I wake up with only hazy half-memories of last night. There's metal around my ankles. My legs are separated. I'm face-down on a granite floor. My hands are free.

Wherever I am, I can assume that I'm not supposed to leave.

Memories of the Halloween party come to me in flashes. Darkness. A sea of bodies. Lace tutus and glittery eyeshadow. A girl... They dissolve into mist, one after another.

My chest is frozen. There's a small warm bubble encasing my heart, but even that is chilling. I exhale and my breath turns thick and white in the air.

Look up, my conscious urges.

Several strange devices are along the walls, many with a multitude of straps and knobs. The only normal-looking thing in this room is the table at the center. I can see my phone peeking off the edge closest to me.

Bare brown flesh greets me when I look down on myself. Pink lines stand out along my wrists and hips like angry inverted crevices. When I push myself upright, it's not without its discomfort as my chest readjusts to the change in pressure. My skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. On my stomach, smeared, the word "whore" sprawls from one hip to the other in thick black lettering.

Chains rattle as I shift my position once more. Metal, and studs of some sort, grate against my ankle bones when I try to sit. I force myself to stand instead.

There's more than the phone on the table. A glass of water, two white disks, and a letter are waiting for me as well. First, I stretch one leg forward. The chain offers no resistance, so I take another step. By the time I'm within arm's reach of the table, the chains have let out to almost their full length.

The tablets are Advil, if the writing on them is to be believed. I guess whoever left me here assumed that I had a hangover. I ignore the tablets and the water and go first for the letter. Goosebumps crawl up my arms as I read.

Listen to your voicemails.

No signature. Not even their handwriting looks familiar. I turn to the phone and regard my bruised reflection in the plastic. Dark brown and purple splotches bloom around one eye, down to my cheekbone. I touch the bruise with my free hand; I hadn't even felt the pain and until now.

My phone flashes to life.

Several numbers - some of which I don't recognize - are listed, one after another. Each is followed by the same phrase: has left a voice message. My heart skips a beat. There's a total of thirteen messages.

Thirteen clues, my conscious tells me. I press a nervous thumb to the very first message in the list. October 31st, 11:03 PM.

"Hey-ey-ey, Amanda," slurs a drunken voice. The backtrack through my memories begins.