Chapter 2: Whisper of the Handprint
Richard Smith blinked slowly. His eyelids were heavy, dry. The room was awash in a dull, sterile white, but something caught his eye—a deep red smudge on the windowpane across the room.
A handprint. Smudged. Bloody.
He squinted. It pulsed faintly... then vanished.
Richard gasped.
He sat up halfway—but pain lanced through his leg and skull. He groaned, collapsing back onto the stiff mattress, eyes darting around. No blood. No handprint. No shadowy figure watching him through the glass.
Just a dream... or was it?
The scent of antiseptic and rubbing alcohol crept into his nostrils. Beeping machines and the soft hiss of a ventilator filled the quiet. He glanced down. His left leg was wrapped in thick plaster, suspended slightly. A cold bandage pressed against his forehead, itchy and tight. His clothes were gone, replaced with a thin hospital gown clinging to his sweat-soaked skin.
Beside him stood a small table—some pills in a paper cup, a syringe sealed in plastic, two ripe apples, and a crumpled piece of gauze. The drawer was slightly open, revealing a glint of metal.
The door creaked open.
A man stepped in—early twenties, clean fade haircut, hoodie over scrubs, carrying a plastic bag of fast food. His eyes widened when he saw Richard awake.
Richard stared at him.
A fog clogged his mind, but the man's face—it stirred something.
"...Danny?" he rasped. "Danny Keith?"
The man stopped, a soft smile curling his lips. "Yes! Thank God. You still remember me, buddy?"
"I—I think I lost it. Everything's a blur. Where... am I?"
Danny pulled a chair and sat by the bed. "Valtox General. You're in a ward, staring at the guy who watched over you all night."
Richard blinked. "Why... why am I here?"
Danny sighed, pulling the wrapper off a cheeseburger. "Fractured leg. Cracked skull. You survived a full-body slam into a concrete rail, bro. Some miracle you didn't bleed out. Paramedics said you blacked out on the spot."
"An... accident?" Richard repeated.
Then the floodgates opened.
Suddenly, images raced through his mind:
—Flashing headlights.
—Screeching tires.
—His own scream.
—And Brianna.
Running. Screaming. Bleeding.
And the sound of something—no, someone—whispering his name from the darkness.
His chest seized.
"Brianna?" he gasped. "Where is she? Was she brought here too?"
Danny's expression shifted. He looked down at the floor, lips tight.
Richard's heart pounded. "Danny... please. Where is she?"
Danny stood slowly. "That's the thing, Rich... no one found her. Not at the scene. Not anywhere."
A silence heavier than lead filled the room.
"But I saw her..." Richard whispered. "She was right there with me...in panic... bleeding... screaming..."
Danny looked up, his face pale. "You were alone when they found you, Rich. No signs of another body. Not even a blood trail."
Richard's eyes widened in horror. "Then who left the handprint?"
Danny froze. "...What handprint?"
Richard turned toward the window.
The glass was clean. Spotless.
But in the reflection—just for a blink—he saw it again.
A girl's face. Pale. Eyes hollow. And lips twisted into a silent scream.
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To Be Continued...