(Mara Luther)
After the silent drive home with St John, Aunt Laila arrived shortly after. I sat on the cold bedroom floor, still dressed in black. My arms wrapped around my knees, my back pressed against the wall like I could melt into it and disappear.
The curtains were drawn. Darkness crept into every corner of the room like it was trying to swallow me whole.
I sighed and pulled myself up, every movement heavy, like the weight of the day was stitched into my bones. I rolled onto my bed without bothering to change, sinking into the mattress like it was the only thing still holding me together.
My mind went back to the man.
The one at the funeral.
The one who smiled.
Who was he?
Why was he watching me?
And why did that smile feel like a memory I wasn't supposed to have?
A shiver skated down my spine. The thought of him left something cold in the room, even though the windows were shut tight.
For the first time this horrible week...
I fell asleep.
And that's when it began.
I was in my bedroom. A distorted version of my room. The walls seemed to breathe and time felt off.
Outside my window, the sky was red, not sunset red, blood red.
I could hear muffled voices in the dark corners of my room but I couldn't make out any words from them.
I turned to the door, Aunt Laila was just standing there. Something was off about her too.
I took a few steps closer. She kept flickering with expressions that I didn't recognize.
"Aunt Laila," I called her, she smiled a crooked smile that widened beyond normal.
Her face morphed into something else.
My nanny's face. She mimicked her cries and screams. I screamed too.
She started moving towards me while peeling off layers of her own skin. It was brutal to watch.
"What are you doing? Who are you?" I cried while moving to the corner of the room.
The whispers in the walls got louder and I screamed loudly and the thing exploded all over the room.
I was smeared in blood and flesh from head to toe I screamed again.
In the mirror the same red eyes shone at me and in the corner a strange presence of a man watched. I ran out the door and slammed into someone.
Aunt Laila.
"Mara wake up! It's just a dream!" She yelled shaking my shoulders.
My eyes shot open.
Aunt Laila's eyes were wide, her hands pressing gently against my shoulders. "It was only a bad dream, Mara," she said softly.
I was still gasping for air, sweat soaking my hair, tears streaming down my cheeks. Every breath felt jagged, uneven.
"Are you… okay now?" Laila asked, her voice cautious, almost fragile.
I nodded automatically, barely registering her words, lost in the whirlwind of my own racing heartbeat.My chest ached, my skin prickled as if the nightmare hadn't fully let go of me.
Laila brushed damp strands of hair away from my face, her touch light, almost motherly. But as her eyes lingered on me, something shifted. A flicker.
She tried to hide it, but I caught it — the moment her worry sharpened into fear.
Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, then pressed together again. She gave me a small, brittle smile and whispered, "It's alright. You're safe."
But her shoulders had gone rigid beneath her nightgown.
That tiny stiffness told me more than words ever could.
When she finally rose, she tugged the blanket up to my chin, tucking me in like I was a little kid again. "Try to rest," she murmured. "You'll feel better in the morning."
I closed my eyes, obedient. I evened out my breathing, let my lashes go still against my skin. Pretending.
A few minutes passed. Then the floor creaked.
I cracked my eyes just enough to catch the faint glow spilling from the hallway. Laila's voice, low and urgent, threaded through the silence.
"Yes. Tomorrow. As soon as you can… She can't keep going like this. Her eyes were red for heaven's sake!"
A pause. Then, sharper, "Don't argue with me. Just come."
My stomach turned cold.
I shut my eyes fully then, forcing myself into stillness before she could check on me again. But my body betrayed me, trembling beneath the covers.
Sleep didn't come. Only the memory of the dream — and the sound of my aunt's voice, carrying secrets I wasn't supposed to hear.
I watched the late hours crawl by. The darkness pressed against my eyelids, heavy and suffocating. Morning finally arrived, but it brought no relief—only a raw, gnawing tension that sat deep in my chest. I stepped into the shower and let the cold water crash over me, hoping it could wash away the flesh and blood lingering from my dreams. I sank under the icy stream, shivering, not caring how my hair would spring back into its tight, natural curls.
My mind replayed the conversation Aunt Laila had last night, her low, urgent voice over the phone. Who was she talking to? Who needed to be "gotten"? Each word echoed in my skull, gnawing at my thoughts, twisting them. I scrubbed my skin raw, wishing I could scrub the memory from myself too.
Hours passed. Three long hours. My skin had turned pale under the cold, my curls bounced free again. I dressed mechanically, my movements hollow, and walked out of my room. The air in the hallway felt thick, sticky, as if it were alive. My fingers brushed the door frame, and suddenly, the nightmare from last night flashed behind my eyes—sharp, sudden, unrelenting. I screamed.
Aunt Laila came rushing down the hall. I froze. If she stepped any closer… My head throbbed, a deep, aching drum, my heart hammering against my ribs like it wanted to escape.
"Mara, what's happening?" Her voice was closer now, soft, cautious.
"Aunt Laila! Stay back!" My voice cracked, useless, trembling. She moved closer anyway. "Please… Aunt Laila!"
She answered her phone, but her words were a blur of panic and urgency. All I could hear was the rush of her voice and the pulse of something I couldn't name. Blood—hers? Mine? Something else? My eyes squeezed shut against the fear that swelled inside me, pain lancing up my spine, sharp as knives.
The scream tore through me, and hers joined it, a high, piercing sound that seemed to shake the walls. When I dared to open my eyes, I saw the walls smeared with blood and flesh, alive with red, twisting like they were breathing. Aunt Laila was gone. I looked down at the white I T shirt I had on now red.
I… I killed her?
I stumbled into the bathroom. Every step felt like my body was betraying me. I smashed the mirror with my fist, shards spraying across the floor, cutting my skin, but I barely felt it. Blood ran over my knuckles, dripping onto the jagged glass at my feet. I sank among the fragments, shaking, crying, gasping for air, unable to stop the terror clawing at me.
And then I noticed something else. My reflection in the remaining shards shifted in ways it shouldn't—eyes darker, twisted, watching me. My pulse jumped. It's not just me… something is here, with me, inside me…
I crawled to my phone. My hands trembled so violently, I could barely type. I sent a dozen messages to St John. I knew he was miles away, buried in schoolwork, unreachable. I didn't care. I had to reach him. I had to tell someone—anyone—that I was losing control, that something was wrong, something was alive in my blood, in my hands, in the air around me.
I didn't notice the shards that cut deeper, the warm sting of blood dripping onto my thighs. I didn't notice the faint tremor in the walls, the whisper of movement behind the closed bathroom door. I only knew one thing: I needed help, and I needed it now.