Seven Minutes to Midnight

42

I woke up when I heard the front door slam, reverberating throughout the house. "Stupid, you'll wake the monsters," I mumbled, rolling over so that I was facing the center of my bedroom and the windows. My eyes slipped closed again, and I struggled to stay awake, listening for my dad and Laurie's footsteps on the stairs, their hushed giggles. Their little thrill at being away from their kids.

Instead, the silence made the door slam seem to echo for longer than was possible. It echoed along with the beating of my heart, growing fainter but never quite going away. I couldn't open my eyes; I didn't want to see. I wanted to hear. If only I could hear better, like you. I could feel my eardrums straining and yet all I heard was silence and the hammering of my heart. If I could have made my heart stop beating, just for a few seconds so I could hear, I might have done it.

But there was no noise until the door to my bedroom swung open.

Just a little creak. I could see it happening even with my eyes closed—I felt the slight little breeze the door gave off, felt the currents of air in the room changing.

I wanted to open my eyes. What good would pretending to be asleep do? I wanted to open them, but it seemed like I didn't need them. I could sense what was there. No footsteps, not even breathing or the swish of clothing. My fingers were gripping my sheets even as I fought for them to relax—pretend, I told them, pretend, pretend like nothing is there...

Then his voice in my ear, so close his words touched my hair:

"Wake up."

My eyes snapped open.

And blinked in surprise. I hadn't been lying in my bed. I was on the ground, in that graveyard, the old one, where Malakhai had interrupted Lane's games. I was wearing a white nightgown I'd never seen before, certainly nothing I'd ever owned or worn to bed. Frilly ruffles at my wrists and at the hem. The material was thin... very thin, as the moonlight shone right through and I could clearly see my legs under the skirt.

I staggered to my feet, looking around for the source of Lane's voice. He'd been right there, right in my ear, I was sure of it, but now I was alone. I could feel the cold moisture of the grass beneath my feet, waiting for the morning dew. The chill crept up my legs and touched me everywhere with icy fingers. I pressed my legs together and crossed my arms in front of myself, wishing for my flannel shorts and a sweatshirt.

"Lane?" I called out into the darkness.

The tombstones shone in the moonlight, their worn surfaces gleaming in a way I never thought possible. I wandered up and down the rows, growing colder and colder. My own voice came back to me, mocking, "Lane? Lane? Lane?"

There was a fresh grave at the end of the row. I made my way towards it, slowly, my head swinging from side to side, peering through my hair for any sign of Lane. Faster than I might have imagined, dirt seeped up through my bare feet and I only had to look down to see the six-foot hole.

And what lay at the bottom.

"No..."

Pale white flesh, half buried in the dirt. I couldn't see the face, but I felt myself moaning, heard myself in my own ears. That bleached blonde hair, so similar to my own. Only shorter.

"No..."

I backed away, and nearly fell backwards into another open grave. Hovering on one foot, arms windmilling for balance, I still had an eternity of time to look down and see a pale arm and elbow jabbing out of the dirt at the bottom. Black hair sprouting near a white ear clogged with soil.

"Veronica?"

I lost the fight for balance and toppled in, fingers clawing at earth that released beetles and centipedes to rain down on me. "No, Veronica, no..." I was as much in shock at my friend's death as horrified to now be lying on her cold dead body. Her skin felt like ice even through my nightgown. Little insects found their way through the ruffles at my neck and clung to my skin as I scrambled to my feet, my arms reaching out to touch all four walls of the hole. I couldn't reach the top. I jumped, I dug my fingers in and showered dirt upon myself.