Abby’s Hope

The flicker of the television screen was the only source of light in my living room, casting long, distorted shadows against the walls. I had found the DVD in a nondescript sleeve at a yard sale, labeled simply in black marker: Ginny & Georgia – “Abby’s Hope” – Unreleased Cut.

I assumed it was a deleted scene or a fan edit. I was wrong.

The video quality was erratic, shifting between high-definition sharpness and a grainy, VHS-like haze. The episode began with the standard opening credits, but the audio was warped—the upbeat, poppy theme song played at a sluggish, demonic tempo, turning the cheerful melody into a dissonant, dragging dirge.

The scene opened in Abby’s bedroom. She was sitting at her vanity, applying her eyeliner. In the official show, this was a moment of vulnerability, but here, something was wrong. Abby’s reflection wasn’t mimicking her movements. While the Abby on screen was carefully drawing the line across her lid, the reflection sat perfectly still, eyes wide and unblinking, watching her.

Abby sighed, a hollow, rattling sound, and looked into the mirror. She didn’t scream. She just looked tired. “I’m tired of hiding the lines, Ginny,” she whispered to the glass.

The camera cut to a shot of the hallway. Ginny was standing there, but she looked… wrong. Her limbs were slightly too long, her joints bending at unnatural, insectile angles. Her skin was a translucent, sickly shade of grey. She walked into the room, her footsteps making no sound on the hardwood floor.

“Abby,” Ginny said. Her voice didn’t sound like a teenager’s; it sounded like a recording played backward. “Are you ready to stop hoping?”

The dialogue that followed was a surreal descent into madness. Abby began talking about how she felt invisible, but as she spoke, the room around her began to rot. The wallpaper peeled away in thick, wet strips, revealing jagged, black mold underneath that pulsed like a heartbeat. The posters on her wall shifted, the faces of the bands warping into expressions of agonizing torment.

Ginny stepped closer. She placed a hand on Abby’s shoulder. Where her fingers touched the fabric of Abby’s shirt, the material disintegrated into ash. Abby didn’t flinch. She just stared into the camera, breaking the fourth wall.

“They don’t see us, Ginny,” Abby said, her voice dropping to a gravelly, inhuman whisper. “They just watch us fall.”

The camera zoomed in on Abby’s face, and for a terrifying second, her skin appeared to slide off her skull, revealing a hollow, dark void beneath. The sound design exploded into a cacophony of white noise, high-pitched shrieks, and the wet sound of tearing meat.

Suddenly, the screen cut to black.

I sat there, frozen, the silence of the room feeling heavy and suffocating. Then, a single, clear line of text appeared in white, typewriter font:

“Abby is still hoping. She’s hoping you’ll turn around.”

I didn’t turn around. I didn’t breathe. I stared at the dark screen, and in the reflection of the glass, I saw a figure standing in the corner of my living room. It was wearing a high school cheerleader uniform, its head tilted at a nauseating angle.

I lunged for the power button, but as the TV died, I heard a voice whisper from right behind my ear, perfectly mimicking Abby’s tone:

“Did you see us, too?”

I haven’t slept since. And every time I pass a mirror, I don’t look at my own reflection. I’m too afraid of what might be looking back, waiting for me to lose hope.