I jump up from my pillow, clutching my chest as my lungs claw for breath, a phantom fire in my chest vanishing like smoke on the wind. As I begin to recover from the nightmare, the room smells of cold perspiration and something metallic, stinging on my tongue like blood. My nightshirt is saturated, and the blankets underneath me are damp, sticking to my skin like a second, stifling layer.
Rain smashes the glass in a constant, taunting beat as I look out the window just in front of my bed's foot. The low rumble of thunder in the distance, followed by the subtle groan of the house settling—all sounds too loud in the silence between my heartbeats. Lightning flashes, turning the room white for a split second, and the shadows appear to breathe.
The nightmare always feels quite real.
Every night this week, the same nightmare crept into my sleep, constant and unyielding, as if it were waiting for something. If I close my eyes once more, I'm certain I'll find myself drawn back into it. And I am afraid of what I will see. Burning from the inside out. The helplessness. The watching.
When the nightmares return, it's just a matter of days before they appear on the news, as if my dreams are spilling into reality. It is always death. Never include ponies, babies, or attractive men. Just fire, cries, and silence.
The whisper "Blood shall bind where gods have severed" echoes softly through the darkness, almost unnoticeable. Long-torn threads will be woven together.
The first nightmare I had was of a black cloud, thick as tar, with glaring red and yellow eyes, rolling over a place I didn't recognize. People yelled, ran, and fell; others simply held each other and waited. Days later, I saw it on the news: Baja, South America. A dormant volcano erupted, covering the town in ash and flames.
I move to the dry side of my bed and sit up, dangling my feet from the edge. My breath is faint and wobbly. I attempt to remain calm as I listen to the rain.
I mumble, "Never eating chocolate cake before bed again." My mother always said that sweets would give me nightmares. I should have listened.
My yellow fluffy slippers peep out from beneath the bed, on the side that I never get out of. I've been searching for these for weeks. I clean my face with my hands while gripping the edge of the mattress.
I would rather not attend class today. I would rather not face anyone. But I need to graduate and leave this abandoned town. No one leaves Lindsey Isle, Georgia, unless it is for a high-level executive position in New York—and even then, they always return.
I get out of bed, stretch my arms high, lock my fingers, and lean forward. My clothing clings to me, moist and cold, even in the humid air. I pull them off and chuck them into the overflowing hamper. When they touch down, they roll into the heap of other dirty clothes. I should wash the laundry this week. Maybe.
I grab the towel draped over my desk chair, sniff it to ensure it's clean, and proceed to the restroom.
It's only 5 a.m., yet I'm awake. And I stink. A shower is worth waking up for. Even if I wanted to sleep, I am too shaken. Too wired.
I turn the dial just beyond the center arrow. I step in when the water reaches a scorching temperature. I perform a small dance, arching my back as the heat bites into my skin. Once I've adjusted, I let the water wash over me, soaking my hair and thoughts.
The nightmare remains constant. I've lost track of how many times it has burdened me. I attempt to recall every detail, looking for something—anything—that could indicate it was simply a dream and not a premonition. I slapped my hand against the shower wall, frustrated. I shake my head, close my eyes, and relive the scene.
Is there a time? A date? Is there a clue?
Nothing.
No hints. No warnings.
The burning remains constant. The same quiet.
I wait until the water becomes cold. I wrap the towel around myself, clip my hair up, and wipe the steam off the mirror. I stared at myself for a long time. My eyes appear hollow. My skin is pale. I shake my head and walk away.
I sit at my desk and write down the nightmare. Every detail. Each picture. Every face.
His face.
I have several sketches of him in my journal currently. He has the same bright blue eyes. He maintains the same expression—calm, knowledgeable, and menacing.
Who is he?
And why is he continually finding me in the dark?
Once I'm sure that I've recorded every detail in my journal, I get dressed and go downstairs for breakfast.
Mom's handwritten note on the counter reads, "Waffles in the microwave." "Love you, Mom."
She has already left for the hospital.
I open the microwave and smile. Waffles. The best kind—the ones with deep pockets that store syrup like treasure. I reheat them fast, intending to eat them on the go. Shelby's arrival is imminent.
The news murmurs in the background. I look at the screen while stuffing a waffle in a napkin. Two Florida University athletes are still missing, according to another source. That is the third case this week. All students. All vanished after a holiday on an island.
Weird.
The microwave beeps. Shelby's horn follows suit. I take my waffles, close the door behind me, and rush out to her car. She's already jumping to whatever pop hit is playing over the speakers.
The morning is a haze of lectures and yawns, with each lesson blending into the next until I can't remember which subject I'm supposed to be paying attention to. My notes are a tangle of broken phrases, with bizarre doodling in the margins as if my hand moved on its own.
The doodles twist and turn in a way that makes me think of the door I saw in my sleep.
By the time my free period arrives, I'm exhausted, more from the weight in my chest than from a lack of rest. I need air, movement, and something to shake off the fog that is weighing down on me. So I sling my bag over my shoulder and decide to walk a mile to Delmont Cafe, where I'll meet Shelby. At least with her, the noise in my head calms down for a bit.
The sight of a black pickup truck idling in front of the package store slows my feet as I approach the cafe. Sleek. Polished. Wrong. It doesn't fit in our peaceful village, where rust and dust are common paint jobs. Perhaps it's a new pupil. However, it is too late in the semester for transfers. The thought remains awkwardly, as if the vehicle isn't just parked but waiting.
Something about it catches under my ribs. My feet shift, bringing me a few steps closer, as if the polished black paint could divulge its secrets if only I came close enough. The air feels thicker and charged, as if a storm is about to break.
"Angela!" Shelby's voice pierces through my thoughts, sharp and grounded. I blink, realizing how near I've come to the truck, and turn before I can see who's inside.
I shook it off and went inside.
The café is bustling with students. I wave to a few familiar folks before sliding into our normal booth with a gentle humph. Shelby is already there, scrolling through her phone and drinking something iced and sweet.
"Hey," I mutter, collapsing into my seat.
"Finally," she says, without looking up. "I've already ordered your coffee. You are welcome."
"Bless you."
We chat, or rather, she does. Shelby is running over our post-ball vacation plans in rapid succession. I nod and smile, attempting to keep up, but my mind is cloudy. The horror clings to me like smoke.
Her voice fades, becoming part of the background hum. The cafe around me blurs faces into motion, laughter mingling with the harsh hiss of hot milk. The clinking of mugs sounds like tiny bells somewhere far away. Coffee and warm bread are heavy in the air, sweet and bitter all at once, yet they barely cut through the low, electric hum against my head.
And then, too close, a murmur reaches my ear. This is my name. The voice is both familiar and exotic, like someone I should know but can't recognize. My breath quickens, my pulse lurches in my chest, and a chill goes down my spine.
I do not turn. I'm terrified of what I'll see if I do.