My name is Lauren, and this is my story--my last story, as you will learn.

It all began when I opened up my new phone. My old one had died and, saving some money, I bought a used one off of eBay. Less than a third of the price it would have been new--slightly used, but quite a bargain. I opened it up and inspected it it--nothing wrong. I turned it on. This was weird! The screen seemed to shimmer in an unusual way, and the wallpaper was some kind of psychedelic pattern. "Weird," I thought, and put it away.

The next day at work was wonderful. I had on a favorite colorful shirt and shorts, and tennis shoes so I could go running later on. The day was warm enough to eat lunch outside, and I laughed and flirted with my coworker friends, looking forward to watching some TV in the evening. Shortly after 5, as I was leaving work, my new phone vibrated: a text.

"1315 Albion. Go."

And the screen shimmered again. I didn't think to check the message's sender. Albion was a street within a few minutes' drive; it seemed entirely reasonable that I might take a quick visit there. I got into my car and drove off.

A few minutes went by, the radio playing. 1315 Albion was a large, stately two-story home with a neat lawn. I parked at the curb, left my car, and began walking up the driveway towards the house. The phone buzzed again. I checked the message. The words were blurred at first, but I blinked and then they stood out clearly:

"Leave your shoes here, then enter."

This seemed very strange, yet somehow I felt myself following the directions: I took off my tennis shoes and my socks too, and left them by the edge of the driveway. Standing in my bare feet and following these strange orders, I suddenly felt very vulnerable. But I gingerly walked across the lawn, finding it soft under my feet; upon reaching the front door, I found it already ajar, so I pushed it open and stepped inside.

The entryway seemed little-used; no shoes, no jackets. A pitcher and glasses sat on a small table, with a card folded on top of it. The phone buzzed once more; I looked and once again saw the strange shimmering before the words formed.

"Read the card and follow its directions."

I picked up the card and read. Elegantly handwritten were an incongruous list of instructions:

Close the door behind you.
Help yourself to a drink.
Leave the phone on the table.
In exactly four minutes, strip to the waist.
Follow the music down the hall.

Before I had even thought about it, I had closed the door. The loud clicking of the latch seemed ominous. I poured a glass of liquid (light red) from the pitcher and drank it; it was both sour and sweet, something like lemonade. I left the phone on the table gladly, not sorry to be rid of the odd device. As I walked down the hall, towards the source of some soft flute music, I thought about the second to last instruction. Subconsciously I ran my hand down my leg; in shorts and barefoot, I already felt halfway naked. Who was watching me? In four minutes (three, at this point) would I follow the instruction?

The hallway was long and the tile was cold on the soles of my feet. Passing several rooms with closed doors, I eventually reached the end of the hall and turned right, opening the door where the music was loudest. But when I entered, I was much too startled to look for its source.

Two things about this spacious room, almost as large as a baseball diamond, caught my notice. First were the marble statues of young women. It was an unusual collection, about 15 pieces. There were a wide variety of poses: some were sitting, some were lying down. One appeared to be pleasuring herself; another, with a fearful expression, was in a running pose. The costumes varied as well. About a quarter were completely naked; the rest were in varying states of undress. Some had stone shirts on, but were otherwise nude; others were carved wearing shorts or pants, but topless. One girl even seemed caught in the act of peeling off her shirt, although the shirt was nowhere to be seen. With the exception of one girl, standing fully clothed at attention on a pedestal in the corner, all of the statues were barefoot.

I had not even taken this all in when the second feature caught my eye: a large flat-screen television, mounted to the wall. It displayed a familiar pattern: the same one from the cell phone. I continued to look around nervously. The back of the room had another television, showing the same pattern as the first. I examined the statues, never really able to take my attention off the pattern on the televisions. As I inspected them closer, a realization came to me: these were no carved statues, but frozen people. But somehow, this idea, although disturbing, did not convey any impetus to act: I kept looking around the room.

I noticed letters forming on the television screens: TURN AROUND SLOWLY. At this point I was too stunned to even wonder at the strange obedience that overcame me. I stood on my toes, with my arms outstretched, and turned myself in a full circle for some unseen observer. When I finished, I put my arms down and began inspecting the statues more closely.

For some reason, I was interested in their expressions. With blank eyes, it was not easy to determine; but many seemed to have a look of faint curiosity. A few others were afraid, including all of the naked ones except for two I would describe as lustful. The fully dressed girl in the corner looked straight ahead with a face full of resignation.  As I looked it over, an overwhelming urge came over me: my hands lifted my shirt and peeled it over my head. No sooner had I tossed it down than I unfastened my bra and let it drop to the floor at my feet. I felt completely helpless then: bare breasts, bare feet, and somehow compelled to follow the commands of an unseen force.

Words flashed on the television screen then: KNEEL. I did so with trepidation, glancing down at my naked chest and feeling utterly powerless. I was on both knees, arms at my sides, my bare legs and feet behind me. Then the pattern changed, somehow, switching colors, and the words changed as well: RELAX.

At that moment, I knew that I was turning to stone, but I did not cry out. My feet, which had been chilly, now were numb, and the numbness was spreading to my legs. Although I did not turn my head, I reached a hand back to touch a numb foot: it was solid, not soft. I pulled the hand back to my side and continued to stare at the screen. The numbness spread to my torso; from the corner of my eyes I could see that my breasts had become light gray marble. Finally the petrification reached my neck and my head.

Then I was a statue. The world did not go black; instead, I became locked inside this single moment. My vision is unchanging: I can see a television screen with the word RELAX, a pair of statues (one girl wearing only a pair of jeans sitting on a chair; another lying face-up and naked), and, just barely, my own petrified hand and breasts. My emotions are a kind of bewildered helplessness and humiliation. Perhaps there are others now; perhaps I have been moved; perhaps I have even been discovered and a team of scientists and doctors is studying me, trying to discover how to rescue me. I cannot tell.

Once I was Lauren the person, but now I am Lauren the statue. I am nothing more than a barefooted, bare-breasted statue, kneeling in submission, helpless and powerless--as far as I can tell, forever.