White Lights

The dog was barking again. The sound drew Monica out of a deep sleep, blinking in the watery sunlight spilling through the window. Her cattle dog continued to bark from the bedroom doorway. With a sigh, Monica dragged her sleep-heavy limbs from the bed.

“What is it, Chevy?” Monica yawned. The dog had recently developed this habit of barking at nothing. She supposed he was just getting used to the new house. It was older, bigger, than their old place. No doubt full of all sorts of smells and sounds undetectable to Monica or her fiancé. She absently pet Chevy on the head as she walked by. His barking quieted and he padded after her down the stairs.

“You hungry?” Monica asked, reaching for the bag of expensive kibble. Adam was an early riser, dedicated jogger, and health-conscious about food; even the dog’s. This amused Monica to no end since the dog was just as happy foraging in the garbage. But it was simply Adam's nature to look after everyone; it was one of the things she loved about him.

Monica puttered around the kitchen, trying to shake off the fuzzy dregs of sleep. She had worked a graveyard shift all through college, and she still hated mornings. Today even her strongest coffee did little to wake her up. She let Chevy outside to bark at squirrels and nose the shrubs, then decided a hot shower would fix what the caffeine hadn't.

Steam filled the bathroom while Monica brushed her teeth, fogging over the mirror until she saw only a distorted version of herself. She startled when she heard Chevy bark again. He was in the hall outside the bathroom door. But she had left him in the backyard. Had she forgotten to close the door? 

The doorknob rattled. Once, gently. Then again, insistently. A thin scream burst from her as Monica stumbled back. The doorknob continued to jerk and Chevy renewed his barking. Her heart was an angry fist knocking insistently behind her ribs as she reached out a trembling hand to grasp the doorknob. Its rattling muted, but she could feel it still twisting in her grip for several moments. 

“Who's there?” She had meant to sound commanding, but her voice came out as a whisper. The door burst open, the force of it slamming her to the floor. A shadowy shape moved through the cloud of steam. Monica watched, curled into herself like a frightened pillbug, as the shower knob turned by itself. It made a faint squeak of protest, then the stream of water cut off and the room was silent save for her own ragged breathing. 

Pain, sharp and diamond-bright, built behind her eyes, making her vision swim. The shadow went hazy at the edges, then the world went white-hot; a nuclear blast, a mushroom cloud of pain in her skull. 

She was on the couch, though she had no memory of coming downstairs. She just remembered the bathroom door, the looming shadow, the dazzling pain. Chevy was sitting alert in the middle of the floor, watching her. Monica crept through the house, looking for her phone. She called her sister, but got no answer. Then she called Adam, to no avail. She didn't leave a message. She didn't know what to say anyway. 

Monica suddenly felt as if she hadn't seen Adam in ages; he'd had to fly to Seattle for several days for work. He wouldn't be expecting to come home to a fiancée who'd lost her mind, but she was plagued all night by strange noises. Footsteps on the stairs, faint rustling, the occasional slam of a door. Every time she entered a room she found things moved or missing. When she let Chevy out, he inexplicably got back inside without her opening the back door. And the headaches persisted, blanching her vision white; like someone was shining a spotlight directly in her face.

The relief she felt when she heard Adam’s voice downstairs nearly brought her to her knees. He was home; she’d tell him about the shadows and the noises, and he would somehow make everything normal again. Monica bounded down the stairs. Adam was home. Adam would make it all right. As her feet hit the bottom step, Monica stumbled to a halt. The living room was teeming with shadows. They flickered and shifted, a susurrous murmuring filling the air. 

“Adam!” Monica called, her voice cracking. The shadows filled her with dread, but they didn’t seem to notice her. They milled about her living room as though mingling. Monica edged along the wall, running for the kitchen.

“I could swear she was still here. Her favorite mug was on the counter the other day, and then I found the shower running.”

Monica followed Adam’s voice, nearly weeping when she saw him in the kitchen.

“Adam, when did you get home? I didn’t hear you come in. Something weird is going on…I think we should get out of the house for a while.”

“Chevy keeps acting weird too. I could swear he was trying to play fetch with the air,” Adam said.

“Yes, something isn’t right here, you’ve noticed too.” Monica nodded frantically, glad it wasn’t all in her head.

“I know it’s probably just wishful thinking, but it’s comforting to think that she’s here,” Adam went on. Monica froze, realizing he wasn’t talking to her.

“I am here, of course I am,” she said. “I’m right here. This isn't funny, Adam. Look at me. Look at me!”

“I boxed a lot of her things up, but I can’t bring myself to throw anything away.”

Monica shook her head, as if to shake away his words. As she reached out to grasp at his sleeve, to force his attention to her, make him see her, the kitchen came into clearer focus. Adam was wearing a dark suit, even darker circles under his eyes. He was talking to his mother, who was nodding sympathetically in her black dress. People drifted in and out of the kitchen to fill small plates from platters of food, murmuring condolences to Adam as they went.

“It was such a lovely service,” his mother said. Monica turned back to face the living room again. No faceless shadows now; instead, she saw people she knew. Her sister and parents, quietly crying in a corner. Adam’s uncle and cousins. Monica’s friends from work. Everyone dressed in black and talking in low, “it’s such a shame” tones. And there, against the far wall, was a large posterboard covered in pictures of Monica. Bold black letters in a looping font read:

Monica Kathleen Blair

April 18, 1997-August 3, 2026

The pain began to build behind her eyes again, her vision flickering white. Only, no, it wasn’t her vision. It was headlights. A truck coming around the narrow bend too fast, the high beams blinding her as she screamed. Adam jerked the wheel, trying to get out of the way. There was a screech of rubber, a crunch of metal, the tinkling of shattered glass.

Monica clutched at her hair, an inhuman noise keening from her throat.

“No,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut, blocking out the horrifying sight of her own funeral wake. “No. No. I’m here, I’m here,” she cried. “This isn’t real. It's not real. Itisn'trealitisn'trealitisn't-"

The dog was barking again. The sound drew Monica out of a deep sleep, blinking in the watery sunlight spilling through the window. She sighed and dragged her sleep-heavy limbs from bed.

“Still not used to the new house, huh Chevy?” she asked the dog. He simply continued to bark from the doorway.

“All right,” Monica sighed. “Let's get some breakfast for you, and coffee for me. My head is killing me.”