A Desperate Deadline

Aletheia just kept staring at her phone’s conversation history, paralyzed with indecision.

“Hi, Dolly, you're booked for tomorrow at 8AM.”

“Dolly, your appointment at All Smiles Dental is coming up.”

“Press C to confirm texts to receive gym membership information for Dolly.” 

Dozens like this. It seemed that in the past two weeks, someone had repeatedly given out Aletheia's number instead of their own. Doctors, friends, even food delivery—all of them called her, assuming she was Dolly.

At first, it had been exasperatingly hilarious - how could this Dolly girl possibly keep making this mistake?! She joked with her friends that it was actually Dolly Parton, whose elegant acrylics made it hard to type her number correctly.

But the situation had taken a dark turn. Today, Aletheia received a text that made her blood feel like frozen mercury. 

It had been twenty minutes since she read those haunting words: "Come to this address alone at midnight tonight if you want to see little Alex alive again, Dolly. 5524 Industry Rd, Queens."

Aletheia desperately tried to convince herself it was just a sick joke, a misguided attempt at humor by someone who had discovered their error. 

"This isn't funny. This is Aletheia, not Dolly. You have the wrong number anyway," she finally typed in response.

But the swift reply shattered her hope. It popped up on her screen instantaneously as if it were automated or the person on the other end predicted her exact words. 

"This is no joke. If you don't come, he'll die at 12:01, and we'll send proof. Call the police, and you won’t like what happens to you either."

Fear surged through her veins, compelling her to search for any clue about Dolly.

Could this be real?

Aletheia combed through online platforms, her heart pounding with each click. Finally, she tracked down Dolly's Instagram by searching her boutique gym membership and watching the highlights. She checked the clock: 8:21PM. Aletheia stared at the screen, her eyes glazing over when Dolly’s Instagram revealed a photo of the college-aged girl and a blue-eyed boy no more than six years old, with the caption, “As far as little brothers go, you’re pretty okay, Alex. Happy National Siblings Day.”

It couldn't be. This wasn't real.

She started a direct message to the girl, “I know this sounds crazy but I got a text I think was meant for you as a prank…” and then explained. As the clocked ticked down, Aletheia panicked and sent message after message in vain, each one quickly read but ignored. 

The weight of the responsibility bore down on Aletheia as she stared at the smiling child. She couldn't take the chance when the what-if had such dire consequences, leaving her with no other choice but to venture into the unknown.

She convinced herself that, at the very least, this would make an incredible story to add to her freelancing portfolio—one she could pitch to Buzzfeed or Wired.

With shaking hands, Aletheia shared her location with a friend, telling him she was chasing a bizarre story and instructing him to contact the police if he didn't hear back in three hours.

Two hours later, her journey led Aletheia to a desolate warehouse in Queens, where not a soul could be seen for miles. It took three nerve-wracking train rides to arrive, each stop amplifying her sense of unease.

As Aletheia stepped into the darkness, she spotted figures out of her peripheral view, and the world around her transformed. The atmosphere thickened, suffocating her with its oppressive darkness. A rough hand seized her, pressing a cloth soaked in chloroform against her face. Everything faded.

Her eyes fluttered open slowly, the world swimming into focus.

Aletheia found herself confined in a small, almost pitch-black, foreboding room. She sat upright at a desk, her arms bound by a cold metal contraption, leaving her wrists three inches apart. The air was thick with a suffocating blend of stale decay, mold, and gasoline.

Darkness pressed against her, punctuated only by a menacing red recording light perched in the corner of the ceiling. Someone was watching.

As her eyes adjusted, it was then that she realized the room's eerie familiarity.

It was an exact replica of Aletheia’s own apartment, down to the minutest details. Her desk with the paint splatter, her cozy worn gamer chair, and the photo of her cat, Disco.

It was all there in terrifying preciseness. Her captors knew her, watched her, and trapped her, and they were watching still.

Panic seized Aletheia as she screamed and struggled against her hand restraints. Her phone and wallet were gone. Like a caged animal, she clawed at the walls, desperately searching for an escape route. Thoughts raced through her mind, trying to make sense of the horrifying situation.

What was happening? How could they know?

The terror deepened when she noticed the absence of the familiar books on her shelf, replaced instead by a collection of spine-chilling titles about kidnapping, torture, and psychological torment. A decrepit PC replaced her usual laptop on the desk, its presence urging her to investigate. 

She summoned the courage to press the power button, and the screen flickered to life, revealing two side-by-side Microsoft Word documents, no wifi connection, of course.

The second page was blank while the first page demanded her attention, bearing ominous instructions: 

"Instructions for Dolly: You have 6 hours. You will complete your 15,000-word psychology thesis on the effect of captivity on a person’s psyche, incorporating references to ten books from the shelf.

For every 5 minutes you exceed the time limit, your brother will lose a fingernail, and once those are gone, we'll take larger body parts. If the quality is poor or you fail a plagiarism test, you'll rewrite the assignment with fewer fingers.

There are three candles in the drawer next to you—read fast, but hold them with steady hands, or you'll regret it."

Underneath the text was a photo with the caption: "proof of life." Her heart dropped. In the photo was a tied up small figure with a covering over the face and tiny hands bound with rope, next to a phone showing the current date. Alex.

Fear mingled with a newfound determination as Aletheia's heart raced. At least there was hope she wouldn't be immediately killed, her captors had was some psychotic objective here.

She could do it. She knew little of psychology and never did a thesis herself but she summoned the fragments of information she had pieced together about the woman she was impersonating. Drawing on her experience as a professional ghostwriter, Aletheia summoned her will, even under the weight of her horrifying predicament.

With trembling hands bound by their restraints, Aletheia lit one of the candles and approached the shelf, her eyes scanning the spine-chilling book titles. She cradled the candle like a lifeline as she alternated between reading and typing furiously in this damp chilling version of her apartment, soaked in an inch of gasoline.

What kind of person would do this? Aletheia wondered. Why force me into this situation if they know who I am? Why am I writing a thesis for Dolly when clearly her brother's captors are evil - what do they get out of this?

Aletheia had never written so furiously in her life. The room seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy, her fingers dancing across the keyboard as she churned out the words - ironically a psychological analysis of duress that was now deeply personal.

The hours passed in a whirlwind of urgency. Aletheia sustained herself with the meager rations of water and snacks on the table, the lack of a restroom only adding to her torment. She meticulously proofread and revised her work, every moment fraught with anxiety.

Finally, she finished the grueling work. 

Signing the document as "Dolly" felt alien and uncertain, yet she hoped it would satisfy the captor's demands. She was afraid to confess she wasn’t Dolly when they clearly had the upper hand in every way.

With a hesitant click on the "Save" button, she pleaded, "I'm done! Let me out, please. Don't hurt me! Please. I did what you wanted. It’s done!" 

Miraculously, the door swung open in response, admitting three masked figures dressed in black. 

One seized the PC, while the others seized Aletheia who tried to resist and bite and scratch to no avail. The world dissolved into darkness once more as chloroform overcame her senses.

When Aletheia awoke, she found herself back in her apartment, her mind reeling from the dizzying transition. 

The room stood unchanged, seemingly untouched by the harrowing events she had endured. It was just as she left it.

Yet, a stranger now occupied her reading chair, their presence as unsettling as seeing a snake lying in wait in the grass. The blonde girl smiled, her eyes dancing with a disturbing glee, white teeth gleaming in the moonlight.

"Hey, Aletheia, am I saying that right? Or should I say Dolly, am I right?" she chuckled.

It was her. Shaking with adrenaline, tears welled in Aletheia's eyes as her brain demanded answers but her tongue couldn't catch up, her voice quivering with a mix of fear and anger.

"Dolly. I recognize you from Instagram. What the hell do you want from me?"

"Oh, nothing I don't already have," Dolly responded nonchalantly. "I just submitted my thesis, just in the nick of time. Thanks for your help! After scanning it for any hidden 'help me' messages, of course," she laughed again, twirling in the chair like she owned the place and everything in it.

"What are you talking about? What do you mean?" Aletheia choked out, struggling to find her words amidst the tumult of emotions.

"Oh, you haven't figured it out yet? I thought you were sharp, but I guess your mind was preoccupied," Dolly said, her laughter carrying a note of condescension. She stood up and strolled around the apartment, casually picking up the other woman’s things as she went.

"I can explain if you want. It's pretty sick honestly," Dolly continued, unperturbed by the seething rage on Aletheia's face. 

"You see, I hired these guys called Do or Die. It’s a dark web service that helps you get things done - anything really, and I do mean anything.

"Basically, it's like one of those apps that blocks Twitter from your phone when you need to focus on homework, you know. I initially booked it for myself as a forced writer's retreat. But then I had this brilliant idea.” The girl beamed, trying on a pair of Aletheia’s sunglasses.

“I thought ‘What if I had a professional writer, like you, do the forced retreat for me?’ They say your best work comes under duress, and I wouldn't get that if I just hired you the normal way. So, with the right price, your writing agency agreed.”

“You’re lying, they wouldn’t!” cried Aletheia. 

“Oh, honey,” Dolly said in a mocking tone. “Money makes the world go round and all that. You really ought to read your employment contract more carefully.”

“Anyway voila! And here we are! Let's hope I get an A, or else we might see each other again next semester," Dolly giggled. She picked up a lipstick from Aletheia's nightstand and tried it on her wrist.

"You've got to be kidding me, you, you spoiled brat!" Aletheia's anger vibrated through her words. She took a step towards Dolly, her voice trembling with a mix of fury and powerlessness.

"My friend is studying film, and he recorded and staged the entire event," Dolly continued, unfazed. "It's going to be quite the cinematic project for his final assignment, too."

Dolly turned around, her grin widening. "Oh, and by the way, the last piece of evidence — I'll be taking your old phone number."

"Here's your new one,” Dolly placed a new iPhone on Aletheia’s bed and patted the pillow, making Aletheia even more violated. “You’re welcome! Initially, I mixed up the numbers, but then it became kind of fun. You were so worked up when my friend called you by mistake that one night," she chortled.

"And, of course, don't even think about going to the police," Dolly said, reading the intentions on Aletheia's face. "Based on your personality, sociopolitical archetype, and search history, my private investigator predicts you'll consider it, but ultimately decide against it.

"It won't do any good. You won't have any proof. Do or Die are very good at what they do, scrubbing a scene clean, all that. 

I even texted your little friend back that you shared your location with, and we deepfaked selfies of you watching 'New Girl' at home, just like you usually do on weeknights. Everything is squeaky clean," she said in a singsong-y voice.

"Get out," Aletheia said, her voice laced with a mixture of fury and despair. "Or I swear…” She couldn’t find the words to finish the threat, powerless.

Dolly chuckled, her amusement seemingly unending as she enjoyed her power over the young writer before her.

"Oh yes, I'll be going now. I'm off to vacation in Croatia. This has been quite a lot of work, you know! But it was all worth it in the end. Education is so important, don't you think?” She made her way to the door, with a wave and another menacing smile. 

“Thanks again for your paper, really great stuff. Five stars to your writing agency. Okay, bye, kisses!"

Dolly's parting words lingered in the room along with the scent of her perfume.

Aletheia sank into her chair, staring blankly at the wall. She had to do something, she had to tell her story.

The truth she had experienced felt surreal, impossible to convey without the cloak of anonymity and fictionalization. Even then, who would believe her?

The harrowing tale would remain buried within her, an unspeakable burden. Still, she pulled out her laptop and began typing, afraid to forget but equally afraid to remember, wishing she could write her way out again.