My sister has always been strange. She keeps telling me that she’s received phone calls from her future self. Everyone else thinks she’s crazy, but I know she’s not lying. Content 0When my sister, Vivian, was in elementary school, she was the tallest in her class, so she got chosen as the class monitor. One day, a new student transferred into her class—a boy named Jacob Thorn, though everyone would later call him “Thorn.” The teacher introduced him in front of the whole class, adding that Jacob had been in a bad accident and hadn’t fully recovered. She encouraged everyone to look out for him. Everyone politely nodded in agreement, but beneath the surface, something sinister had already been set in motion. Now everyone knew: Jacob had learning disabilities. That knowledge made him a target. Some students would secretly urinate into his water bottle and trick him into drinking it. Others dragged him over to the girls’ section, pulling his pants down in front of everyone. Some smeared superglue on paper, pressed it onto his back, and wrote in big red letters, “I’m brain-dead.” Maybe they all truly thought Jacob was “brain-dead” because he never fought back, only showed up day after day with a smile on his face, as if none of it fazed him. Vivian, as the monitor, was proud and upright. Seeing the way Jacob was tormented, she used her height and authority to intervene. She defended him time and again. But little did she know, by doing so, she was about to unleash a Pandora’s box. 0
After that, her things started to get tampered with. An apple she’d left on her desk was found with sewing needles stuffed inside the flesh. Her backpack—opened to find cockroaches crawling out from its hidden compartment. Someone even planted a blood-stained sanitary napkin in her lunchbox. And every so often, she’d find notes in red pen, covered in vile, hateful words. Eventually, Vivian couldn’t take it anymore and completely broke down. Her teacher, outraged upon discovering this, immediately halted classes to investigate. But the class remained silent; nobody spoke up, and the investigation reached a dead end. The class monitor, Tyson Carden, suggested an anonymous vote. Maybe then, someone would reveal the culprit. And sure enough, when the votes came in, nearly every one of them pointed to Jacob Thorn. Right there in class, the teacher searched Jacob’s pencil case and found a whole pack of needles, a container full of cockroaches, two unopened sanitary pads, and several adult magazines. With Jacob condemned, the stories about his “other dirty habits” started to circulate. Someone claimed he’d sneak back to the classroom during morning exercises to lick Vivian’s cup. Another said he would linger around her desk after school, sniffing her chair. Someone else swore they’d seen him staring at her while she slept, drooling, and rubbing himself. Hearing this, Vivian ran to the bathroom, retching for what felt like hours. She refused to leave home for a month, too traumatized to return to school. Her homeroom teacher, Ms. Loretta Banks, along with a few other class leaders, came to visit her, promising that Jacob had been “handled.” His parents had taken him out of school, and he wouldn’t ever be coming back. With enough reassurance, Vivian finally returned to school. Jacob was gone, and things seemed normal again. But the psychological scars he left on her would never heal. Vivian started having recurring nightmares. She’d describe to us in detail how, in her dreams, she’d be trapped in a dark tunnel with a pair of eyes staring relentlessly at her. No matter how hard she ran, there was no end, no escape from that gaze. Because of these nightmares, Vivian stopped wearing bright clothes, refused to go out after dark, and began to fear even the presence of boys. But, as fate would have it, one day during high school, everything changed. 0
On that day, a fierce storm hit—dark clouds rolling in, thunder crashing. By five in the afternoon, it was as dark as midnight. Dad, as usual, was on his way to pick her up, but he got stuck in rising floodwater, and the car stalled. Vivian waited at the school gate, watching as a hurried passerby accidentally knocked her phone from her hand, sending it splashing into a puddle. The screen instantly fizzled out. As it got later and the streets emptied, Vivian decided to brave the walk home on her own, opening her umbrella and staying on high alert. Normally, she’d take a shortcut down a narrow alley, but not today. She chose the main road, avoiding every possible risk. But despite all precautions, fate still caught up with her. A man appeared, trailing her from about thirty feet back, keeping a steady distance. She glanced at his reflection in a shop window and saw him—a man in a black hoodie, face covered by a mask. If she stopped to tie her shoe, he stopped. If she quickened her pace, he matched it. By now, the street was completely deserted, and her whole body began to shake. It wasn’t the first time her school had heard of incidents like this. There had been a string of assault cases, all in stormy weather, and the perpetrator had yet to be caught. But instead of letting her fear paralyze her, Vivian kept moving, though her heart was racing. As the man started to close the distance, Vivian used every ounce of strength she had to dash toward a fruit shop at the corner. Without thinking, she threw herself against the door, forcing it open with her shoulder. The shop owner, Mr. Ellis Grant—a silver-haired old man—nearly had a heart attack. Vivian dropped to her knees, gasping for air, and with a hoarse voice, told him, “Someone’s following me.” The old man’s face grew serious as he stepped outside. Sure enough, there stood the man in black, a specter lingering just beyond. Mr. Grant pointed at him and shouted, “You get out of here before I call the police!” The man hesitated for a second, then turned and vanished into the storm. Relieved, Mr. Grant handed Vivian a cup of hot water and attempted to call her family, but all the phones were down—the storm had knocked out local service. When she’d calmed down, he offered to walk her home himself. But as they turned a corner on the way, a shadow rushed out of nowhere, barreling into them with force. Vivian fell, dazed, but when she looked up, horror rooted her in place. Mr. Grant lay on the ground, clutching his neck, blood pouring from between his fingers. A bolt of lightning illuminated the street like daylight, and his face was frozen in a grimace of shock as his eyes stared, unseeing, straight at her. Vivian said she’d never forget that sight. 0
After that, Vivian was admitted to Rosehill Psychiatric Center. She couldn’t take her exams, and the police never found her attacker. Even after her release, she couldn’t shake the trauma. Our family tried to get her back to school, but after only two weeks, she begged our parents to let her stay home. Just walking into the building reminded her of Jacob Thorn and that stormy night. With no other choice, they agreed. But her fears never went away. Every time it rained, she’d curl up in a corner, muttering strange things. Everyone thought she was just spouting nonsense—everyone but me. I listened, taking her words seriously. Vivian told me that she’d waited five years for a second chance to set things right. She said that three days from now, another storm—just like that one—would come. I didn’t believe her, but sure enough, three days later, the Pacific storm hit. Dark clouds rolled in, thunder boomed, just like she said. I stared at her in disbelief, and she explained. Five years ago to the day, she’d received a phone call. She had been waiting at the school gate for Dad, with the wind howling around her, making it hard to hear. The signal was awful, but she heard a woman’s voice telling her, “You’re in danger. Find help now!” A second later, the passerby bumped into her, and her phone ended up in the puddle. I listened in silence before finally asking her, “Who was the woman that called you?” “It was me,” she said calmly. 0“I could never forget that number; it’s exactly the same as the one for our landline at home.”
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