The Test

The small envelope, an ominous beacon, sat propped against my front door. Time seemed to warp, stretching thin as I made my way to the porch, each step heavy with the premonition of the horrors held within. My hands trembled, and my heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence, as I picked it up. My name, 'Layna', was inscribed neatly on the front, a script I knew all too well – the handwriting that had haunted my dreams for a month.

I carefully opened the envelope, turning it upside down and gently shaking it. A thick, square paper fluttered out, landing softly on the floor. It was a Polaroid picture, stained crimson, depicting a mutilated arm. A grotesque angle, severed fingers, and a pool of blood at the point where it had once connected to a shoulder. A faint tattoo hinted at the wrist, obscured by dirt and gore.

Flipping the picture over, two words, in that same precise hand, seared themselves into my mind:

"You're next."