saturated.  Gross. There was blood everywhere on her hands and on the tissue. 
    Callie ran to the bathroom.  She washed her face, spit her metallic-tasting blood into the sink until there was nothing left to spit.  Her headache worsened. The low-pitched sound reverberated in her skull.  She stared at herself in the mirror, her sense of dread steadily building.  Then Callie felt a sensation like someone gently running two fingers up her back. The fingers moved up to the back of her neck, moving in a familiar stroking pattern.
    James O’Hara’s presence was in the room with her.  The stroking motion was his. It was exactly what he did to try to calm her prior to the many times he had raped her over the course of three years.  “It’s OK sweetheart,” he would say. “We’re just massaging each other, making each other feel good.  This is natural. But you can’t tell anyone because they won’t understand.”  Didn’t fucking matter anyway. My mom was too strung out to give a shit.
    Callie’s stomach churned with fear and adrenaline. She turned to claw at her abuser.  No one was there .  Jesus, get it together.  He’s nowhere near here.  He’s off raping other young girls back in Ohio.  Because I was too scared to do anything.  God, what the fuck is wrong with me?  Why the hell didn’t I say something?   I’m just as bad as he is.  I might as well have ruined those girls’ lives myself.  She became nauseous as thoughts of her multi-year hell flooded her mind. She collapsed to her knees, began vomiting.  Half the projectile vomit hit the sink and floor. The other half struck the toilet water, splashing her in the face. 
    After emptying her insides into the bowl, she rested her elbows and forearms on the toilet seat and dry heaved.