The Last Sip
A Thrilling Short Story by Kumaraswamy
Artwork by Kumaraswamy | Mobile Art Collection
In the dimly lit room, the air hung heavy with tension. She sat at the table, her trembling hands clutching the handle of a chipped coffee mug. The room was eerily silent, save for the ticking of the clock that seemed to grow louder with each passing second.
This wasn’t just coffee—it was the last thing keeping her awake, alert. Her eyes darted to the door, her pulse racing. She knew they were coming.
Every fiber of her being screamed to run, but her body felt rooted to the chair. She hadn't slept for days, her nights consumed by cryptic emails and chilling phone calls that offered no escape. Each sip of coffee was an act of defiance, a battle cry in the face of impending doom.
As she lifted the mug to her lips for the last sip, a faint knock echoed through the apartment. Her breath caught in her throat.
"Who's there?" she called, her voice breaking.
No response.
Her heart pounded as she placed the empty mug on the table, the final drop of coffee clinging to the bottom. Suddenly, the lights flickered, plunging the room into momentary darkness. When they came back on, the mug was gone.
She froze, staring at the empty table. A shadow moved in the corner of her eye, and she spun around, but the room was empty. Or was it?
A whisper brushed against her ear: "Time’s up."
The room plunged into darkness again, and this time, it didn’t come back.
Then she heard the door creak open. A chilling draft swept into the room. A figure, shrouded in shadows, stepped inside, its presence heavy and menacing. She couldn't see its face, only the faint outline of a long coat and gloved hands. The air seemed to grow colder with each step it took.
“What do you want?” she demanded, her voice trembling.
The figure didn’t respond but placed a small envelope on the table where her mug had been moments ago. As quickly as it had arrived, the figure retreated, vanishing into the darkness beyond the door.
Her hands shook as she reached for the envelope. Inside was a single piece of paper with three words scrawled in crimson ink: *“Your debt's due.”*
Her mind raced. Debt? She didn’t owe anyone—or did she? Memories surfaced, fragments of a deal made in desperation long ago. The sleepless nights, the cryptic messages, the shadows watching her—it all started to make sense.
The lights flickered again, and this time, she saw the shadowy figure standing in the corner of the room, closer now. Its voice was low, almost a growl: "The last sip was your last chance."
She screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the darkness enveloping the room.
© 2024 Kumaraswamy. All rights reserved.
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