Sometimes we hear a dull ring of a church bell in the distance, only to wake up from our dream and realize our phone is ringing. I feel like that now. I feel restless, like one does in their sleep when their subconscious knows that something is relentlessly trying to get their attention in the real world.
Instead of church bells, I'm hearing the sound of a heavy wooden pole slam against concrete in the distance. And it repeats.
By third time, my eyes open.
I hear the sound again, and am sure I'm not dreaming anymore.
Could it be a thief? A dexterous thief who has managed to sneak into an Alpha's house and immobilize the Alpha and Luna of the pack. What chance I've against him then? But it's better to go see what's happening than be a sitting duck.
I feel for the side table and grab its corner. Lightly groggy from being pulled preemptively into the real world from my dream, I use the table as a leverage and slowly roll out of bed like a lazy cat. Propelling my legs down, I stand up, and immediately grimace from the soreness of my spine. Muscles from the top of my neck to the tailbone feel pulled. I sit back down for a few seconds of relief. Then I get back up and stagger in the dark, reaching for my room door. After I open it, I start to hear faint voices. No thieves would be this lively in their workplace. Still in a daze, I follow the voices to the kitchen, with my hand always reached out and feeling for any obstacles. In the kitchen, light from the yard pours in through the windows.
The room is crowded and loud like a narrow market street. And the demographics make it seem like there's a convention of centennials going on here. My eyes rest on the old woman standing a few feet ahead of me. The back of her large head, covered with fluffy white hair, is all too familiar. Yawning, I whine, "It's past midnight, gramma."
Gramma turns around quickly. Too quick for her age. She looks surprised. "Oh, I didn't mean to wake you up, honey."
"But you did, " I say with a deadpan face. I'm so tired I can't stitch together a sentence longer than that. I look past her at her friends settling down at the dining table to play poker. The round chips are grouped by colors and stacked neatly near the edges of the table without a single piece out of place. A bald old man in a black suit at the back starts shuffling the cards rapidly, like a magician striving to distract the crowd with his shuffle while the main trick happens where no one's looking. Add some slot machines, red carpets, neon lights, and scarcely dressed waitresses carrying trays of sparkly wine, the transformation of the kitchen to a casino would be complete.
"We'll be quiet," gramma says, "Go back to sleep." The golden beads speckled all over the sleeves of her party dress blindingly glitter with her every move. Her ensemble will make even Kate Capshaw's opening outfit on Indiana Jones run for its money, and I'm sure when gramma was younger her looks would've given Kate a run for her money, too.
Obediently, I turn back to do what she said, but another one of her friend enters the house by unceremoniously seeping through the front gate, making the noise that woke me up. It's suddenly cold, causing my arm hair to stand on end. When it's warm again, I glare at gramma.
"She's the last one. Promise," gramma says, her wrinkled forehead furrowing deeper, "The place we usually hang out is no longer vacant."
I return to my room, climb up on my soft bed and let my lifeless body fall back and succumb to sleep. My last thought before I fall asleep is if this happens again, I'll have to look for an abandoned building for my gramma and her friends to socialize in. Who knew there aren't that many suitable places for ghosts to haunt these days.
Burdened by the weight of my backpack — and teenage life, too — I scuff the soles of my shoes against the tar road in the name of walking. It's too much trouble to lift my feet between steps. But no matter how frugal I'm with it, my energy still continues to deplete on my way home from the bus stop.
