Page 38 of Warmer, Colder

December 31st, 2014 – New Year’s Eve - 21 Days Dead

“Beeeeccccaaaaaa.” My name slithers under my door. I hear voices in my head all the time, but this is different.

They say never answer back when something calls your name in the dark—but this voice is familiar. It’s one that I’ve been hoping I wouldn’t hear again. Denial is so much easier to contend with than dread. But I should have known she wouldn’t leave me to grieve for long.

“Beeeeecccccaaaaaa,” she calls again, prompting me to crawl out of bed. The springs creak with objection.“Nothing good can come from this”, they whine.

I pause at the threshold of my door, hand frozen mid-air as I heed the phantom throb in my chest on instinct. Searching for something, I press my ear against the door. I’m not sure what I expect to hear. Maybe the rattle of a weapon. Maybe the creak of the floorboards. I wait, but all I hear is that empty whooshing of stillness. And then a piece of paper with the words ‘Find me’ slips under the door.

Twisting the handle slowly, I crack my door open a fraction to find another note, all that’s on it is ‘Warmer’ in purple ink. When nothing barrels in, I open it all the way and stare down thelong dark hall. Blackness stretches in front of me; the emptiness of it leaving room for those unwanted memories to creep back in. They crawl at the peripherals of my thoughts like an army of ants. Retreat or go forward; there’s a decision to make and it feels like an important one. Behind me waits restless tossing and turning; ahead, something productive.

“It’s your choice, Becca. What’ll it be?”a taunting girlish voice whispers from around the corner.

Tingles spread from my chest down into my stomach and fingers as I run down the hallway and into the living room. Another note waits for me, but this time, it reads ‘Colder’. Carefully assessing the dark corners, it’s clear I’ve hit a dead end.

My search continues in the kitchen, where a piece of paper is propped up like a tent on the floor in front of the sliding glass door. ‘Warmer ‘ is written in all caps.

I need to know once and for all that she’s really here. Am I going out of my mind with grief chasing down a figment of my imagination, or is the ghost of the woman I helped Nate hide haunting me?

My chest is tight with anticipation as I race outside and into the backyard. I check down the side but am disappointed to find the word ‘Colder’ staring back at me. Going back the way I came from, I spot a small patch of white sitting on the grass outside of the guest house. To my relief, the paper says ‘Warmer’.

Confidence and apprehension clash in my chest as I stand there weighing my options. I have no doubt now that there’s something waiting for me behind that door.

“The choice is yours, Becca. What’ll it be?”That youthful voice repeats, a bell ringing in too-distant memories that I can’t place. When I turn to confront it, there’s no one behind me, just the emptiness of the night and the backyard stretching out in front of me.

Stepping forward, I force my hand to grip the knob and push onward as the door creaks quietly on its hinges, the slow groan heightening my nerves as I enter.

“Hello?” I whisper. I’m met with silence, so I turn to close the door—wouldn’t want to alarm anyone if they happen to wake up.

As I enclose myself in the darkness, a presence looms in its inky depths. I miss the pounding of the terrified heartbeat that should be violently assaulting my chest. The stillness of my internal organs rings as hollow as my existence has become.

Unexpectedly, the spine-chilling silence is finally broken. “Boo bitch!”

The slow-drip of fear gives way to a flood that shocks my system. Emotions heightened, an embarrassingly shrill shriek escapes me. My irritated glare falls uselessly as I come face to face with my greatest mistake.

She’s not weak and lifeless like I left her.Death becomes her.Platinum and pink hair falls around her, following the curves of her breasts and waist, surrounding her like a halo. But she’s anything but angelic as she watches me with dark brown eyes intensified by darker eyeliner. They’re not doe eyes; they’re appraising and feline, simmering with interest.I’m the mouse in the claws of a cat.My hackles rise, but I tread carefully.

“You’re really here?” It’s not relief, but something settles within me. “Have you been here the whole time?”

“You didn’t think you could get rid of me that easily, did you?” One side of her plum-red lips tilts upward as she studies me. Chills trail behind her dangerously astute gaze that tracks over me from head to toe.

Refusing to squirm, I simply shake my head as I lean back against the door, putting more distance between us. But the longer she holds my gaze, the harder it is to keep the images of her dead body at bay. Those unseeing eyes judging my every movement as I dug and dug. Working the distressed hem of myjean shorts between my fingers, I take comfort in the friction as I attempt to chase away those unwelcome memories. “Sorry.” Running a hand over my face, I refocus.

“You should be.” The demand in her eyes pins me in place, like a butterfly on velvet. Waiting for the next pin to pierce me, I hold my breath. “I thought you were going to come visit me after you saw me the other day. But you didn’t,” she pouts but there’s an edge to her voice, a blade wrapped in silk.

“I—” The expectation takes me off guard. I’ve been so consumed by my family and my own grief that she hadn’t crossed my mind since I saw her in the bathroom right after I died. “I didn’t expect you to still be here. I wasn’t even sure if what I saw was real.” My confusion is genuine. “Shouldn’t you be at your own house? Or passed on, or whatever’s supposed to happen to us?” I push off the door standing to my full height. Still, she has several inches on me in her Mary Janes

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” she sighs. “I really wish I could, Becca. But unfortunately, some assholes buried me in your backyard.” She juts a finger at the window in the direction of the rose bushes.

Shock interrupts my train of thought. I’m not the kind of person who gets called an asshole to her face. My rebuttal fails me, but she doesn’t let that derail the conversation.

Once again, her expression shifts, lids rising and eyes rounding, features softening in a closed-mouth smile that hints at a single dimple. “I suppose it’s too late to request a headstone, but you can call me Stasi.” I hear her, but all of my attention has zeroed in on the pink heart glinting at the center of her tongue, so shiny and wet. A lure drawing in a helpless fish.

“Earth to Becca.” The snap of her fingers is too close. Intrigue bleeds into panic as she leans forward and presses a palm against the door frame just to the left of my head, caging me in.Too close.

I cross my arms over my chest, a quickly foiled attempt to reclaim my space when my forearm caresses her breasts.Don’t look down.Maybe it’s gravity or reverse psychology, but my eyes immediately home in on the dusting of delicate freckles on her peachy skin, tracing over the silver dermal piercings that trail between her cleavage, and landing on the little bars that press against the velvety fabric that barely covers her overflowing breasts.

“My eyes are up here, Becca.” A manicured finger curls under my chin, and I flinch at the contact. The tiny area she touched tingles and all my other muscles clench preparing for the rattlesnake I’ve overlooked on my path to strike. Apprehension winds tightly in my stomach, a coiling spring that could break at any moment.

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