I see her everywhere. It did not used to be this bad, if it really started out bad at all. I used to only see this women in my dreams, but since then it has gotten much, much worse. She grows to be more real each time I see her face. I do not know how much longer I have, if I have any time left as it is. Even now, as the clock ticks away, closer and closer to the time of night when the clock hands both hover over the 3. This is when I see her. But I cannot sit by anymore. I…I can’t.
Let me write out this dream. Perhaps writing it down…perhaps that will help me make sense of this, before it is too late…I have to be sure someone knows. The dream had always been the same, until a month ago. Perhaps I have missed something. I hope to God that I have. I will revisit this. One last time.
-I am sitting at my small, round kitchen table. I can hear the small scratches of dry crayons rubbing against printer paper. I turn to see the blonde hair of my younger cousin, Alyssa, fall around her little face. She is concentrating on getting each detail of her drawing perfect. I turn back, stirring my coffee in my cup, the ceramic of the mug cool to my fingers. I have been forced to stay at home, and baby-sit for almost no pocket money.
Without a warning, she stands up, and walks over to the window, with a confused, but stern look across her face. She looks at me, her head cocked as she points of the window. “Who is that, Bug?” I roll my eyes, annoyed at my childhood nickname coming from the mouth of someone 10 years younger than me. However, my annoyance falls off my face as I scan the window. What earlier that day had been the small, rural town I lived, was now a vast sea of wheat. A golden, bright wheat field had consumed my small little house, as the rain pelted like pebbles against the window. It took me a moment to finally follow what her small finger pointed to.
A women, far off in the field, stared in the direction of our house. Her dark hair fell across her face, tangled and matted, stretching down the front of her dirt stained, white dress. But it was her mouth that made the hair on the back of my neck prickle with a sudden chill. Even from the far off distance she stood from our window, easily a half a football field away, I could see her smile. Her face had been cut on each side, exposing what I could only guess were cheek muscles. Red had soaked her dress long ago, leaving it stiff and tinged with brown. She pointed toward us, and I saw her disfigured mouth begin to move. Shocked, I yelled at my cousin to go back to her pictures at the table. I run, shutting the doors, and lock each up tight, along with the windows. I turn away, shaking my head. My hands tremble as I sip at my coffee, an uneasy feeling creeping into my mind as I realize I have left my back to the window. I push the thoughts away, for moment, until I realize that my cousin has not returned to her drawings, but is pointing at the window once again.
My heart sinks, as I see the girl is not only there, but she has moved closer to our window. She is 30 ft from the window. At this point, I can see more of her face, or rather, what is nestled in it. Behind her cracked, grey lips sit a row of curled, long and pointed teeth. Her eyes are a light, misted, cold white. Her fingers are finished off with long, grey nails, sharp and pointed, twitching as her arm raises. She points again, and I scoop my cousin to her chair. I panic, dashing through the kitchen to find the phone. I dial the typical 911 with trembling fingers, holding it to my ear, and await the sound of a grumpy secretary.
But the voice never comes through. I redial frantically, but to no answer. I throw the phone down, rushing through the house to grab up Alyssa’s coat. We would go, and find anywhere to be but here. I found the small reflective pink jacket, and fling it onto my shoulder as I practically run into our freezer, yelling out her name. But as I look around, my breath comes to a harsh, sudden stop.
The first thing I saw was that matted, dirty black hair when she threw herself through the window. Before the first screech escaped my lips, she was crouched, sitting atop my cousin, one gnarled finger raking across her face. The blood pooled immidatley, running down her neck. I want to run to her, even as I see the women raise both of her hands, preparing herself to scratch Alyssa’s face. I want to move, and knock her away, and carry the helpless 9 year old to safety…But my legs, nor my arms with move. My throat is hot, dry, and I cannot even scream.
I watch in silent, terrified horror, as the women brings scratch, after scratch, after scratch…Over, and over.
She stands, looking down at Alyssa. She is not moving, and her screams stopped what felt like an eternity ago, but in reality it must have only been less than a minute.
The women rushes at me, her eyes never making contact with mine. She traces a finger to my temple, and back to the side if my neck, and I still cannot move. And with a sharp shriek, she plunged her sharp, knife-like fingernails into the flesh of my neck. I feel the hot flash of blood, as it runs smoothly down my neck and back. My vision goes hazy, but she leans over. I can see her lips move in a whisper, and I can feel her words hit my skin… I don’t hear it, as I collapse onto the cold tile, as the world is dipped into black… –
Since I have written out this dream, I have seen her twice. The first time, it was out of the corner of my eye. But now, now I am looking at her, in the reflection of my living room window. Her mouth is curled into a sick, red smile. Her eyes are drifting to where I sit and away again. Her hand, it occasionally twitches into my view. I had thought at first, she did not know I could see her there…But with that smile raking its way across that grey, withered face, I suspect she knows.
I…I hear her…She is whispering…She is saying she will hide no more…I don’t know what I should do…Perhaps I have time… I can maybe make it out of my small bathroom window. I am going to try to make my run for it now, and I will not look back. WISH ME LUCK.
-At the bottom of the page, among several perfect, long scratches, and tears in the paper, something is scrawled in a sloppy, thick crayon. A child’s drawing, of a small blonde girl, holding hands with a tall figure, long black hair in a mess around its head, with long, skinny fingers-