Prelude
She stared at me from the other side of the mirror, its surface cloudy with age. She lifted her hand as I lifted mine; touched a finger to her lips in tandem with me. And when I touched the surface of the glass, her hand reached out to clasp mine, holding it so bone-crushingly tight I thought it would shatter.
Her face transfigured into a wraith, a phantasm, a dark spirit so black she absorbed and crushed what little light trickled in through the bedroom window. Her fingers were suddenly long, black tendrils that wrapped around my wrist like a hot, metal bracelet, burning the skin and yet cold to touch as I tried to squirm away.
When I jolted upright in bed, the skin around my wrist felt raw like it had been chafed by rope where the creature touched me. A welt formed on the skin, still clammy and pale from the night terror. My pillow was wet, long hair matted and soaked with sweat.
“The dreams are back,” I spoke to the man keeping careful watch of me from the corner. The vibrant yellow and red plaid of his button up was muted and grey in the dark as he rocked alone in the chair. My vision swam with fatigue, pulse quickening when a hand touched my back, jarring me fully awake.
“It’s okay. I’m here,” a man’s voice, slurring with sleep, uttered from beside me in bed. In the time it took to register my husband’s voice, the figure in the corner fled the room, replaced by shadows. I stared wide-eyed and trembling into the darkness.
The darkness stared back.
