I jolt awake, gasping for air, the phantom burn in my chest fading like smoke in the wind. Sweat pours down my face, neck, and back, soaking my nightshirt and chilling the sheets beneath me. It feels like I've just stepped out of a shower, except this water reeks of fear.
Flashes of lightning and the low rumble of thunder drag me back to the present. Rain taps against my window, soft and rhythmic, like a cruel reminder of the dream.
It always feels so real—the nightmare.
Every night this week, the same nightmare claws its way into my sleep, unchanging, unrelenting, like it's waiting for something. I know if I close my eyes again, I'll be dragged back into it. And I fear what I'll see. The burning from the inside out. The helplessness. The watching.
When the nightmares repeat, it's only a matter of days before I see them echoed on the news, like my dreams are bleeding into reality. It's always death. Never ponies, babies, or handsome men. Just fire, screams, and silence.
The first nightmare I remember was of a black cloud—thick as tar, with glowing red and yellow eyes—rolling over a town I didn't recognize. People screamed, ran, and fell; some just held each other and waited. Days later, I saw it on the news: Baja, South America. A dormant volcano had erupted, burying the town in ash and fire.
I roll to the dry side of my bed and sit up, dangling my feet over the edge. My breathing is shallow and shaky. I listen to the rain, trying to steady myself.
Still shaken, I mutter, "Never eating chocolate cake before bed again." My mom always said sweets would give me nightmares. I should've listened.
My yellow fuzzy slippers peek out from under the bed, on the side I never climb out of. I've been searching for those for weeks. I scrub my face with my hands and grip the edge of the mattress.
I don't want to go to class today. I don't want to face anyone. But I need to graduate and get out of this forsaken town. No one leaves Lindsey Isle, Georgia, unless it's for some big executive job in New York—and even then, they always come back.
I hop out of bed, stretch my arms overhead, lock my fingers, and bend forward. My clothes cling to me, damp and cold, even in the humid air. I peel them off and toss them toward the overflowing hamper. They land, then roll off into the pile of other neglected laundry. I should do laundry this week. Maybe.
I grab the towel draped over my desk chair, sniff it to make sure it's clean, and head into the bathroom.
It's only five in the morning, but I'm awake. And I stink. A shower is worth getting up for. Even if I wanted to sleep, I'm too shaken. Too wired.
I turn the dial just past the center arrow. When the water reaches scalding, I step in. I do a little dance, arching my back as the heat bites into my skin. Once I adjust, I let the water run over me, soaking my hair, my thoughts.
The nightmare never changes. I've lost count of how many times it's burdened me. I try to remember every detail, searching for something—anything—that might prove it's just a dream and not a premonition. I bang my fist against the shower wall, frustrated. Shaking my head, I close my eyes and replay the scene.
Is there a time? A date? A clue?
Nothing.
No hints. No warnings.
Just the same burning. The same silence.
I stay until the water turns cold. Wrapping the towel around me, I clip my hair up and wipe the steam from the mirror. I stare at myself for a long moment. My eyes look hollow. My skin pale. I shake my head and walk out.
At my desk, I sit and write the nightmare down. Every detail. Every image. Every face.
His face.
There are several sketches of him in my journal now. The same piercing blue eyes. The same expression—calm, knowing, terrifying.
Who is he?
And why does he always find me in the dark?
Once I'm satisfied I've captured every detail in my journal, I get dressed and head downstairs for breakfast.
There's a note on the counter in Mom's handwriting:
"Waffles in the microwave. Love you. – Mom"
She's already left for the hospital.
I open the microwave and grin. Waffles. The good kind—the ones with the deep pockets that hold syrup like treasure. I reheat them quickly, planning to eat on the go. Shelby will be here any minute.
The news murmurs in the background. I glance at the screen while stuffing a waffle into a napkin. Another report states that two Florida University athletes have yet to be found. That's the third case this week. All students. All vanished after vacationing on some island.
Weird.
The microwave beeps. So does Shelby's horn. I grab my waffles, lock the door behind me, and jog out to her car. She's already bouncing to whatever pop anthem is blasting through her speakers.
The morning passes in a blur of lectures and yawns, each class bleeding into the next until I can barely remember what subject I'm supposed to be paying attention to. My notes are a mess of broken sentences, the margins filled with strange doodles as if my hand moved without me.
The doodles curve and spiral, unsettlingly familiar, like the door I saw in my sleep.
By the time my free period tools around, I'm dragging, more from the weight in my chest than from lack of sleep. I need air, movement, something to shake the fog pressing down on me. So I sling my bag over my shoulder and decide to walk to Delmont Cafe, a mile up the road, to meet Shelby. At least with her, the noise in my head quiets for a while.
As I approach the cafe, my steps falter at the sight of a black pickup idling in front of the package store. Sleek. Polished. Wrong. It doesn't belong in our sleepy town, where rust and dust are the usual paint jobs. Maybe it's a new student. But it's too late in the semester for transfers. The thought lingers uneasily, as if the truck isn't just parked, it's waiting.
Something about it hooks beneath my ribs. My feet shift, carrying me a few steps closer, as if the polished black paint might reveal its secrets if I just got near enough. The air feels heavier, charged, like the moment before a storm breaks.
"Angels!" Shelby's voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp and grounding. I blink, realizing how close I've drifted toward the truck, and turn before I can see if anyone's inside.
I shake it off and head inside.
The café is buzzing with students. I wave to a few familiar faces and slide into our usual booth with a soft humph. Shelby's already there, scrolling through her phone and sipping something iced and sugary.
"Hey," I mumble, slumping into the seat.
"Finally," she says, not looking up. "I already ordered your coffee. You're welcome."
"Bless you."
We chat, or rather, she chats. Shelby's going over our post-ball vacation plans in rapid-fire detail. I nod, smile, and try to keep up, but my brain is foggy. The nightmare still clings to me like smoke.
Her voice drifts, thinning into the background noise. The cafe blurs, faces melting into motion, laughter colliding with the hiss of steaming milk, mugs clinking like distant bells. It all dissolves into a low, buzzing hum that presses against my skull.
And then, close—too close—a whisper grazes my ear. My name. The voice is both familiar and foreign, like someone I should know but can't place. My breath hitches, heart lurching in my chest, as a shiver runs down my spine.
I don't turn. I'm afraid of what I might see if I do.