Hope woke up that night in a cold sweat, jittery and panting. She reached for the bedside lamp on the nightstand. She switched it on. Mild light flooded her room at the same time in which some strange cold made a shiver run down her spine. She sat ram rod straight, startled.
Something thumped on the ground, there was a dull clatter. She screamed, frantically scrambling on the bed, pushing the faux fur blanket aside.
She hopped down, walked back a step or two. She stopped, still tasting the acrid essence of fear at the back of her throat.
Except for her racing heart thumping, and the rapid shallow breath, it was all quiet. The eerie cold was from the wind billowing through the open window. She had forgotten to close it.
What was that sound? Her foot dug into soft rug as she tiptoed to the side of the bed, she stared back and felt like laughing. It was her phone that had crash-landed on the box-half open with clothes and cosmetic products carelessly tossed on it-by her bed.
She sighed, picked the phone and placed it on the bed; she then walked to the window and clapped it shut, dark clouds were brooding over the September night sky, it might rain. She pulled the curtains together.
Hope adjusted her tank top straps and stared back at the room as if suddenly realizing where she was. it was a newly made room, and she's yet to get use to the new sight.
The disco ball above reflected the half a dozen pillows on her bed, a large double with an elaborate mahogany headboard, pushed up centrally against the wall. Next to the Havana brown wooden base of the bed lamp was a student hand book opened and placed face-down on the nightstand. A wardrobe hulked next to her dressing vanity, her reflection stared from the wood-framed mirror beyond a bamboo desk chair on which her bathrobe was trashed.
Looking at the weird form her head had taken, she thought: that will take some getting used to.
She raised her hand and palmed her buzzed head, her mind still contemplated the different between yesterday when her hair had hung long and sleek (some enviable texture she inherited from Mother's Amargo Da Silva line) and now when it was short, she had felt slightly nude, but with some freedom like she's just changed into a swim suit.
That'll take some getting used to.
A white sticky note was on the mirror of her dresser containing lists of things she must have in that box. She ran the list in her mind.
Just next to the violin leaning on the wall beneath the window sill, were shelves, where she had placed some books. In the darkness of another compartment were the pictures of Mother and Father, and her own in a chrome curvilinear frame between them. Her little shrine.
Thinking of her mother and losing her hair, she felt a sense of belonging, a sense that she had done right. Women had worn their hair shorn since ancient Egypt and iconic women throughout history have adopted the look-she had read that on some blog on the internet. She felt somewhat like Cleopatra's entourage mourning their mistress. She didn't agree to shave her head because of the new school, that principle of girls in crew cuts had long since been abolished; but sitting before the mirror in that saloon this morning, and remembering Mother in her deathbed, her hair lost to chemo, she had made the decision and it had horrified Aunty Alice.
But Hope had her way anyhow. Now she feels like she should have done this a long time ago.
The odd sense of freedom and relief lasted till she remembered the reason she was up at this time. The clock read 1:00am. The damn unholy hour to be having nightmares. She loosened the draw string of her pajama and sat on the bed.
It was a nightmare, she's sure of that. She tried to remember as she laid back on the bed, the lamp still on, but couldn't, not in full, only snatches and she cringed from the memories.
There was the part where she was walking through the dark. what a cliché! But she felt the shadows, the cold, solid vortex, so thick you can touch them, feel them shifting around, hear the rustling of their feet... they were making room for her, corralling her, some behind, some ahead, paving the way. A shudder shot through her, she gulped some wee spittle her mouth could make. Her throat was still parched and thirsty from the adrenaline. She wanted to stand up and get some water, but does she dare? Not now that she was living in the nightmares again.
She turned to the side, crawled into fetal position and willed the thoughts away, with all her strength she did. Whatever the dream was, she'd sooner forget. The doctor said it was her way of coping with loss, she had asked if he was just making them up, but Doctor Bayo had smiled. "should I show you the textbook, the one with the colorful pictures?" He said, in his fake Yoruba accent. He does that deliberately, and she did find it funny, she had laughed.
But the dreams, the nightmares that kept coming? that's not funny. They could space out weeks apart; with the right triggers, they could cram onto one night like desperate freight-hoppers, clamoring for space. She could wake up five times screaming.
She sighed again, her hand clenched at the comforter, the fluffy softness was comforting. She closed her eyes, like flashes from a distant past she remembered more...
Something vicious in the dark, groping for--no--clawing at her, something furry and dark... something that growled... she was fighting back... those eyes, those large mean glowing amber eyes... She had something in her hand, she couldn't tell what but she was jabbing it on... whatever the monster was... yes, she was jabbing at it... yelling, shaking, but stabbing it repeatedly with all her strength...
Hope reflexively unclenched her fingers, like she had held a hot rod. She placed her hand flat and patted the sheets, smoothing invincible creases. Wishing Mother was still alive, and father too.
Sometimes later she slept off, this time, thankfully, there were no more dreams. When she woke up the next day, she could hardly remember. Besides she's got work to do, and there is the part where she is parking up for the school year as a new student of SANTA MARIA HIGH.
Hope has been chatting with two students from that school on Facebook, she's gotten some of the gist, including the dark history peddled around from one Obi, a would be classmate. Another egocentric girl in SS3 had texted her few things.
She would be starting the first senior year. Hope Mark is just thirteen years of age in the year 2012.
YOU ARE READING
SANTA MARIA HIGH (COMPLETED)
Paranormal...are you afraid of the dark? When Hope Mark lost her foster mother to cancer and had to move to a new school, she never thought much of SANTA MARIA HIGH. Other than the fact that the fact that the school was in the most beautiful Manor, with tall...
