Hush.

26::Torch

I had no idea where I was. Only that I was in a nightmare. Because I knew my nightmares, and when I’m trapped in a deserted house in the middle of nowhere, with no working electricity, it could be nothing else.

I didn’t recognize the house, nor did I find anything inside. There was just floor space, and walls, and doors. No furniture or decorations. There weren’t even doorknobs. I was confused. But that was usually the case when I dreamed. My head was a tangled mass of chaos; the situation only amplified once I closed my eyes.

“Hello?” I called, even while knowing it was futile. “Anybody there?”

I was, of course, given no answer. I tripped over the long white dress I wore, cutting my bare foot on a loose nail. I hissed in pain. Funny, how real things could feel in dreams. How a house could have no furniture, and yet a perfectly placed nail.

“This isn’t funny!” I called. “Seriously! Where the hell am I?”

“I hate it when people shout.”

I whirled around, stumbling backwards when I came face to face with . . .

Myself.

“What . . . what the hell . . .”

The clone of me approached, lips twisted in cruel amusement. I didn’t find anything the least bit funny, especially since I was pretty sure that nail busted through a few layers of skin, and it probably gave me tetanus.

Of course, this was a dream. I would be fine.

“Surprised?” she asked, stopping a few feet away with her arms folded over her chest. She wore an identical dress, but it was black. “You shouldn’t be.”

I licked my lips. “This is just a dream. A nightmare.”

“Is it?” she reached out and touched her fingers to my forehead. My skin crawled. “Because I’m up here every day, Annie Davis. Running rampant through your mind, and you know it. If this is a nightmare, then I’m sorry. Because you live this every day.”

My hands curled into fists, nails digging into my palms. Funny. I could feel that, too. “Shut up.”

She tossed her head back and laughed. “Man, I really hate your obstinacy—hm. My obstinacy? Our obstinacy?”

“I said shut up.”

“Yes, yes. I heard.” She removed her hands, flicking blonde hair over her shoulder. “You, Annie Davis, are one messed up chick.”

A muscle in my temple twitched. “Great, thanks. Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Oh, a challenge. I love a challenge.” She rubbed her hands together. “Your mother’s in trouble.”

“My mother’s always in trouble.”

“So it would seem.”

I released a frustrated sigh. “I want to wake up. This is a stupid nightmare. Get out of my head; you’re not real.”

“Yes, I am,” she countered coolly. “I am so real it’s scary.” Her eyes stabbed through me, leaving me slightly breathless.

“No,” I croaked.

She smiled. “Yes.”

Suddenly I was strapped to a chair, but I wasn’t in the house anymore. I was in my house, the one I burned to the ground. Everything was reconstructed, but the furnishings seemed . . . burnt. Charred to a crisp.