It was a mild Thursday afternoon in February and Robert, a man in his forties of medium build with short blonde hair was walking to his Swindon home, a ground floor apartment in a fairly new block of the kind so common in the area, having been shopping for a few groceries at the large supermarket half a mile away. He was struggling, prone as he was to lower back pain, and wishing he could drive.
Not that he could afford a car, having not worked for several years. The pain was not a constant thing, but boy, it was difficult to cope with when it struck. Walking with his head down, he spoke to no one. He kept himself to himself and to outsiders seemed happy being alone.
About halfway home the pain got too much and he had to stop for a few seconds. As he placed his carrier bags on the ground in an attempt to find a more comfortable posture, he noticed a white smartphone, possibly an iPhone, on the ground, almost at his feet. His first thought was that these phones were expensive and he could perhaps clean it up (it was covered in mud) and sell it, but he just couldn't bend down far enough to pick it up. He could barely reach the handles of his bags, so he decided to grit his teeth, grab his bags and battle his way home, leaving the phone for someone else to discover.
The next morning was a more comfortable one for him. He thought about going to see if the phone was still there, but of course this was a ridiculous idea. Plenty of people would have walked that way since yesterday. He sighed at the missed opportunity, made himself an instant coffee and went to collect any post from his allocated lockable box at the entrance to the block. To his disbelief, as he opened his door, he saw a phone on the floor. Clearly the same phone he saw yesterday, still muddy. How did it get there, and why? Maybe someone saw him trying to bend down for it, assumed it was his, and followed him? No. Ridiculous. They would have called after him and even if he hadn't heard them, leaving it on the floor for someone who struggled to bend down would have been pretty dumb. He stood motionless for a few seconds before picking it up.
Then things started to get really strange. It was clearly a working phone. It had a three bar signal, but there was nothing on it. No contacts. No messages. No photos. He took it inside and dialled his own number from it. As he picked up his phone, a shiver ran down his spine. On the screen was the name Holly, and a number he instantly recognised. Holly was his partner who was killed in a car crash three years ago. It was her number. He dropped both phones in shock, the sweat dripping from his face. Shaking violently, he picked up the phones. There was no trace of the call. His phone showed no incoming calls. The other phone showed none made. Robert started sobbing, but it wasn't the memory of Holly's death. It was pure shock. He sat down on the black leather sofa, put his head in his hands and sobbed uncontrollably for several minutes.
As he started to compose himself, he began to think that he was dreaming, or maybe the strong painkillers he had taken were messing with his mind. Then his phone received a text message and fear swept through his mind like a tsunami as he picked up his phone and saw he had a message from Holly. He opened it, trembling. It consisted of a single word. "Surprised?"
After a deep intake of breath he replied, "What is happening?" But he received a notification that the text could not be delivered. "HOL! WHAT IS HAPPENING?" he shouted in despair. The phone pinged again. 8 laughing emojis. Robert begged for it to stop but the next message simply said, "I can't stop!"
Given the circumstances of her death, this seemed particularly terrifying.
Then there was silence. For two days he received no more messages purporting to be Holly and no trace of the previous messages. Robert had been able to think of little else and didn't know what to do. Was he succumbing to mental illness? But he didn't hear voices. He imagined text messages. Was that even more serious? Then he consoled himself with the painkiller theory. It was the only thing he wanted to believe, all he could bring himself to accept.
Each regular message he received now set his heart racing.
On Saturday evening he was expecting a text from his friend Steve, a Manchester City football fan. City had beaten Swindon Town 4-1 in the FA Cup and was sure to gloat, so when the message tone sounded, he looked forward to reading it for some light relief. But it wasn't Steve. It was another message from "Holly." "Haha. That caught you off guard! Steve won't be texting. He knows what you are now. Everyone does. I'll be in touch soon. Can't stop now. Toodlepip!"
Robert was now convinced that this was not mental illness. This was someone playing games. But who? Why? And how did the messages disappear? Is it now possible for the sender to delete a message? He had a suspicion who it may be. Emma. He'd had a brief fling with Emma, a very attractive, tall, slim woman with long red hair who, at twenty-five was nearly twenty years younger than him. It didn't end well and Robert had always claimed she had threatened to kill him. But he had changed his number since then. How could she know? The whole situation was inexplicable.
Robert didn't have to wait too long before the next "Holly “message arrived. "You need to be at Swindon station at seven-thirty. Don't hesitate. Meet me on platform four. You’ll need a ticket to Bristol Temple Meads This is in your best interests. Love Hol x "
Something inside him compelled him to go. He and Holly had spent a lot of time in Bristol when they were together, and now he couldn't focus on anything else. He couldn't understand what was going on, but he had to run with it
He arrived at the platform at seven-twenty, using a credit card to buy a ticket to Temple Meads. There were a few people around, but the platform was not especially busy. As he sat down, he received a text message. "Look up!" It said. He did. Standing there, in front of him, was Emma, looking as beautiful as ever. Robert was taken aback. " E-e-emma," he stuttered. "W w w what the......."
A hypnotic voice interrupted him. But it wasn't Emmas voice. It was Holly's. "Shhhh...." she whispered. "Emma is unaware that she is here and will not remember any of this. But I had to let you know that I know....."
Robert sat transfixed, clearly under some sort of spell as she continued, with her voice rising slightly. "You no doubt shuddered when I said I can't stop, didn't you? I couldn't, could I? When you tampered with the brakes on my car to get me out of the way for this tart. Well, you're both under my spell now. There's a fast non-stopping train approaching. And you're going to jump straight in front of it, aren't you sweetie?" An entranced Robert nodded meekly and prepared himself for death. The train arrived at seven thirty four and Robert died instantly.
Mysteriously, when his phone was found, the last message on his phone was timed over half an hour after his death at seven minutes past eight, the exact time of Holly's fatal crash exactly three years ago to the day and was sent to Emma. It said "I killed Holly to be with you, you bitch, and you were playing me for a fool. I couldn’t cope with the guilt we shared. The train won't stop in time. It can't. Goodbye."
Holly hypnotised the train driver, wiped the memory of the incident from his mind, and now, having got her revenge, she could rest in peace.