That is when the girl in the photo on her wall blinked.

Crystal did a double take as she passed by, holding a laundry basket of folded clothes. The animated picture was unnerving but not as much as the barely audible whispering that emanated from the walls. She forced herself back to reality and walked forward to the bedroom and sat down onto the bed, with the last load from her apartment. The weathered uniform shirt was starting to turn damp from perspiration and her faded blue jeans that normally bind her hips were starting to slide down from all the water weight she lost making the move.

Her job has relocated from Chicago to Lexington. They gave her two choices. Take the severance pay and find a new job without a degree and very few skills and even fewer contacts or accept a position at their location. That is after they reinterview her and decide if they still want her. She opted for the latter. Now she is in a strange city with no friends or relatives, with just the clothes on her back, and a small amount of personal belongings. Her world is now a one-bedroom apartment that included nothing but a king-sized bed.

And one picture of a young girl.

Crystal took the Purple Haze Bang out of the refrigerator, and even though it still was not fully cold, popped it open and took a drink. She then plugged in her cell phone and started cleaning. The apartment was supposed to be in move-in condition, but not to her liking.

Once finished with setting everything up, she pulled out some clothes to take a nap in. Sweatpants, cotton panties, and her favorite Reign of Z T-shirt.

She stepped into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. If there was any doubt that she was tired, her image gave her the proof that she definitely was. Just knowing she is all moved in made her feel better. Just the same, the question in the back of her mind kept arising. Why am I here?

Then a concerned look came over her face. She heard something. The whispering had persisted throughout the afternoon to where it became background noise. Must be the neighbors next door or down the hall, or so she surmised. But now there was a slightly louder mumbling. No definitive words but soft mumbling. Then four words emanated.

“I don’t need this….”

She stepped out of the bathroom and leaned out to see if anyone was there. No one.

Silence. She then returned to the shower, turned on the hot water, set it to the balmiest setting, then stepped under the downpour and immediately felt her muscles relax. The pungent sweat residue that had been clinging to her was slowly circling the drain. Her eyes gently closed. The walls spoke to her again.

“I’m alone in my prison cell.”

Crystal opened her eyes wide and recoiled in pure fear. Her head slammed into the shower wall. The back of her head made a deep thud sound as her scalp began to slowly bruise. She doubled over in pain and felt her scalp for any lacerations.

Mercifully, there were no cuts, and the hot water numbed the pain to the point she was able to straighten up and finish her shower. Once she stepped out, dried off and dressed. She stopped and listened.

The whispering was back.

She looked out her door into the hallway. No one. Just the slightest hum of the incandescent lights.

She stepped back in and tossed the towel into her hamper, she looked at the clock. 3:30PM. It was only Saturday, with nowhere to go until Monday when she reports for work.

Considering that, and that she had no stamina left, she got into bed.

The whispering seemed to get louder but instead of unnerving her it had a pacifying effect as fatigue induced her into slumber.

The unvarnished wooden floor with eggshell colored two by four walls of a room that included the cobblestoned fireplace told her she was no longer in reality.

But these are not what had her gripped in fear.

The girl in the picture was next to her, sitting in a wooden chair, bound with thick pieces of hemp rope, her hand behind the back of the chair with her legs bound together. She was in a sky-blue dress, with a snow-white bonnet. She shook in fear of the worst.

Then there was the sound of heavy boots approaching the room. The door opened. In walked an older man, dressed in all black, with an old fashion camera over his shoulder by its extended strap.

Neither the girl nor the man acknowledged that Crystal was in the room.

He walked over to the young girl and ominously glared at her. Without hesitation, he gritted his teeth and vented to her. “Last chance Amanda, are you going to make an honest man out of me, or will you force me to do my worst?”

Amanda turned her head and started to cry, not only in fear of her plight, but because his breath is so awful. She took one deep gasp in and out but then straightened her neck up and shook her head back and forth.

The man shook his head. “Have it your way,” he answered as he pulled the camera from his shoulder and opened it up. Amanda’s crying slowed as she began to whisper. She was praying for intervention.

The man paid no attention to her and pointed the camera at her. “Look at me Amanda.”

Her survival instincts wanted her to look away. She wasn’t having it. The man before her, Levi, wanted to induce her into the sanctity of marriage. Not because he loves her or God but to enable him to defile her in unimaginable ways.

She looked straight at the camera.

Levi pressed the button without hesitation. The camera clicked and for a brief moment, time stood still. He left the room. It was not too long when the footsteps outside the room returned, and Levi stepped in. He no longer had the camera. In his hands was a framed picture. The fresh picture of Amanda. He hung it on the wall, and came over to her and untied her, rather roughly. Once she was free, he took his hat off and wiped his brow. He then tapped her on the shoulder ominously and whispered to her.

“That picture now holds your eternal soul. Everyone who ever resides here will be your master.”

Amanda’s lower lip quivered, and then she let out the most painful high-pitched scream possible.

Crystal awoke to her dark apartment, and back in reality. The whispering continued but now it seemed less foreboding as mush as a plea for help. She got out of bed and walked over to the picture on the wall. Amanda’s image projected fear and strength at the same time. Fear of what she was facing while resilient in her stance. She was going to keep her morals. She was going to keep her soul intact.

Crystal took down the picture, and looked at the front, then the back. The whispering continued. She took it to the kitchen. When she was cleaning, she remembered seeing just what she needed. In the drawer next to the sink, there was an ashtray, with a book of matches. Mr. Smalls Theatre printed on the cover.

She took the picture out of the frame. The whispering continued. The paper was old but well preserved by the glassed frame. She gave it one last look and traced Amanda’s face with her fingertip before folding it up into the smallest square possible. She then pulled one of the matches from the pack and ran it across the striker. A yellowish orange flame ignited, and she held it to the edge of the photo. It caught fire quickly. Crystal dropped it into the ashtray and watched, while opening up the window to ensure the smoke detector wouldn’t go off.

She didn’t know what to expect. Then it happened. As the last of the picture went from paper to embers, and then to ash, the brightest light emanated from the ashtray, and then before her was Amanda, hovering before her, smiling. She winked and blew Crystal a kiss, and then slowly transcended through the ceiling.

The apartment was then quiet. The whispering was no more.

Crystal then cried like she never had before. She now felt like life had meaning. A purpose. This is why she was here.