Chapter 2: A Friend's Concern

Chapter 2: A Friend's Concern

Molly didn’t sleep. After the heavy thump from the living room, she had scrambled back from the bed, grabbed the heaviest book she owned—a hardcover art history tome—and spent the night wedged in the corner of her office, watching the doorway. Nothing else moved. No other sounds broke the thick, watchful silence. But the caramel scent remained, a constant, cloying presence that coated the back of her throat and made her stomach churn.

By the time the grey morning light filtered through her blinds, a desperate plan had formed. She needed an anchor. A lifeline to a world where boxes didn't materialize out of thin air and threatening notes weren't left by unseen hands. She needed Becca.

Her fingers trembled as she dialed, the phone feeling slippery in her sweaty palm. Becca picked up on the second ring, her voice a chipper whirlwind of energy that felt like it belonged to another planet. “Molly! I was just about to text you. Up for a run this afternoon? The weather’s gorgeous.”

“Becca, I… I need to see you,” Molly stammered, her own voice sounding thin and reedy. “Now. Can you meet me? For coffee?”

The forced cheer in Becca’s voice instantly evaporated, replaced by the calm, assessing tone she used at the ER. “What’s wrong? You sound awful.”

“I just… something happened. I can’t explain it over the phone. It’s my apartment.”

A pause. “Okay,” Becca said slowly. “Okay, Mol. Deep breaths. How about The Daily Grind in half an hour? I’ll leave now.”

The cafe was an assault on the senses. The hiss of the espresso machine, the clatter of ceramic mugs, the bright chatter of strangers—it was all too loud, too normal. It made the cloying silence of her apartment feel even more sinister in retrospect. Molly huddled in a booth, clutching a lukewarm latte she hadn't touched, the childishly scrawled note folded into a tiny, creased square in her pocket.

Becca slid into the booth opposite her, her reddish-brown ponytail swinging. She looked vibrant, alive, her nurse’s scrubs a uniform of grounded capability. Her bright, concerned eyes scanned Molly’s face, taking in the dark circles and the frantic energy.

“Talk to me,” she said, her voice soft but firm.

And so Molly did. The words tumbled out in a chaotic rush—the smells, the crinkling cellophane sounds, the impossible appearance of the candy-striped box. Her voice dropped to a near-whisper as she described the pathetic, sticky candies inside, and the note. With a shaking hand, she pushed the folded paper across the table.

Becca picked it up carefully, as if it were a piece of medical evidence. She unfolded it, her brow furrowed in concentration as she read the looping script. When she looked up, her expression wasn't one of fear or belief. It was one of deep, clinical pity.

“Molly,” she began, her voice gentle, measured. “You’ve been under an incredible amount of stress. Grief can do… strange things to the mind. It can manifest as sensory experiences. Olfactory hallucinations—smelling things that aren’t there—are common. So are auditory ones.”

“This wasn’t a hallucination, Becca. The box was real. The note is real. You’re holding it.”

“I am,” Becca agreed, tapping a practical, manicured nail on the paper. “But look at the handwriting. It’s… erratic. Unstable. It’s not unheard of for people experiencing extreme trauma to have dissociative episodes. You could have written this yourself and not remembered. A way for your subconscious to cry out for help.”

Each rational, carefully chosen word was a brick in a wall rising between them. Molly felt a cold wave of despair wash over her. She had come here for a lifeline and was being handed a diagnosis.

“And the box? Did I hallucinate that too? Did I go out, buy myself a box, wrap it in nesting layers, and leave it at the foot of my own bed?” The hysteria was rising in her voice, and she saw a flicker of alarm in Becca’s eyes.

“Maybe you ordered something online and forgot? Or a promotional package got delivered by mistake?” Becca offered, her suggestions sounding flimsy even to her. She reached across the table, trying to take Molly’s hand. “Look, I’m not saying you’re crazy. I’m saying you’re hurting. Deeply. And your brain is trying to cope. Maybe it’s time to consider talking to Dr. Evans again? Or we could look into some medication to help you sleep, to quiet the anxiety…”

Molly snatched her hand back as if burned. The chasm between them was complete. Becca saw a patient, a collection of symptoms to be managed. She couldn't see the truth. The world of logic and reason had no room for a thing that left gifts of used candy.

“I’m not sick,” Molly said, her voice flat, devoid of the emotion that had been choking her moments before. “I’m being haunted.”

Becca sighed, a gust of frustrated empathy. “Okay, Mol. Okay. Just… promise me you’ll get some rest. And call me later. Please.”

Molly left the cafe feeling more profoundly alone than she had in her own silent apartment. The bustling city street seemed to blur around her, a world of strangers to which she no longer belonged. Becca’s concern, meant to be an anchor, had only confirmed her isolation. If her best friend, her only friend, thought she was losing her mind, then who was left to believe her?

The walk home was a blur of dread. As she put her key in the lock, she noticed the caramel smell was gone. For a wild, hopeful second, she thought maybe Becca was right. Maybe it had all been in her head.

She pushed the door open. The air inside was still and neutral. She stepped into the entryway, her shoulders slumping with a sliver of relief.

Then she saw it.

On the narrow console table where she dropped her keys, there was a picture frame. It was one of her favorites: a silver frame holding a photo of her and Becca on a hike last summer. They were grinning, arms slung around each other, flushed with sun and exertion. It was a picture from before. Before the silence. Before the sorrow.

She picked it up, a knot of ice forming in her stomach.

Becca’s face was gone.

It hadn’t been cut out or torn. It had been furiously, violently scratched away. Deep gouges dug into the glossy photo paper, shredding her friend’s smile, her bright eyes, her entire existence in the image, leaving behind a mangled pulp of white and streaks of color. Molly’s own smiling face was untouched, left grinning beside a violent void.

Her breath hitched, a strangled gasp. Tucked behind the photo, pressed against the frame’s backing, was another folded slip of paper. The same kind as before. With trembling fingers, she worked it free. The same childish scrawl. The same brown, blood-like ink.

She can’t help you. She doesn’t understand. Only I can keep you safe.

Molly stared at the ruined photograph, the possessive words burning into her mind. This was a message. A punishment for seeking help. A jealous, terrifying claim. From the living room, she heard a sound. A single, soft crinkle of cellophane.

It wasn't a threat. It sounded like a welcome.