“Peter . . . Peter…”
Chanting through the bubbling film that covered them, the four kids reached out for me. I saw their unblinking, lifeless eyes. Grasping hands.
Grabbing for me. Mucus-covered hands, bony fingers grasping…
“Peter . . . Peter…”
Behind them, Peter stood still, as if frozen to the spot. His dark eyes glared from behind his glasses, so sad and frightening at the same time.
I dropped the flashlight. It hit my bare foot, shooting pain up my leg. Then it clattered onto the hard floor, making the beam of light roll crazily over the
wall.
I spun away with another scream. Spun away, grabbed the flashlight, and started to run.
Before I realized it, I was up the stairs. Their eerie chant rang in my ears: “Peter . . . Peter…”
I pictured their grasping hands, their eyes so dead, so dead behind the covering of slime.
Panting hard, I burst through the doorway. I slammed the door hard. Slammed it and pushed my shoulder against it.
And listened. Listened to my wheezing breaths, my thudding heartbeat.
And then I was running through the dimly lit living room. To the stairs. And racing up the stairs, my side aching, each breath feeling as if my lungs
would burst.
Into my room. Into bed. Into the silent, safe darkness.
Safe?
I sat up, still trembling, trembling so hard my teeth chattered.
“It was a dream,” I told myself, my voice shaking too. “Danielle, you’re safe in your own bed. You never went downstairs. It was a dream. It had to be a
dream.”
I hugged myself hard, staring at the gray light washing in through the bedroom window.
All a dream…
Of course. A dream.