Annabelle
by George Right
The ping of a new message
lit up Ronald’s phone as he slouched on the couch, a beer
sweating in his hand. It was Peter, as usual—his oldest friend,
the one who’d stuck by him through scraped knees and schoolyard
fights, now reduced to pixels and text. Three hours separated their
cities, but it might as well have been an ocean with how little they
saw each other. Peter’s stutter made phone calls a chore—he’d
always hated the way it tripped him up worse when he heard his own
voice—so they typed. Endless threads of catch-ups, dumb jokes,
and the occasional deep dive into the past.
“Met
someone,” the message read. “Her name’s Annabelle.
She’s amazing.”
Ronald grinned, thumbing a quick
reply. “About damn time, man. She hot?”
A photo
popped up: a girl with dark hair spilling over her shoulders, eyes
bright and warm, a smile that hit you like sunlight. She wasn’t
just pretty—there was something in her face, a quiet glow that
made you want to know her. Ronald whistled low.
“She’s
a knockout,” he typed. “How’d *you* pull that
off?”
“Ha ha,” Peter shot back. “Just
lucky, I guess. She’s sweet, too. Makes me laugh.”
Ronald
leaned back, genuinely happy. Peter’s luck with women had
always been a train wreck—shy guy, stutter, the whole deal.
“Proud of you, buddy,” he wrote. “Don’t screw
it up.”
Weeks turned into months, and Peter’s
messages became a steady drip of Annabelle. More photos: her in a
sundress by a lake, her laughing over coffee, her strumming a guitar
with a voice like honey in the short clips he sent. “She wrote
this one yesterday,” he’d say, attaching a song. Ronald
played them for his wife, Claire, who’d nod and say, “She’s
got talent. And he sounds happy.”
“Living together
now,” Peter texted one day. “Feels right.”
“Hell
yeah,” Ronald replied. “Big step. You popping the
question soon?”
“Nah, not rushing that. We’re
good as is.”
Ronald shrugged it off. Marriage wasn’t
everyone’s thing—him and Claire had tied the knot a
decade ago, but he got it. Still, Peter’s joy bled through
every word, and Ronald couldn’t help but root for him.
“Gotta
meet her,” he told Claire one evening, tossing his phone on the
table. “He’s head over heels.”
“Invite
them over,” she said, chopping carrots for dinner. “Weekend
at our place. Barbecue, beers, the works.”
Ronald fired
off the offer: “Come crash with us. Bring Annabelle. Been too
long since I’ve seen your ugly mug.”
Peter’s
reply took a day. “Thanks, man, but she’s got a work
thing. Maybe next time.”
“No sweat,” Ronald
typed, though he frowned. Next time became a pattern—camping by
Peter’s lake, a road trip halfway, always some excuse. “She’s
busy,” Peter’d say, or “I’ve got a deadline.”
Ronald teased him once: “What, you scared I’ll steal
her?” Peter just sent a laughing emoji and changed the
subject.
But the photos kept coming, the videos, the songs.
Annabelle baking cookies, Annabelle curled up with a book. Perfect
little slices of a perfect life. Ronald’s curiosity gnawed at
him. “He’s hiding her,” he told Claire,
half-joking. “Thinks I’m gonna flirt or something.”
She
rolled her eyes. “Or maybe they’re just private. Let him
be happy.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. But it
didn’t sit right.
One Friday, impulse won. Ronald
grabbed a cooler, stuffed it with beers and a gift basket—fancy
soaps and a bottle of wine for their anniversary he’d noted
from a letter, double-checking the date as a solid excuse to drop
by—and hit the road. Three hours of highway stretched into dust
and pines as he rolled into Peter’s town, a sleepy grid tucked
against a wooded hill. The house was the last on a dead-end lane, a
squat little place half-swallowed by trees. No warning, no text—just
him and a dumb grin, ready to surprise them.
Peter answered
the door in a faded T-shirt, eyes wide. “Ron? What the
hell?”
“Surprise!” Ronald held up the
cooler. “Figured I’d drop by. Where’s the lady of
the house?”
Peter blinked, then rubbed his neck. “Uh,
she’s not here. Just left to see her mom.”
“Damn,
bad timing,” Ronald said, stepping inside anyway. “Brought
you guys some stuff—your anniversary’s tomorrow,
right?”
“Yesterday, actually,” Peter
mumbled, glancing away. “We, uh, celebrated already. You
must’ve got the date off my letter—I wrote it
late.”
Ronald laughed. “Always a day behind. She
gone long? I’d love to meet her.”
“Dunno.
Few days, maybe. Her mom’s not doing great.” Peter’s
voice was tight, his usual easy rhythm off.
“Rough,”
Ronald said, setting the cooler down. The living room was cozy—photos
on the mantel, Annabelle beaming next to Peter. A raincoat hung by
the door, women’s shoes tucked beneath. “Guess I’ll
catch her next time.”
“Yeah,” Peter said,
forcing a smile. “Stay the night, though. You drove all this
way.”
“Twist my arm,” Ronald grinned, but
his gut twitched. Something felt wrong.
Dinner was takeout
pizza, small talk about old times. Peter loosened up a bit, but his
eyes kept darting to the hall. Ronald crashed on the couch, wide
awake as the house settled. At 2 a.m., he crept upstairs, drawn to a
cracked door. Annabelle’s room—closet full of dresses,
guitar on the wall, a faint floral scent. Peter couldn’t play a
note. It was hers, alright, but it felt… staged.
Back
on the couch, doubts festered. The anniversary excuse sounded
rehearsed. The “sick mom” bit too convenient. Maybe she’d
left him—dumped him months ago, and he was faking it. Or worse.
Peter’d had a temper as a kid, fists flying when his stutter
got him mocked. Ronald had pulled him off more than one punk. What if
they’d fought? What if—
“Stop it,” he
whispered to himself. But the seed was planted.
Next morning,
he hugged Peter goodbye. “Tell Annabelle I said hi.”
“Will
do,” Peter said, too quick.
Ronald didn’t head
home. He knocked on the neighbor’s door downhill—no
answer. The next house, an old woman with a pinched face cracked it
open. “Yeah?”
“Hi, uh, I’m a friend of
Peter’s—the guy in that house up the hill,” he
said, leaning on charm. “Worried about him. You know
Annabelle?”
She squinted. “Don’t
gossip about folks I don’t know to folks I don’t know.”
The door slammed.
“Friendly,” he muttered, driving
off empty-handed.
The texts and photos kept coming after
that—Annabelle hiking, Annabelle cooking. But Ronald’s
replies grew short. “She’s gone,” he told Claire
one night, pacing the kitchen. “He’s lying. Those photos
must be old.”
“Or she’s just busy,” she said, exasperated. “You’re obsessed.”
“Nah, it’s deeper. He’s hiding something. What if she’s… hurt? Or kept somewhere in the basement against her will?”
Claire stared. “You’re not serious.”
“He’s got a past, Claire. You don’t know him like I do.”
She sighed. “Then talk to him. Not me.”
But talking wouldn’t
cut it. Nor could Ronald go to the police without evidence. He needed
proof. Several days later, he drove back, midweek, when Peter’d
be at work. Tools rattled in his trunk—crowbar, pickaxe,
shovel. The back door gave with a shove, splintered wood creaking.
Inside, the house was still. No Peter, no Annabelle. Ronald hit
Annabelle’s room first. Same dresses on the same hangers, same guitar, same soap in
the bathroom, untouched. “Nobody’s living here,” he
muttered. “Not her.”
The basement stairs groaned
under his boots. Dank air hit him, shadows pooling in the corners. A
patch of fresh plaster glowed against the old wall—too new, too
clean. His pulse kicked up. “Oh, God,” he breathed,
swinging the pickaxe. Chunks flew, dust choking the air.
“Freeze!”
A flashlight blinded him. Cops—two of them, guns drawn. “Drop
it!”
Ronald’s hands shot up, the pickaxe
clattering. “Wait, wait—I’m not—”
“Out!”
the cops barked, guns steady as Ronald dropped the pickaxe, hands
shaking. He stumbled upstairs, dust clinging to his shirt, and turned
on them, voice loud and raw. The old lady from next door stood on her
porch, arms crossed, nodding to the cops - probably it was she who
called them. “He killed her!” Ronald exclaimed.
“Peter—your guy next door—he murdered his
girlfriend and walled her up down there! Check it, go look!”
The older cop, a stocky guy with a buzz cut, raised an eyebrow. “That so?” He jerked his head at his partner. “Take a peek.”
The younger one, wiry and sharp-eyed, clomped downstairs. Ronald paced, chest heaving, glaring at the remaining cop. “I’m telling you, she’s in that wall. He’s been lying for months—fake photos, fake stories.”
“Calm down, buddy,” the cop said, voice flat. “We’ll see.”
A minute later, the partner shouted up, “Nada. Just brick and some sloppy plaster—water damage fix. No body, no nothing.”
Ronald froze, words choking in his throat. “What? No, that’s—that’s not right—”
Tires screeched outside. Peter’s car lurched into the drive, and he bolted out, face red, eyes blazing. “What the hell, Ron? You broke in? Smashed my basement?”
The cops turned, hands on holsters. “This your place?” the older one asked.
“Yeah,” Peter snapped, then pointed at Ronald. “And this lunatic thinks I’m what—hiding a corpse?”
“You tell me!” Ronald yelled, stepping forward until the cop blocked him. “Annabelle’s gone, man! You’ve been dodging me, feeding me bullshit—where is she?”
Peter stared, then laughed—a sharp, bitter sound. “Gone? She was never here, you idiot. She’s not real.”
The cops exchanged a glance. “Say what?” the younger one said, climbing back up.
“Annabelle,” Peter said, pulling out his phone. “She’s AI. Fake. I made her—photos, videos, songs, all of it.” He tapped the screen, showing a new image of her smiling in a park. “See? Just generated. No girlfriend, no murder.”
Ronald’s jaw dropped, aggression draining into confusion. “You… built her? Why the hell—”
“Because real women leave. Or disappoint,” Peter cut in, voice hard. “She doesn’t. She’s perfect—my rules, my world. Kids get imaginary friends, right? This is mine.”
The older cop snorted. “So you’re just playing house with a computer?”
“Pretty much,” Peter said, shrugging. “Actually, men marry imaginary women all the time,” he added with a wry chuckle “Then suffer when they find out how far the real ones fall short. At least I’m spared that.”
Ronald gaped, then sank against the wall, head spinning. “You’re nuts.”
“Says the guy who smashed my place thinking I’m a killer,” Peter shot back, eyes narrowing. “Get out, Ron. We’re done.”
The cops lowered their guns. “No body, no crime,” the younger one said.
“But still. it's housebreaking and damage to the property,” the older added. “Are you going to press charges, sir?” he asked Peter.
“No,” Peter shook his head. “I just don't want to see this... man anymore.”
“I’ll cover all
the damage,” Ronald muttered, confused.
“Get out,”
Peter said, cold.
Back home, Claire laid into Ronald. “You
broke into his house? Are you stupid? You could go to jail for that!
Could ruin our whole life!” Her voice, which he once enjoyed,
was now grating like nails on glass.
“He’s living
a lie!” Ronald snapped. “Some digital doll—”
“So
what? It’s his life and his problems! Not yours and not mine!”
She stormed off, leaving him stewing. Peter’s words echoed in his head:
*Men marry imaginary women all the time.* Ronald glared at the
ceiling, wondering if he’d ever seen Claire clear either. Maybe
his former friend still had a point...
Meanwhile, in his quiet
house, Peter booted up his computer. The Annabelle folder glowed
on-screen—hundreds of files, a life he’d crafted. He
hesitated, then clicked “New Folder.” Typed “Friend.”
A blank slate. Maybe this one wouldn’t disappoint him.