Punishment Halls

Did he consider himself special? No, it certainly wasn’t anything like that.

He was just as intelligent as everyone else. At times he pushed through worries with ease. At others, he sunk below the depths of his insecurities. He often got nervous. He hid his vices from his mother, like smoking or masturbating. It took him only a smile to fall in love, and he didn’t apologize whenever he was in a hurry —indeed, he was no different from countless other souls with whom he shared this earth with.

Then why? Why did he feel this way, so utterly devoid of purpose, a social scum that clung to the bottom of society? He had already stopped counting the days in which he had woken up with no real idea of what he was meant to do.

He was merely another man, left undone in a sick world.

A job or a career was all he lacked, unlike many others who were handed their lives without difficulty —was that a prerequisite for fulfillment?

The yelling coming from outside his room made him stir under the covers, even when he wasn’t sleeping. It took him hours to gather the energy to get out of bed, and it was only the voice of his mother calling out that dinner was ready what usually roused him to do it. She was already well into her eighties now, and managed to cook more out of force of habit than any culinary competence —he didn’t want to waste her efforts, and besides, he did need to eat.

Wading around his disheveled room always required some effort. He had to move aside tangled cables and controllers, kick away discarded plates and food trays alongside old DVD cases. The hardest part, however, was trying to shake away the feeling that he was nothing more than a hollow husk of a person, a weight that seemed to grow heavier with each step.

Was this all his life amounted to? Was this it? Something this… Empty and meaningless? It was this desolation that haunted him constantly, or at least whenever he wasn’t dissociating his happiness inside the games or anime where he sought escape from the harsh realities of the world.

He felt like a poor excuse for a human being. A thorough and complete failure.

But no one ever wanted to help. No one cared.

“Peter, honey... Can you please put on some clothes whenever you come to the kitchen?” His mother’s voice was like a background noise to him, a distant hum that barely registered. “And do something about that beard of yours, for heaven’s sake.”

He didn’t even bother to look up at her as he took a seat at their small folding table.

“It doesn’t matter, Mom. It’s just the two of us here.”

>> “Like every time.”

“Oh, but this is a special occasion dearie. I even made you chocolate cake for dessert. I remembered it’s your favorite, and all because...”

>> “It’s your 20th birthday, you forgetful dummy!”

Perhaps a long time ago, he would have corrected her. Tell her that his birthday had been last month, and that he was already in his forties. That there was no cake waiting in the oven either.

But now, he knew better than to argue.

His mother’s memory was getting worse and worse each year, and reasoning with her was a lost endeavor. What was the point of it all, when she'd forget everything about it in just a few hours?

Dinner ended without anything worth mentioning. They exchanged the same mindless questions and answers they did every other day. He already knew the routine by heart.

“How is work going?”

“I promise I’ll find another one soon.”

“What happened to this cute girl you were dating?”

“You watched that in a movie, mom.”

“When do you think your father will return from the war?”

“He is... Not coming back.”

At times, it felt like one big, fat lie. A sick joke orchestrated for laughs. His very own personal Truman Show, doomed to walk through the same senseless routine with no hope of escape.

With a heavy sigh of defeat, he helped his mother clean up the table and loaded the dirty plates into a moldy dishwasher. All seemed to indicate that it was going to be another lonely night, dedicated in its entirety to just passing the hours in front of a monitor illuminating the lifeless darkness of his room.

A quick double-check on their decades-old fridge told him that he was ill-prepared for such a venture. It was time to stock up on drinks and snacks, one of the few instances in which he left the house during the week.

Telling his mother that he was going to be away for a while was a lost cause, she’d get worried in a matter of minutes after crossing the front door anyway. So he simply waited until she got tired to tuck her in bed, her usually low levels of energy taking a brief period longer than usual to deplete.

With the intent of getting the chore over and done with as soon as possible, he slid on his pair of trusty flip-flops over the socks he had been wearing for days, put on a worn-down cap featuring a video game company to hide his eyes, and then grabbed the keys to the rickety and rusty old car passed down to him by his late father.

Peter didn’t bother changing out of his stained and baggy gray sweatpants and faded black t-shirt, despite them being stained with food remnants and spills from previous nocturnal net-surfing sessions. These were the very same clothes he had been wearing for days, holding patches of dried sweat from his excessive sleep and a few small holes scattered around the fabrics —but why bother changing?

He saw no reason to care about his appearance —it was all inconsequential. No one ever really looked in his direction anyway, there was no point in trying to impress anyone.

It wasn’t like he resented going out, for as much as he’d prefer to stay inside the safe comfort of his room. While it was still warm on the streets, the sensation of a gentle nocturnal breeze reaching his face was a pleasant one —a much-needed breath of fresh air away from all the grease and clutter that pervaded his house.

Making his way to the discount store, driving slowly through the bustling streets, Peter wondered what the future might hold for him. His mother was the only person he had left in the world, and he knew that she wouldn’t be around forever.

He yearned for something more, anything that gave his life meaning or purpose.

For now, however, he was stuck browsing store aisles, basket in hand, selecting his favorite off-brand energy drinks and salty snacks to last him until the following week. For as much as the menial task helped distract him from his existential surrender, his top priority was still getting in and out of there quickly.

Waiting in line was akin to a miniature limbo, perpetuating his growing sense of detachment from the world. No one bothered to notice him, not even when took a moment to observe his fellow shoppers.

Like he was a ghost drifting through without leaving a single trace.

Invisibility that might have been preferable when an unforeseen encounter forced him to engage another living person.

As Peter returned to his car after paying for his items, he collided with a man who somehow managed to escape his spatial awareness —perhaps due to a momentary lapse in attention as he checked his phone for an excessive amount of game notifications.

Determined to not let the man simply brush him off, Peter adjusted the paper bag tucked under his arm and prepared to scowl and yell at the stranger, but when he finally looked up at him, his expression faltered.

Standing before him was a shady old guy who now similarly turned in his direction to face him. He wore jet-black glasses that obscured his gaze, while deep wrinkles creased his face. Despite his age, his expression remained firm and serious, causing a bead of sweat to form on Peter’s brow. His raven hair streaked with white, was combed back and shone with an oily luster.

But what truly unnerved Peter were the things the man was holding. A baby in one hand, gripped by the neck as if it were a worthless doll. The other, keeping a tight hold of a screwdriver stained with dried, dark red marks that his mind refused to contemplate the origin of.

In that unsettling standoff, the two of them remained locked in a tense silence that lasted longer than Peter’s already frayed nerves could withstand. His heart pounded inside his chest in an uneven rhythm, eventually finding enough courage to speak up.

“Wh… What the fuck do you want from me?” He tried to sound confident, but his voice cracked under the pressure. “You don’t intimidate me, you worthless scum.”

>> “Don’t you dare mess with me…” Peter forced himself to continue, the words tumbling out in a rushed manner. “Because… I’m pretty sure the police would love to hear about that baby you’re holding.”

Threatening instead of running away immediately was a choice Peter would come to regret sooner rather than later.

“You have miserable eyes.” The old man’s voice was slurry, in a deep and coarse tone that sounded like a strain in his vocal cords. "Are you also bored of this world?”

Peter’s legs felt like jelly as he tried to take a step back into his car waiting in the distance; yearning to escape from the inexplicably oppressive energy emanating from the strange man before him —yet his body refused to cooperate, leaving him rooted to the spot as fear began to take hold.

“Want to find out…” The phrases were spoken with flat, disjointed and monotone inflections, sending shivers down Peter’s spine as they chillingly contrasted the nature of his question. “That which lurks beyond.”

With a sudden jerk of his neck, the man lowered his dark glasses allowing them to truly cross eyes for the first time. Peter had expected them to be hollow and hazy, lost under the murky waters of substance abuse —but they were anything but that.

The stare behind the glasses was piercing and fierce, holding an unnerving intensity as it burned through his own. He focused on Peter’s own eyes as if seeking to leave an imprint on his mind, to crawl and build a nest under his skin.

As the man continued to stare at him, Peter felt a cold sweat break out on his entire back like a monster’s breath, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being swallowed into a void of darkness. The man's voice seemed to echo in his mind, repeating the same chilling words over and over.

And it was there when Peter finally reached his limit.

His pride wasn’t bloated enough to make protecting it worth the torment. His feet finally felt like moving once again, freed from their curse as he sprinted towards his car, clumsily clutching the paper bag filled with the supplies that had initially led him out into the awful outside.

Peter’s fingers initially fumbled with the car door handle, but in a matter of seconds, he already had deftly ignited the engine, causing it to rumble back to life. Forcefully stepping down on the pedal, he accelerated away from the parking lot; not daring to spare a backward glance, terrified from the possibility of the old man still watching from a distance —or even worse, somehow chasing him.

It took him speeding through several blocks for his heart to finally begin settling down, taking multiple turns off his route before he was sure that there wasn’t any car tailing his. He found himself driving through quiet residential streets, the sort of place where the only traffic came from the occasional passing of a lone car or two.

Despite his best efforts to employ logic, to convince himself that it had been just a simple old guy that posed no real threat to him, Peter couldn’t quite shake away the sensation that he narrowly avoided something truly sinister.

The irony was not completely lost on him, making Peter nervously smile at his reflection in the rearview mirror. Just a while ago he had been brooding over how uneventful his life was, wishing for something to break up the tedium. Now his body ached with adrenaline, and all he wanted was the safety of his bedroom walls, where the only thrills were safely contained behind a screen.

‘That which lurks beyond.’ Those words continued to gnaw at the back of his mind. Under normal circumstances, he would have dismissed them as nothing more than a stilted threat, ramblings of a confused old man. But something about the phrase sounded off, even now that it was all behind him.

What could he have possibly meant by that?

Peter shrugged with triumphing relief. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter anymore. All he had to do was make it home, and the nightmare would be over. Another week of confinement inside his room didn’t sound too bad in comparison to that disturbing encounter.

As fate would have it, things were not meant to play out that way.

Moving on their own accord, his hands wrenched the steering wheel in a violent spasm, It was a reflex so automatic it felt as if his body were no longer his own —a wholly uncontrollable impulse that froze his heart in place.

He tried to regain control, to steer the car back onto the road, but it was too late. There was no changing the direction his life was now heading towards.

The rubber tires screeched as the car swerved off the asphalt, hurtling towards a tree ominously waiting at the end of the street. According to the many action movies he had watched, time was supposed to crawl at an agonizingly slow speed, yet Peter's eyes widened in terror as only brief images passed before them in a flash.

He saw a woman walking with her young daughter, their faces illuminated faintly by the dim streetlights. He could see the car crumpling around him, metal twisting and glass shattering. He witnessed the blood pooling beneath him, crimson red against the drab gray of the concrete.

And then, all was replaced by complete, utter darkness.

Slowly, Peter’s consciousness emerged from the primordial depths, teased into awakening by the sound of machine humming, a chorus of beeps echoing through an otherwise completely silent room. A flutter of his eyelids, then a deep and dry exhalation. Hesitantly, his eyes opened from the cocoons of slumber, blinking against the harsh glare of fluorescent lights.

It took him a moment for his surroundings to come into focus, but gradually, the white-washed walls of a hospital room became clearer, as did the tubes and wires snaking their way across his upper body —marred by a kaleidoscope of unpleasant sensations, overwhelming compared to the relief of unconsciousness.

This wasn’t the first time Peter had regained his awareness, but each time without fail, he had quickly faded back into the sweet embrace of obscurity. Those brief moments he had experienced in the unclear past now came back to him in the shape of faint memories, luring his rational thoughts to make sense of the scattered pieces.

A gentle voice that spoke to him whenever its owner trusted he wasn’t listening, tender touches of soft fingertips against his skin, and the blinding face of an angel. They had once been the only lifeline offered to him like an echo of divine grace —what fueled a stubborn resilience to grasp once again the confines of his mortal coil.

But this time, neither that beacon of light nor a surrender to the blankets of sleep would be able to save him from the wreckage he had become.

The recollections of the car accident that shattered his life came flooding back, resented in his core like a suffocating vice grip. Tears began to stream down his face as the weight of guilt threatened suffocation.

Somehow, he was still there, now lying motionless in a hospital room as an even more broken man than before —but at what cost?

Two lives had been affected, and most likely extinguished as the price for his survival. The possibility of having become a murderer during that horrible night was something his already weary heart couldn’t possibly bear.

For even when Peter’s life was haunted by the phantasm of self-loathing, he had never wished harm upon anyone. It was unfair… Why did he have the right to still draw breath, after having caused so much pain?

Yet cracking through the walls of his numbed-down skull like a chisel, Peter heard the sounds of a beckoning voice, echoing inside his mind like the enchanting tunes of a bewitching lullaby.

“It’s a lie…”

The words repeated time and time again, in a hauntingly feminine reverberation the likes he had never heard before in real life, dancing in the shadows of sanity. Was it an illusion? A figment of his wild imagination, conjured like a desperate coping mechanism? All that he was certain of, was that it was growing louder and more defined with each passing minute, seeping through the gaps of his fragile psyche.

“All those bad feelings… All a lie…”

>> “The nice words… Only those are true.”

The melody of respite from suffering was seductive, as the voice whispered sweet nothings into his ear. Compelled to seek its origin, his eyes darted around the room in a frenzied daze… Until they finally locked onto the figure staring down at him behind the upper cradle bars of his hospital bed, leaning on his line of sight with a bone-chilling smile.

Peter’s heart momentarily stopped in place as he took in the sight of that… Thing.

It could only be described as an unsettling oversized rag marionette with uneven and grimy dark blue yarn-like hair —easily towering over him even at standing height. Her body was composed of tattered, soot-stained fabric patched together roughly and crudely. She had long elongated limbs beyond human proportions, with articulations and hands constructed from half-translucent doll-like plastic, revealing behind it an intricate network of black, thread-like veins and sinew within.

Asymmetrical, mismatched eyes rested on her face —one composed of a poorly threaded matte pink button, the other more akin to a stuffed plushy plastic one; with a large, irregular pupil that glimmered with an unnerving purple hue. It reflected Peter’s terrified expression back at him, yet it was void and lifeless, as if it could hungrily swallow light itself.

A wide slit ran across where her mouth should be, adorned by crude stitches that appeared more like an attempt to silence her than anything else —a handiwork that separated itself from any natural configuration by how raw and unnatural it was. It contorted into the shape of a smile, making Peter realize that it was no mere mannequin placed there as a morbid prank.

That thing… She... Was alive.

His voice distorted into a loud, bloodcurdling scream, tearing the silence of the hospital halls like a knife through cloth. Its sound blared in Peter’s eardrums as he jolted in horror, his entire being aching to escape the creature before him.

But as soon as he attempted to step away from the confines of his hospital bed, his weakened legs crumbled beneath his weight, sending him violently down to the cold, sterile floor. In his reduced position, his breathing became ragged gasps, forcing his eyes to look away from the creature’s grotesque visage.

From the corner of his vision, he could see her sway slightly towards him, as if savoring the sound of his cries, and its unnatural smile widened further into a grin that sent a fresh wave of terror through Peter’s veins. She wasn’t trying to hunt him, simply satisfied with relishing in his fear.

All of his instincts demanded that he curl up into a ball on the floor and hide, yet his mind raced with desperation attempting to come up with something to build distance from the monster that had invaded his refuge.

Helplessly shifting from his crawling position to stretch his hands towards the closed door, yet before he managed to reach salvation, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through as a pair of hospital workers rushed in instead —their voices laced with urgency as they helped him back up, despite his incoherent babbling and flailing limbs.

Settling him on the opposite side of the room from the terrifying specter, the doctor and nurse finally addressed him, informing Peter that he had sustained severe injuries as a result of the car accident, most severe of them all being a cranial fracture. He had been unconscious for nearly two months.

They proceeded to discuss of the surgeries he had undergone, of the lengthy recovery process he now had to look forward to, and the extensive rehabilitation treatment plan that lay ahead. However, most of these details slipped through the cracks of Peter's distracted mind, his gaze fixated on the barely moving, yet vividly tangible creature waiting behind his hospital bed.

Neither of the hospital staff members appeared willing to acknowledge her presence, leaving Peter to question whether the alleged skull fracture might have had an irreversible impact on his very sanity.

It was as he tried to draw their attention to the monster lurking in the corners that he suddenly recognized the face of the young nurse, who was now looking at him with a worried expression. She was the one… The single, immaculate being that had been his bastion of hope amidst the throes of unconsciousness.

Desperate for comfort, he reached out and grabbed the nurse's hand with trembling fingers, squeezing it tightly and closing his eyes due to his inability to keep bearing the agony of his new reality.

Then, he felt it once more —the softness of her palm against his, and the warmth that seeped through his skin, soothing his tormented soul.

When he finally gathered the strength to open his eyes and read her nametag, Peter was struck with a newfound appreciation that diminished everything he had ever felt before.

She was the most beautiful creature that ever graced his worthless existence. Her name… It was Callista Nilsson.

As promised, his rushed recovery process proved to be far from easy. Being around the holiday season, his doctor at the LeMans Hospital seemed less than invested or cautious when it came to his condition. As a result, Peter struggled with the relentless pace of his therapy sessions and each grueling exercise —yet he persisted, driven by a newfound resolve.

Callista’s care and support provided him the solace he had been craving for ages, a comfort that eclipsed even the ever-present creature intermittently haunting his periphery like a vengeful wraith.

Peter knew that he was nothing more than a patient in her eyes, yet he so heartrendingly yearned to be liked by her, to know her better. He longed for the day when he would regain full coordination of his legs and perhaps share a dance. Whenever her fingers grazed his skin, he felt like a renewed man.

Words whispered by the otherworldly voice seeped into his mind like tar filling empty cracks, growing increasingly insistent with every passing day. They assured that his love was right, that it was pure —and above all, perfect.

And whether it was because of his convictions, or instead a surrender to that profane toxin… Peter eventually accepted those claims as truth.

Only then, the name appeared inside his head like an epiphany. She was Spellbound. The guardian devil that had latched onto him at the same time he found his angel.

She never attacked him; instead, she remained vigilantly by his side as a dedicated sentinel. Too afraid of being committed to a mental asylum to confide in anyone about her presence, Peter simply submitted to her presence, overlooking the terror that gripped him whenever he glimpsed through rents in her fabric skin. Behind the tattered facade loomed a hollow darkness that reverberated with faint whispers, as if within a dilapidated cathedral. At times, Spellbound’s abyss resonated with haunting echoes of laughter —not outright sounds, but rather vibrations that unsettled him to no end.

At other times she vanished into thin air, her disappearance often coinciding with Callista's presence. It made the nurse feel all the more like a ward against the malevolence lurking all around him.

Tonight was one of such instances.

“It appears we’re in the same boat together, Mr. Kimball.”

The words caught him somewhat ill-prepared, and for a moment, Peter was at a loss of how to respond. While they usually engaged in conversations regarding his condition and progress, it was unusual for Callista to divert from professional matters.

“Is there no one you’d like to visit on this night as well?” She added, a hint of melancholy in her voice that stirred his heart. Taking a moment to seat herself by his bedside, Callista returned his gaze, her eyes filled with a quiet sadness.

But, really, it shouldn't have come as a surprise. It was Christmas Eve after all, and the two of them were confined inside cold hospital walls.

“Please…” He began nervously, pausing a moment to try and steady his ailing chest. “Call me… Call me Peter.”

Perhaps by allowing her to use his first name, he could offer a hint of comforting familiarity during this imposed solitude; or at least, that’d be what he’d say if someone were to ask —truth was, he also cherished the possibility of hearing his name on her lips.

Callista humored him with a brief smile and a light chuckle, but her troubled expression soon returned.

“I really don’t think I should, Mr. Kimball.”

>> “Least rumors that I’m coming onto patients may start being spread by them as well.”

Well, it was worth a shot; however, her remark paired with a sigh did leave him wondering in curiosity.

“Excuse me? Them?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Please, pay it no mind. It’s just mindless hospital ward gossip.”

Despite her suggestion, Peter couldn’t help but think about it. He had never stopped to consider it before, but perhaps Callista, aside from sharing his loneliness, also had her own trials to endure.

It was a glimpse of vulnerability that left him reeling; He hated the thought of anyone giving her a hard time, especially considering her kindness and beauty. Yet it made sense… That she attracted both disdainful looks and infatuated admirers like himself.

But now that they were holding a silent moment of contemplation, there was also another worrying subject he had been neglecting on his constant admiration of her. One he couldn’t delay any further.

“Miss Callista… May I ask you something?” He began hesitantly, his fingers clutching tightly onto the bed sheets. “What… What happened to those two?”

A small sound of confusion came from her mouth, as the nurse tilted her head questioningly.

“I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m following properly. Which two?”

It was a painful conversation to continue. All this time, Peter had unwaveringly believed that the police hadn't come to arrest him due to his recovery process from the head injury. But that never truly soothed his worries about the possibility of having ended two lives that night —an idea that, alongside Spellbound, kept him awake at night.

"T… The mother and her daughter…" Peter forced himself to continue, trusting in Callista to neither hide the truth from him nor to deliver it too harshly if the worst had come to pass. "The ones… I ran over."

The nurse's brow furrowed, not only expressing her confusion but also her own growing apprehension.

"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Kimball," she clarified with a serious tone that made him certain this wasn't an attempt to misdirect him. "You were the only one involved in the accident. You drove straight into a tree."

>> "If anyone else was hurt, we would have known. This hospital is the only one close to where it all happened."

Feeling his blood freezing inside his veins, Peter stared off into nothingness without focus, struggling to process the revelation. The contradiction bore down on him like a physical force, as his recollection of that night came under intense scrutiny. For as brief as the flashing scenes had been on his eyes, the image of of the woman and the girl in his headlights was seared into his memory, just as much as the puddle of blood that ran under the crumpled steel frame —too large to be his own alone.

All of them were being called into question by the new reality presented by Callista. How could this be possible? How could he have gotten such an important detail wrong? Doubt swirled within him like a whirlpool menacing to drown him —yet he never placed mistrust in the nurse even once, despite the mounting uncertainty. To Peter, her words were gospel, unassailable and well-intended truth… But, if that were to be the case, then...

How many other things was he also mistaken about? What else else was a lie?… Could he trust his own eyes and thoughts anymore?

No... It couldn't be possible. The panicked faces that haunted him, even through the darkest periods of unconsciousness before his awakening, were far too real to escape. That guilt he had been feeling all this time… It couldn’t have been for nothing.

It felt as though the very ground beneath his feet was shifting, his grip on reality crumbling like a sandcastle battered by the relentless waves of a storm.

Time lost meaning for a minute as he remained unmoving, shoulders slumped and features etched with despair. It was likely enough to make anyone uneasy, especially someone as kind as Callista.

“I… Have to go now, Mr. Kimball.” She announced in a voice wavering with nervousness as she rose from her chair beside him. The motion left Peter feeling desolate and abandoned, even before she had fully withdrawn her presence. “Please, just let me know if you need anything, okay? I’ll be here all night, so don’t hesitate to call.”

Oh, how desperately he longed to unburden himself, to lay bare the chaotic tumult of everything he felt about her. To express how deep his love was, that it transcended well beyond mere attraction. How he needed her by his side at that moment —and for all those yet to come as well.

And yet, defeated and brokenhearted, Peter hesitated to heap his troubles upon her shoulders. Yes, Callista had her own challenges to face, and it would be grossly unjust to add his disturbing and unsorted ones to her worries.

Before letting his heart in the open, he needed to untangle himself out of his own disaster. With the door once more closing to leave him utterly alone, his forehead succumbed into an open palm, as the dull throbs of his brain resonated against the walls of his injured skull.

“Did I not tell you…” The voice of Spellbound blended with his thoughts, as it so often did, offering an easy alternative to the torment. “… About all the lies?”

>> “Trust in me… I’ll guide you through confusion.”

It felt like a treacherous hand extended in his direction, tempting Peter to surrender to the illusion Spellbound offered. He wanted to deny it, to insist that he wouldn’t listen to false promises, and that he’d find his own way. After all, even when he felt battered and broken, he had found the willpower to carry on in Callista —taking the shape of a love that should make the specter’s seduction insignificant in comparison.

And yet… He couldn’t bring himself to say no to her.

For the path ahead was shrouded in uncertainty, fraught with potential turmoil... And even in this second chance at life that he had been granted, Peter wasn’t sure he possessed the resilience required to face the darkness on his own.

Whether they lead him astray, away from the truth; or deliver on the blissful satisfaction and fulfillment she offered each time… Peter wasn’t strong enough to refuse the respite that the comforting lies from the demon doll tempted him with.

His eventual discharge from the LeMans Hospital after a full recovery came little under a month after Christmas Eve, but in all honesty, he had come to dread such a day. Not only did it mean he would no longer have an excuse to see Callista, but he would also have to face the repercussions that he had been ignoring this far.

Consequences, that could be seen as mundane when compared to the otherworldly experiences he was subjected to inside the hospital walls, in his infatuation with Callista and his fright over Spellbound —a presence that he was now more or less used to.

But.. how could he not feel intimidated by the real-world horror stories lying in wait, filled with cruel and cold facts he wasn't yet ready to face?

His version of the events, as it turned out, was held with little regard by the police. They had already gathered all the information they needed during his two-month coma, or at least enough to fine him for all the damages caused by the accident.

Having never bothered with health insurance, Peter now found himself also responsible for the entire medical bill. Payment plans or delayed time frames proposed for it didn’t change the undeniable fact that this wasn’t something he could ever afford —or at least not by relying on his father’s veteran benefits that he and his mother survived with.

And speaking of which… Upon finally returning to his abandoned house, Peter realized just how much he had neglected a particular problem for all this time. The original beneficiary of all his income —his mother.

Due to his inability to care for her during his hospital stay, social workers assessed her needs in his absence and concluded that their house was no longer suitable for her to reside. Diagnosed as unable to live independently, she was taken away and placed in a long-term nursing home.

Which would have been fine if she were to be returned to him upon his discharge… But, to make matters worse, the authorities were now initiating the legal proceedings to establish conservatorship over his mother’s affairs —all in the name of ‘ensuring that the decisions regarding Vivien Kimball's health and finances are made in her best interests.’

Or in other words… They were planning to seize her money and rob her of the safe familiarity of his company, tearing her away from the comfort of the home they had always shared together.

In a panic, Peter withdrew all the remaining funds in her account, fearing that they would soon take even that from him. It wasn’t much, considering his pre-hospitalization penchant for frittering away money on mobile games.

And all of this didn't even begin to address the issue of repairing or replacing his mangled car. The weight of it all was so overwhelming that Peter’s mind recoiled, unable to acknowledge the enormity of problems before him in full capacity.

Trapped in a world that felt like a suffocating prison cell, he yearned for the safety and attention he had found within the hospital walls, where Callista’s presence was all that filled his reality —the place where he met true joy for the first time in his life.

How much he had wanted her then…

And oh Christ, how much more he craved her now.

Whenever he wasn’t wailing in his misery, thrown in bed he often sought solace in sleep, hoping that in dreams, the two of them might reunite. Peter’s biggest fantasy was that she would come knocking on his door, to rescue him from the storm of ruination that had made his life its permanent resting place.

He couldn’t bear it any longer… Not on his own… Not without her...

“Then why did you abandon her?” Spellbound’s voice, once merely tantalizing, now also beguiled Peter, preying on his weaknesses, reminding him of all his faults, of all his wrong choices. “If you had allowed me to guide from the beginning… You could have avoided all this anguish.”

>> “It’s not too late… Let’s make everything right...”

The insurmountable weight of his troubles made it more and more difficult not to succumb to the melody that Spellbound’s whispers offered, her voice weaving around his weary soul, enchanting him inch by inch.

“Haven’t you realized, dear Peter? Your Callista loves you as well..”

>> “Can’t you remember? The way her eyes lit up every time your hands met?”

No… That couldn’t be true. He was anything but a burden; and he had always been a failure. In his forty years of life, all that he had ever learned was only how to fall. For as much as he wanted to, liking himself was entirely out of the question —and how to even begin deluding himself that an angel like Callista would look upon him with love rather than disgust?

At first, he noticed it —How Spellbound’s voice slithered through his memories like a poisonous cloud. But he was already too drained, too devoid of fight, to resist the strange sense of calmness that fell over him.

His moments with Callista took on different lights as he found himself basking in the illusion of his reciprocated feelings, one carefully spun by the spectral doll.

But… He liked it. The chaos and the sadness that had plagued him now seemed distant, overshadowed by the allure of a much sweeter reality crafted by that spellbinding song.

And so, he got rid of his apprehension and allowed himself to follow Spellbound’s footsteps through the depths. One by one, scenes with Callista now played out like a wondrous play inside his mind, each scene more enrapturing than the last.

He remembered a gentle way in which her fingers ran through his hair, as she cared for him during his recovery —tender touches that now also seemed to hold a hidden promise of love, all thanks to Spellbound’s influence.

He recalled the sound of her laughter, its melody taking on a new meaning as the entity tethered to his side suggested that it was all for him, a secret shared between two lovers.

The late-night conversation that they once held during Christmas Eve, once no more than a simple exchange between a nurse and her patient… Now turned into a passionate declaration of love, twisted and reinterpreted by seductive whispers.

Unable to resist the tantalizing illusion, Peter lost himself in the dance, allowing Spellbound to lead him further and further away from the harsh realities that awaited him on the other side of the mirages. At some point, all of them flipped, becoming the much-preferred truths of his dreams. The line keeping the fantasies at bay had become irreversibly blurred.

Under his clouded senses, the next steps in admiration for his beloved came as naturally as breathing.

At first, Peter was naturally nervous, unfamiliar with all the nuanced complexities that being in a relationship entailed. He followed Callista from a safe distance, capturing her image in photographs and watching her every small gesture from afar. These moments fed Spellbound’s blissful concoctions, providing him with the fodder for comforting dreams each night.

Some things he observed left him worried, like the times when she was subjected to the harsher ends of awful social interactions; enough to make him feel compelled to do something about it. But first, he needed to learn more about her.

After discovering where Callista lived, he peeked through her windows while she slept; and then aided by Spellbound, he infiltrated inside, maneuvering through the shadows with utmost care. He invaded her privacy, and pried into her personal spaces —all in his goal to maintain as close to her as possible, for protection.

He inhaled her exhalations, moving discreetly to avoid being detected. He acted as an unseen observer, piecing together the puzzle of her life by sifting through dresser drawers, and creaking open the doors to secret rooms.

Though she remained unaware of his vigilance, he made sure to understand her deeply, ensuring her well-being from behind the curtain, leaving no trace of his departures behind.

She depended on him, even if she didn't know it yet, their connection solidified in the depths of the eternal unknown. With the unbreakable bond sealed by Spellbound, their fates intertwined indefinitely. Through thick and thin, they'd remained inseparable, woven together by forces beyond their control.

Whatever the circumstances, be they right or wrong...

He was the only one Callista would ever belong to.

The things he did in her name were atrocious, as he delved into the darkest confines of her past. Finding those people proved to be no easy task, but for her sake, Peter hesitated at nothing —no effort was too great, no price too high.

Yet, he found himself longing… Craving for more. He yearned for Callista to be awake while he touched her, to embrace and caress her with full awareness.

“Then take her… Draw near… Accept audacity…” Spellbound’s words were like a venom urging him forward. With a racing heart, Peter stepped out of the darkness, approaching her at a moment when she seemed especially defenseless, during a dog walk unfolding in unnaturally late hours of the night.

Her reactions, however, created a strange dissonance between his altered psyche and his perception of reality. When Callista ran away from him, he refused to believe it, convincing himself that she waved happily at him once they crossed stares from behind her window.

There was something going on, and so, Peter reinstated himself that he needed to stay vigilant to protect his angel, changing his position to ambush anyone who might dare to harm her.

Hidden in the darkness of her backyard, he remained silent as he clung to her dog, falling to the floor with her phone clutched tightly. Witnessing her anguish was a torment that threatened to burst his heart, and he desperately wanted to reveal himself to offer her shelter.

“Wait…” It was Spellbound’s voice that held him back. “Someone’s coming.”

Just as predicted by his spectral companion, a uniformed man eventually knocked on her door. Peter watched him with resentful eyes, but even in his delusion he knew he recognized that he possessed everything he perceived himself as lacking.

He had a tall and muscular frame, with a square jaw that exuded resolute masculinity. The hair on his head was sandy blond, kept short and neatly styled; But what bothered Peter the most were the man's clear blue eyes, which seemed to sparkle with lecherous intent whenever they looked at his Callista.

Peter’s chest rose and fell in an uneven, irregular tempo. His breathing came out in rapid, heavy spurts, as every second kept from enacting what his impulses demanded felt like a torture, nerves brimming with anger and jealousy.

“Look… She’s uncomfortable…”

>> “Are you going to let him hurt her?”

Indeed, Callista’s expression as the man squeezed her shoulder revealed an unease that Peter never wanted to see on her face. And so, unable to take it any longer, his fury erupted like magma from a volcano as the blonde intruder pulled the nurse closer, attempting to hug her.

Peter would have crashed disastrously against the glass wall separating Callista's backyard from the main hall if Spellbound hadn't placed herself in between first. She decimated the crystal before it could make contact with him, solidifying her position as his benefactor and partner in this pivotal moment of his display of pure, true love.

The clash between Peter and the uniformed mad unfolded in a chaotic and disjointed manner, exacerbated by occasional lapses in focus caused by adrenaline and the dense miasma clouding his mind —but the pain was still felt loud and clear, as he eventually found himself starting to lose the battle.

Any word spoken by the man was distorted into blank noise in Peter’s ears, but he had no intention of communicating with him anyway. All that mattered was triumphing, to shield Callista from any kind of danger.

“Help me, please…” He whispered through gritted teeth as he was immobilized against the ground. “… I beg you, Spellbound.”

Everything that happened afterward remained mostly obscured in Peter’s head, despite the many traces of intense strife left behind in the aftermath. Rising to his feet once more, he felt warmth trickling from his nose, swiftly wiping it away with the sleeve of his raincoat.

He had all the faculties he needed to confirm if Callista was okay, and after a quick search, he found the nurse cowering behind the kitchen counter, trembling and paralyzed with fear —their shared glances spoke volumes, now that the tall intruder had finally been dealt with. Peter smiled at her reassuringly, and she soon enough did the same.

“Mr. Kimball… No, Peter…” Hearing his name on her lips was a moment he had been longing for since forever, and it had finally happened. There was no need for any distance anymore. “Thank you. Thank you so much for saving me.”

Peter felt weakened and dazed, but he pushed through it, drawn to Callista's presence like a moth to a flame. Her smile was intoxicating, filling him with a euphoria he had never known —one that made his heart feel ready to explode.

“There’s no need to thank me.” He replied, bubbling with joy. “Protecting you is all that matters to me.”

>> “You don’t have to worry about anything anymore, I’m here.”

It was like finally breaking free from shackles. There were no further pretenses, no more barriers between the two of them.

“Don’t hold back… She’s all yours…” Spellbound’s voice inside his head as she reunited with him sounded a little different than usual. It was more exhilarated, more frantic and ecstatic than before. Peter figured it was because of how much that moment meant to them both.

But he wanted to savor things slowly, to let Callista know just how much he loved her first.

“How did you know I needed you?” Callista asked him, her voice laced with confusion and gratitude. It was understandable, their relationship had been somewhat distant up until this point, but that would be corrected from now on.

“Shh… Callie…” He responded, closing the distance and meeting her gaze “I know everything.” He reassured her with the most comforting smile he could muster, trying to ignore the growing irritation caused by the liquid still seeping from his nose. “From the room you like to keep closed and hidden, to the people that wronged you in the past.”

>> “I made them pay for you.” Peter continued, his voice overtaken by conviction. “In the same way that I want to help add to your collection.”

His words earned a beaming admiration from Callista. Yes, this was how his life was supposed to go from the start. He was thankful to Spellbound, for finally making this a reality.

“Oh, Peter… I love you!”

And then his angel moved forward, ready to be fully embraced by him… But… Something felt strange. There was a searing, excruciating pain coming from his stomach as they finally came together.

His smile faltered, even though Callista’s remained, with his hand instinctively moving to the source of the agony —a knife, buried deep into his flesh by her own hand.