Even so, I couldn’t shake the horrible feeling in the back of my head: the senses that made my eyes dart from one side of the church lawn to the other. Could I trust the priest? Could I at least give him an ounce of belief, that maybe some parts of his words were true? I didn’t want to, but then again, I hadn’t wanted a man with silver claws to attempt my assassination.
Evening brought me no comfort. As I slowly faded into an exhausted sleep, every shadow in the room was a hunter coming to finish the job that Mr. Sharpe had started.
A window’s shattered pieces hit a tile floor…
I snapped up like a bent spring bounding back into shape—asleep in my room one moment, on an unfamiliar leather couch the next.
I heard sounds of scuffling and rushed movements as someone frantically ran down a hallway. The room was dark but I could see well enough to know that I was somewhere I’d never been before. From the couches that lay in a U shape to the pictures and paintings going all around, I could tell that I was in the living room of a house, but not mine, not a friend’s. The walls had cheap paneling and the floors were covered in carpet, gentle light from the boxy television illuminating the room with static-filled white and blue flashes. These flashes reflected off the silver ring now returned to my right hand.
I heard another crash, this time closer than before, and suddenly the silhouette of a person appeared from around a corner. It was none other than the girl who’d died in my last dream—Callista, whose face I’d already memorized.
In reaction, I tried to say something to her. But like the dreams before, I was merely a spectator in this movie-like sequence, my body moving on its own accord, jumping to its feet.
“Who are you?” I asked, the voice not even sounding like my own. Just then, the boy with the long black hair slid out from behind her. They were startled to see me already awake, their faces showing exertion from running. That didn’t stop them from springing into action though, as they dashed forward and grabbed me, one at each of my arms.
“We’ve got to run!” Callista said urgently. My body protested against them but they were far stronger than I was, pulling me around and toward a stairway. I fought them but the girl pressed her face close to mine.
“I can’t explain now,” she hissed, “but you better not fight us now or he’ll get here.”
There came another smash, louder and more viscous than theirs had been, like an ice pick being driving against a screen door and ripping its mesh apart. I heard the door’s remains kicked across tiles in rage, and somehow that horribly determined sound convinced me that these two were not anywhere near as bad as what was coming. I ran with them, up the stairs and around a corner, someone else’s shoes striking the bottom step just as we turned the bend.
The boy went ahead of us, throwing open doors in the narrow hallway and checking inside, only to find a bathroom behind one and a closet behind another. The hall was lined with family portraits and its carpet fought in vain to mask our footsteps. Finally, at the end, the boy found a room and the three of us rushed inside.
“Block the door!” he said, his black hair now running with sweat from his forehead. They already knew what they were doing, the girl lifting one of the chairs and the boy—muscles flexing—heaving the long dresser from the wall, sliding its hundreds of pounds of weight against the door. Then they moved the bed against that, faces filled with such a terror of whatever was behind us that even in the dream, I couldn’t help but feel my own fears increase.
“Take him out the window!” the girl commanded, but there came a sudden blast against the door that shook the entire house, rocking us off our feet. The boy grabbed my arm again, pulling me toward the window.
Wait! I tried to say, but my mouth still wouldn’t move. I wanted to stop running for just a few seconds, only long enough for me to ask a question, to find something that I could use when I woke up. I knew I would awaken any second—I already knew that whatever was chasing us would cause this dream to end just as horribly as the previous.
Then, as if the dream itself was eavesdropping on my fears, the door split apart through the center. Its pieces exploded away with a force like a cannon, and behind it appeared our pursuers.
The dark-haired woman stepped through first, olive skin set against her black clothing and gray eyes picking us out of the dark without a moment’s uncertainty. Her hands were stretched out in front of her, fingers spread, shaking once like she was flinging water from them. Except instead of water, bits of wood and metal were stuck in ten long, silver claws that came from the ends of her fingertips.
The silver claws had split through the wood like they were axes, though they were each no wider than her fingernails—long and curved like a lizard’s. With inhuman strength, her palms knocked the dresser and then the bed frame aside, parting the blockade like the waters of a sea.
A step behind her was a man I’d already seen before in a different dream: the man with the white eyebrows, with claws like hers. The woman’s eyebrows matched his. So did the red ring on her right hand. Just as before, he carried a pistol.
They disregarded the other two in the room and looked straight at me, the man lifting his gun. Suddenly, there was a flurry of motion, and the boy leapt up from the floor, jumping between us: now bearing silver claws of his own. He held his hands out like bladed shields but the woman was prepared, her right claws striking out at once and catching his hand by the side. There was a sharp clang of metal like swords striking each other as she shoved him away. He lost his footing and fell, and I was exposed again.
“Are you happy, mother?” the man said, trying to align his gun as my defender fell.
“After you pull that trigger, Wyck. Then I will be,” she replied coldly.
The girl slid from behind me with a shout, claws of her own now out and ready to fight. But it was already too late. For one second, the path between the man and me had been cleared.
There was a shot. It only lasted a millisecond before the world that surrounded us was bludgeoned to death.
My eyes flew open immediately, sitting up in bead, sweaty and breathing heavily. I was still in my bedroom.
I checked the face of my alarm clock: 3:14 AM.
So this is how it’s going to be.
It was too early to turn my light on. I reached up to wipe my eyes and felt something wet touch the side of my face. Thinking I’d drooled on my hand in my sleep and had now transferred this to my cheek, I went to my desk and searched its mess for a rag or shirt or tissue or… anything? My hand didn’t come across a single cloth. So I reached to switch on my computer screen for light.
I froze.
I shoved my hand closer to the glow of the screen.
Like a scene in horror movie, my entire hand was covered in blood, now staining my shirt and neck. I felt its warmth against my face from where I’d unknowingly pressed my hands to it.
In horror I turned to grab something to stop the blood, only to find that beside me were the open sheets of my bed. Long streaks of red now stained the white like the grisly aftermath of a murder.
I dashed to the bathroom on the balls of my feet so that I wouldn’t wake anyone up. I closed the door and punched the lock, diving to the sink. The bandage I’d put on the night before was still stuck to my right finger, sliding and unable to stop the gentle blood that had been coming from underneath it. I pulled it off sharply.
A stab of fiery pain shot through my finger . I had to grind my teeth together to hold my voice in. The sting! Tears burst into my eyes as the sharp feeling coursed throughout me. To my horror, I saw that with the bandage, the adhesive had also pulled off a thin layer of my own skin.