The softness of sleep cradles me, but I push against the quiet and warmth until I’m able to focus on the sounds in the room. A woman’s voice says, “Make sure the cut is clean.” Cut? Are they stitching up my head where I hit the windowsill? Hard as I try, I can’t make my eyes open.
A new voice hums a soft melody. I feel gentle tugs around my chest area, but it doesn’t hurt. The song the woman hums sounds sad and sweet at the same time. I hear the clatter of metal on metal, then a scraping noise. I shiver.
“Did you see that? Is she stirring?” says a voice. “Increase the drip.”
I’m awake? No. It’s another weird dream, no doubt. Regardless, I try lifting my arms, but they stay at my sides, useless. Am I lying on a block of ice? The table beneath me feels cold and hard against my back. I smell sharp chemicals that ring familiar. Something about pig hearts and Casey…that’s it! I remember the smells from the time we dissected pig hearts in school. Bleach? Formaldehyde?
I strain to open my eyes again, but they stay glued shut. Through the pink of my lids I make out shapes. Two dark silhouettes tower over me. Things grow fuzzy then and I’m unable to catch hold of the words anymore, it’s like trying to grab earthworms with wet fingers. The voices slip away and a peace settles over me. No! I’ve got to stay awake! I need to understand what’s happening to me. Is this a dream or real life? Peace is something I rarely feel, so it has the strongest pull. Focus, Josie. Where are you? The hospital. On an operating table?
And as I attempt to laser point my attention, I have to fight against an ache across my forehead to make out the muffled voices. But it’s like listening through a padded wall. They’re talking about an incision and then even that dims and nonsensical thoughts flit in full color through my mind. Scraps of reality mixed with wild Alice in Wonderland, fantasy. Me and Seth kissing under a bleeding tree. Owen skipping toward me in his funny green alien costume and then melting into a puddle of goo before he can reach my arms. My mother’s grave paved over in concrete, concrete that hasn’t set, so I add my handprint to the gray.
“You are incompetent, I need it now!” The firm, insistent voice pulls me away from the weird imaginings. “Give me the stone,” her words command. “What did you do with the stone?”
Stone? I must still be knocked out, because the word makes no sense. Maybe she said stint. Was there a problem with my heart?
“I set it there. Oh, and here it is, on the tray. Who’s incompetent now?” More tugging, then a heaviness settles deep in my chest that reminds me of the time when I had pneumonia
“Sew her up,” someone orders.
As I drift out of consciousness, I think, ‘Did it hurt you, Mom?’
I dream I am eight-years old and struggle to lace dirty roller skates onto my feet. The leather is soft from wear and stinks like wet dog, but I’m happy to be on the rink with my best friends. ‘Apologize’ by Timbaland booms through the speakers. I double-knot the long laces, tuck them inside the boots and shuffle onto the skating rink, searching for Seth or Blaze or Casey. I see them at the far end of the rink linked at the elbows and skating together. Casey’s sandwiched between the boys and her long black hair whips behind her as she laughs and zooms past me, oblivious to my shouts.
I step onto the rink, but my skate slips out from under me because the surface is slick. Using the short wall, I scramble back to my feet and roll forward, calling for my friends as they zoom past again. My skates feel rickety and squeak with every push forward, it’s a high-pitched, irritating noise that hurts my head. Squeak, squeak. My feet lurch forward in awkward bursts, but I spot my friends again and release the hold on the wall, pushing off to catch them. But I fall down and they skate right into me, knock me to the ground then glide away, laughing.
I wake to the sight of fluorescent tube lights whizzing past from a stark-white ceiling. The squeaking from my dream lives on in the form of the wheels on a gurney as roll down the hallway. The person at my head wears a blue mask and black curls erupt out of a paper cap.
“Josie! Honey?” my father’s voice nears. “Grace, I think she’s awake!”
The gurney halts. The faces of Grace and Dad surround me, their expressions wrinkled with worry. I try to talk but the words stay lodged halfway up my throat.
“She came through fine, Mr. Jameson. You’ll be able to visit with her soon, give Josie some time to come out of it,” says the woman in the paper cap. She pushes the gurney again and the motion rocks me back to sleep.
YOU ARE READING
The Stone Witch Society /// Sisters of the Twelve Stones (book two)
Mystery / ThrillerFollowing the novel, Four Rubbings, the second book in the series reveals the story of a tombstone that never should have been rubbed on Halloween night by teen, Josie Jameson. When she found the grave of Bain MacLaren, an alleged witch, she restoke...
