Dimokre Chronicles Book 1: Crossed Paths

Chapter 8 - Don't Be a Bad Liar

Something loud, insistent, and truly obnoxious rang in Sarah's ears. She groaned, stubbornly squeezing her eyes tighter. The loud noise drilled into her eardrums. Why? Sarah whimpered pathetically and squeezed her pillow over her head. Why does the universe hate me? Shut uuuupppp. It seemed to grow louder, the more she resisted.

Fine.

Sarah groaned once more, hugging her pillow before opening her eyes and sitting up groggily. She stared out, not really focusing on anything. Light flooded the room from who knows where, and all she seemed able to do was squint, unfocused, at the bright room.

After a few minutes, her eyes registered what she was looking at. Green and pink furniture with black teardrop shapes scattered across the pink. Wooden nightstand. Twin-sized bed with equally adorable watermelon bed covers. Off-white walls; beige, thick carpet. Large window behind the bed's headboard with opened wooden blinds, letting in such a big flood of light it's amazing that Sarah didn't wake up before the alarm. A bulletin board with pictures of her and friends above one of the dressers. In the far corner, an old wooden desk that used to be her grandmother's, crowded with homework and office supplies. The two doors in the adjacent corner: one led into a tiny, walk-in closet, and the other led into a jack-and-jill bathroom. The door on the opposite side by the dresser with the bulletin board was her bedroom door, slightly ajar. A full-length mirror rested against one of the walls, and piles of clothes and books scattered everywhere in a typical messy, teenager-y fashion.

Sarah felt like someone had taped a few layers of clear tape loosely over her eyes, her vision was that startling blurry. Her eyelids felt heavy and stuck. Even though the alarm still blared like a pissy hyena, Sarah numbed to it as she slowly slid out of bed, enough for her feet to rest on the floor. Her hand tapped the alarm off.

Sarah liked her room. It felt like decades since she last was here, even though the last time she was here was yesterday morning. Wait. Sarah checked her phone. Yeah, yesterday morning. She glanced around her bedroom.

How... did she get into her bedroom? The last thing she remembered was being in the hospital. She had passed out... passed out because of her leg. Her leg was pulsating like an alien was inside. Sarah's eyes widened.

The mud spirit.

She tore her jean shorts off and inspected her leg. The cut was completely healed, no sign of scarring, and—much to Sarah's relief—no creepy mud spirit moving inside her leg. She pressed against her muscle, but it wasn't tender. It didn't feel like the mud ate anything inside her, either.

Oh, the relief.

She inhaled sharply and rested her hand on the nearest bed post. Being here in her room all of the sudden felt surreal. It didn't feel right. I've been having weird dreams lately, sure, but there was no way that that was a dream.

She stood up, scowling at her reflection in her floor-length mirror. Sarah paused. Her shirt was dirty. She scrambled across the floor to where she had tossed her jean shorts. She kneeled in front of it and smoothed the pant sleeve in front of her. Yes! A long rip in the fabric, stained with dark red.

It wasn't a dream.

Her heart thumped. Thoughts of Michael flooded her head. But so did thoughts of mud and faceless hunters. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Time for alarm number 2. The alarm clock gave its second warning. She had multiple alarms set up, partly to make sure she was awake, and also that it would snap her out of groggy thoughts and keep her focused on getting ready.

As she turned it off, she strained to remember the hospital. An older woman built like a truck marched away from Rickon's direction and demanded someone give her something. Sarah felt a sharp pain on her arm. And... And then...