"Arnold."
The sound of his name ripped him from his sleep, gasping. Cold sweat beaded on his temples, across his forehead, and he shivered. He lay in bed, trying desperately to catch his breath. Eyes wide, he stared at the ceiling, and though he was a grown man, he was afraid to look anywhere else. It was so real, and it was so close.
When he was younger, he had heard the voice many times. He would ask if anyone else had heard, and they never had. It was only him, and he couldn't figure out why. Why him? Why could he hear her better than anyone? It was always when she was in trouble, or angry with him, both happened so frequently back then. Years went by and he thought for sure it was over, that he would never hear that haunting voice ever again.
He was wrong. Only now it was worse. Back in his youth, it was never as terrifying. Now, she screamed. She screamed in fear, in pain, and every time it pulled him from his sleep. This time, as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, he knew this time was different.
The longer he lay, the more terrified he became. You need to look, he said to himself, shutting his eyes tight, willing his self to sit up. Just prove it to yourself, prove to yourself it isn't real. Memories surfaced of when he tried to confide his new nightmarish existence with his best friend, Gerald.
"Man, you have to get a grip," Gerald said, giving him a questioning look. They were at the diner, sitting in the far corner at eleven o'clock at night. Arnold had his head in his hands, bags under his eyes, unable to sleep for fear of hearing the screams.
"You don't understand, Gerald," Arnold said, his voice filled with desperation. He needed someone to help him, and if Gerald couldn't, then who could? "This is my life. This has been happening for years and years. It happened when we were kids, don't you remember?"
"I think I would remember you telling me about screaming voices in your head, man," Gerald said, taking a sip of his coffee.
"Remember on Halloween that one year? When the kids went as aliens?" Arnold said, trying to jog his memory. "I heard her, remember? I heard her."
"Arnold, maybe…" Gerald started, but then looked out the window. He was searching for the right way to say what Arnold had already heard from his grandparents. He was looking for the right words to tell him he was crazy. "Maybe you need to talk to someone…like a professional?"
Maybe I do need a professional, He thought as he lay there, still mustering the courage to sit up. Maybe it's time to get someone else's opinion.
He heard rustling at the end of his bed. His heart stopped. His throat felt like a vice. If he didn't look now, he would be frozen here for the rest of the night, staring at the ceiling, drenched in sweat. He put his hands on the bed and slowly hoisted himself up into a sitting position, eyes still closed. He was shaking, almost in tears as the fear consumed him. He finally willed himself to open his eyes.
She was there. She was staring at him. Right in the eyes. She sat at the foot of his bed, leaning against the wall. She was skinny, too skinny. Her flesh was pale and covered with bruises. He couldn't stop looking at her face. Her eyes were sunken; a mix of dark circles of sleeplessness and bruises encased them. Her lips were purple and split. Her cheek bones stuck out of her face and she looked like a skeleton.
Arnold sat there and stared, tears streaming down his face, just waiting for something to happen. He shook, his breath was ragged. As far as he knew, Helga was dead. So why was she here, staring at him? As she stared, unblinking, she opened her mouth and whispered.
"I miss you, Arnold."