The Witching Hour

Chapter Fourteen

Recently James had been wondering what happened to a soul when it was stripped from the body.

Death, it was called. What did it mean? What did it feel like? Did it hurt?

His father was home more than usual these days. He stayed in the sitting room or his bedroom, and he was often home when James came home from school. James made dinner, and ate it with his father. It was surreal, having him there. Like everything these days.

The days with his father were easier now, more bearable with a friendly face to come home to. The nights were still hard, but that was okay because now the sun rose higher.

To be fair, James wasn't sleeping. Percy consumed his thoughts, and when he dreamed it was of the evening everything changed. Or maybe he was still awake. Either way, it felt like a nightmare.

Despite James' hopes, school hadn't gotten any better in the first month or so. He had no friends, but that was admittedly his fault. He hadn't exactly talked to anyone yet. In through the doors with his head down, and out again just the same, shoulders laden with books and shame. Shame that he couldn't pay attention to the lessons, shame that he couldn't score a passing grade, shame that he didn't even recognize himself anymore.

Today was no different–a dreary and overcast Wednesday that already felt like a Friday. He was trying to listen to his instructor, but James' eyes were heavy from his recent lack of sleep and the classroom window was open to the gentle spring breeze. He closed his eyes for a moment, to breathe off the exhaustion, and suddenly he was back in that room.

Percy lay on the ground, his arms by his side as if he'd positioned himself carefully. He looked calm. James knelt by his side, and suddenly he was above the scene, watching from the ceiling. He watched himself smooth back Percy's hair, and tears came to his eyes. He watched himself as he ran gasping to the window, retching into the freezing winter air.

He watched Julia scream when she came around the doorway. She was so clear to him now, and it was like he'd forgotten what she looked like for how long it had been. He sobbed aloud, back on the ground now. Julia's face was inches away from his, and it was stretched in horror. James did not move, but she came forward and grabbed his hand. Somewhere in his subconscious he was able to recall that this hadn't happened, that she'd ran out as soon as she'd come in.

The room did not reflect the mystery novels James' mother always had on hand. In the novels, mourners knelt at the victim's side, weeping for the poor lost soul.

The stark school dorm appeared much more empty than it was–the children were all pushed up against the walls, having backed up in terror from the still-warm body. James glanced at the door as Austin rounded the corner, gasped, and blocked his sister from entering the room. His hands over her eyes, they both retreated into the hallway.

James couldn't breathe. None of his dreams had been as clear as this one. He glanced around the room for a distraction, because he couldn't move his legs. Gripping Julia's hand, he found a line in the carpet and traced it to the wall, steadying himself.

There wasn't enough air. He choked and slid down to the floor, lying his head against the cold, hard wall. His head felt like it was floating. It's a dream, he told himself. It's a dream. Open your eyes.

He opened his eyes, and the room was gone, replaced by darkness.

Something hit him and he snapped awake. Above him stood his instructor, grim-faced and evidently bothered.

"If you're ill, leave the classroom and see the nurse," he said.

I'm fine, James tried to say, but it was as though he was still hanging on to the dream, still watching Percy's lifeless body.

He stood up, picked up his bag, and left the classroom. Someone behind him laughed.

You should try living with this, James thought.

He didn't go to the nurse's office. He meant to, but his feet took him to the door, and then led him down the path back to his father's house. He picked up his pace, breathing hard and fast.

His father was already home. He was sitting in his armchair with the paper. When James came through the door, he stood up.

"Did school let out early?" he asked.

James sobbed, a hand over his eyes, the other still holding his schoolbag. He shook his head.

"Were you sent home? Did you get in a fight?" His father approached him slowly, leaving the paper on the arm of his chair.

He cried harder, shaking his head again. His father sat down on the couch, patting the cushion beside him. James obliged.

"What happened?" his father asked, leaning his elbows on his knees.

"Percy," James started. "I saw him–It was so cold."

"Percy's in England," his father said. "Remember? Whatever he did to you, he's in England."

"What?" James said. "No, you don't...He was my friend."

"Oh, sorry," his father said, laughing it off. "He must really matter to you if you miss him this much. Why don't you write him a letter?"

"He's dead, you prick!" James shouted, shocked at his own anger. "That's why the school closed, or did you forget?"

"Alright," his father said. "Go take an hour to calm down and I'll bring you back to school."

"No," James said, backing up to the door. "No, I can't go back."

"Listen," his father said, standing up, no longer that much taller than his son. "I'm giving you some time. But it's the middle of the school day, and you just ran away from school. I'm being generous."

"No!" James shouted.

"James!" he yelled. "Go upstairs and calm down!"

Before he knew, the door was open and James was out, running down the dirt road and away from the farmhouse. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew he couldn't go back to school, or back home. He was alone but he wasn't afraid, because pain didn't scare him anymore.

He ran for some twenty minutes before turning around and heading instead for the train station. He had just enough money in his pack to board a train somewhere safe and happy. Then he could find some park to sleep in.

Or, he thought, I could go back to England.