Page 86 of Shadows in Bloom

NOW

That night, in my dreams, I’m standing in a burning house—my house; the one I grew up in, and not the one belonging to old Ms. Tennison; the blind recluse who took my mother and I in after we lost everything.

But the fire doesn’t touch me.

Outside, on the other side of the threshold, stands Winifred on the porch, hand outstretched toward me, tears streaking down her soot-caked cheeks. Her mouth is forming words I can’t make out, other than my name.

The dream version of me cocks her head.

I am me, and somehow not—an observer, trapped behind thick glass that blocks out all noise save for a whistling wind and crackling embers.

Winifred’s mouth stretches open in a silent scream, and my heart, somewhere deep inside this body that no longer feels like mine, lurches painfully.

Go. Run, I silently will toward her. It’s okay. Save yourself.

She shakes her head like she can hear me.

So fucking stubborn, I think, chest squeezing.

I try to take a step toward her, blind in my desperate need to shove her out of here. Hell, get us both out of here, as far away from this cursed place as humanly possible. We don’t belong here. Especially her.

But when I try to move, a teeth-rattling pain rockets through my body, and I fall to my knees in the flames. Whatever was shielding me is now gone, and I scream and scream and scream as the fire slowly consumes me.

“Winnie!” I finally manage to wail just as my vision gets eaten by the flames, and the roaring wind swallows my voice whole.

And I’m?—

I gasp awake.

Or at least…I think I do.

My eyes pop open wide—unblinking. The fire is gone. There is only darkness. I’m in my room—the one in the attic of Ms. Tennison’s farmhouse.

It’s cold—unnaturally so. Steam puffs up from my lips with each shaky breath. And yet I’m soaked in sweat. Feverish. It stings. Burns. Feels as if there are hundreds, if not thousands, of little hot needles prickling every inch of my skin, even under my clothes.

But when I try to move—roll over, kick off my sheets, claw off my pajamas, rip out the needles, check over my body for burns—I can’t.

I can’t move anything, not even my mouth to cry out in pain.

And that’s when the panic sets in.

It’s just like in my nightmare, only this time, as seconds pass and my awareness and desperation sharpen, I know I’m awake.

I am…

Wide-eyed, I stare at the ceiling above me, my eyeballs the only part of me capable of moving as I take in the shadows above me, watching as they seem to…

Move.

Gathering into a writhing sort of mass that I don’t even realize is drawing closer, lowering onto me, until I realize I can’t breathe from the pressure, and the ceiling is no longer in sight.

It’s just…

Darkness.

An unnaturally heavy, rippling, oily darkness that slithers around my limbs, wraps itself around my waist, and shackles my wrists and ankles to the bed.

It isn’t real.

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