To Wake The Dead

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

The world is standing still.

My feet are welded to the floor, unable to stir or step away from the glass pane. The darkness is obsidian around my vision, tears beginning to sting my eyes and turn my sight cloudy. I haven't blinked in forever. Minutes, seconds. I am too terrified to tear my eyes away. Once again, the bile rises in my throat- an unpleasant burn at the back of my tongue.

I can't call the cops. After all, whoever this shadow is, they aren't alive. This town is too sweet for any axe murderers to be hanging out. I can't wake up Scar, because then she will call the cops. Well, probably write herself a eulogy beforehand. Instead of beckoning me forward, the space between the figure and myself is no man's land. Baron, and disturbingly cold.

If it were any other night, I would just shrug it off. Like any creature in the dark, if you leave it alone, it will typically return the favour. But what chills me the most is the way the most constant thing in my life has already been chipped away; now this. A flake of paint away from the portrait of my existence. I feel queasy, and that feeling worsens and worsens by the second.

And then they walk towards the front door.

My heart feels like it could burst out of my ribcage. I need to get to the front door, but my eyes are transfixed on the figure moving. Their movements are fluid and smooth, each stride executed with grace and ease. I should be screaming. I should be crying. I should be clutching to the nearest curtain and hiding behind it. But I don't. I'm not afraid.

I steady my breathing, exhaling as my hands begin to stop shaking. It's just another spirit, don't be afraid, it can't hurt you. I step onto the landing.

As I begin my descent down the wooden staircase, central to the hallway, I find my knuckles turning white from my iron grip on the banister. It takes great concentration to stop myself from slipping. The house is eerily quiet, and I am no longer comforted by the sound of breathing. All I have is the darkness swallowing me, my heartbeat screaming in my ears and the shadow of the figure creeping over the glass pane of the door.

My foot leaves the last step, and my hand tightens by my side. I can tell to my right is the living room, and to my left the hallway to the bathroom and study. Behind me is the way to the Kitchen. I could grab a knife, but what good would it do? It's strange how the house is so peaceful, so tranquil whereas I am an inch away from checking myself into an insane asylum.

Each second standing in front of the door feels like an eternity, and I bend down, letting the keys on the table slip into my palm. If curiosity kills me, then what a way to die.

Chewing the inside of my lip, I slide the key into the lock, listening out for the familiar sound of the metal setting into place. I turn it clockwise, sweat beginning to form on my light skin, and the evening chill has begun to cling to it. The small hairs that lick my hairline begin to stick, the humidity around me swells up and the blood rushes to my head. The lock clicks, and my hand slides up to the handle. My feet, almost instinctively set themselves up to sprint, as my fingers tighten on the hold.

I push down on the handle.

I bite my lip.

Every second passes like a year.

My lip begins to bleed.

The door swings open and my anxiety explodes into a million pieces.

I taste blood.

And the figure stands there. I exhale, the breath coming unsteady out of my mouth. It doesn't take much looking for me to know who it is. The relief is overwhelming, I could almost cry.