"Mr. Jones, please return home at once."
The voice rang out through the trees, penetrating the darkest corners of the Dunmare forest.
The voice was soft, and calm.
The voice was collected, yet demanding.
The voice was power . . . and it was the last thing Mr. Jones wanted to hear as he hid, silently weeping among the leaves.
Again the voice came, "Mr. Jones, if you return home, no further harm will come to you. You have my word."
Mr. Jones shivered at the thought of returning. The way the voice said, "You have my word" made him shiver once more. Again, it was calm. Yet beneath the layers the voice could be seen manipulating him; attempting to break through the defenses of his mind.
"Ah-ha..." came the voice, this time it was right behind him. He froze. His heart beat in his chest, and beads of sweat dripped from his forehead. His eyes bulged as he tried to run, or scream, or anything, but he couldn't.
The voice was closer yet as it spoke not more than a foot away from his right ear, "My, oh my, Mr. Jones it's you! What a pleasant surprise! Come now... This place is no substitute for home."
A hand fell gently on Mr. Jones' shoulder, quickening the clearly audible sound of his heart in the dead of night.
"Mr. Jones, I've told you before: If you would eat healthier your heart wouldn't beat nearly that fast. You could be healthy again, don't you want that?"
"N-N-N-O" said Mr. Jones, finally stuttering through his first words of the night. With that out of the way, he continued, "G-Go away I don't n-n-need you. Leave m-me alone!"
The voice clicked its tongue, disappointed with the attitude of the man it tracked for so long. "Very well," the voice said, "I will leave you... for now."
"No," said Mr. Jones, "You will leave me forever." Where this new-found courage came from he did not know, but he felt it working. The voice started to fade; it was losing its power.
"Forever..." the voice seemed to contemplate this word for an eternity. Finally, it responded with an almost snake like venom coating every word, "Without me, you will die."
"Not anymore." Mr. Jones exclaimed triumphantly. His childhood vigor was returning to him. He never felt this good in years, and nothing would stop him now.
Only one task was left to be dealt with.
"There are others." Said Mr. Jones slyly.
The voice faded further, sounding dull and muffled as it said, "OTHERS?"
Although it was hard to understand, Mr. Jones thought he heard something else in the voice; fear.
"Yes, others." He repeated, "Only a few... But they are meant to take your place when you disappear. You haven't felt them? Well," he thought for a moment, "I suppose that is a good thing. If you had, I may have been deprived of my satisfaction in this moment here"
The voice shouted at him with the utmost rage and contempt, "YOU DEVIL, I WILL HANG YOU FOR THIS"
What was meant to scare Mr. Jones only fueled his own rage further, and it was then that he realized he could move again. He was on his feet in an instant, swinging around to finally meet the voice that had tortured him all these years. What he saw didn't quite surprise him, but had a simply mesmerizing effect instead. He stared at the figure, unsure what or how to think anymore.
It was himself. It was Mr. Jones, although, to be fair, it was a much more pale and ghostly version of the real Mr. Jones. The figure stood hunched next to a tree trunk, It was barely standing anymore and the only change it showed from its host was that its entire body was covered in scars.
Mr. Jones broke from his trance, eyeing the pathetic creature like a predator does his prey.
"You know," Mr. Jones said, "I knew you would look like shit."
With that, it was over. The conversation was finished. The eyes of the figure which had been "the voice" to Mr. Jones for far too long lit up and burned ruby red in the moonlight. The figure straightened from his hunched position, smiled, and walked toward its victim.
What was happening? Mr. Jones could not believe it, but the figure was coming back into color, and into reality. The red eyes burned brighter as they walked closer and closer to the man before them. Soon, the figure had conjured a pitch black colored suit and pants surrounding its body. Getting closer, Mr. Jones stumbled backwards and fell to the ground.
Quickly, and without the slightest of warning, the figure struck out a closed fist, making contact with the right jaw bone of Mr. Jones. The force behind the blow was incredible, sending him backwards into the trunk of a tree, yet, fortunately, the jaw remained intact.
"Wait! WAIT!" he yelled, "You need to listen!"
The figure advanced, showing no sign of stopping.
"The others, they aren't finished! They aren't formed like you are!"
That strong fist drew back again as the figure closed the gap between them.
"EVEN IF YOU KILL ME NOBODY WILL BE THERE TO FINIS-" this time the blow hit him on the forehead, driving his skull backward toward the tree he was resting on. Blood gushed from open wounds on both the front and back of his head.
The figure reached forward, grabbing a handful of hair. With a quick tug, Mr. Jones was pulled upward to be met eye to eye with his ruby eyed doppelganger. The figure opened its mouth as if to speak, but closed it around his victims mouth instead, biting down to secure a grip. It then used one hand to pinch Mr. Jones' nose, effectively cutting off any air supply. With its free hand, the figure reached forward and grabbed a handful of the mans stomach which hung abundantly over his belt. The figures nails were like hot iron pokers, first burning through the layer of clothing, then tunneling deeper into his stomach as Mr. Jones began to scream from the pain.
Going in and out of consciousness, Mr. Jones began to lose his sense of being. He felt non-existent. It was almost as if the act which was being performed on his body in the middle of a forest was simply a galaxy away. He could hear himself screaming in the distance, but what made him feel worse was that in his darkest world between worlds he was completely and utterly alone. Sure, he had been there before. Sure, there were others. Did they mean something to him? He knew they did... But he returned to his world with the voice, and that past could not be rewritten.
Now, as he sat looking into the darkness once more, those fragments of the "others" were all he saw. It was all he would ever see.
In the distance, still, he could hear his body drop. He could hear the footsteps of the voice walking back through the trees. Then, as if aware of the eavesdropping presence, the voice spoke:
"Who's the voice now, Mr. Jones?"
The voice was soft, and calm.
The voice was collected, yet demanding.
The voice was power . . . and it was the last thing Mr. Jones wanted to hear.
