I rip out the cheap scissors and carefully snip string after string until I realize they are actually strands. Strands of midnight black hair, silky and fine wrapped around me like an anaconda.
“What. The. Fuck?” I mumble as I hold the ruined bundle of hair up. Even in the light, it is abysmally dark. I can’t throw it in the trash fast enough, and sit for a second, fighting my imagination, which threatens to run away with me.
Anxious to wash the day off me, I slip out of my dress and into the shower. The weather has changed anyhow, dresses no longer need apply.
The bathroom has been renovated so intensely that I’m sure it has no resemblance to the earlier incarnation. The shower has no curtain and just has a sturdy sheet of glass on the half with the nozzle. It’s modern, but not better, I decide as whatever side of me that’s facing the glassless half is always cold.
Thoughts of Juniper’s blank eyes haunt me as I wash, ruing the coldness in the room. It encroaches on me as though I’m bathing in a freezer and I begin to wonder if the air conditioning is on.
Feeling uneasy, I hurriedly wash the conditioner out of my hair, watching as the lights flicker in the bathroom. I want to laugh at myself for how panicked my motions are but cannot as I slam the faucet off, hastily rinsed soap sluicing down my raised flesh. With the water off, the air is now distractingly cold, with my capillaries constricting in complaint. I begin to shiver as I squeeze out my hair before starting my egress.
I’m halfway out of the shower when the lights blink again and then the bathroom is plunged into darkness. I yelp and hop out only to misstep and fall headfirst out of the stall. I try to brace my fall but my hands are sopping wet on the slick floor and I falter all the way down, hitting my chest on the floor, barely missing slamming it with my chin.
The wind is knocked out of me and I stifle a cry, as I try to pull myself up. I turn my head to the side, looking for the sliver of light under the door, but it’s so faint, and I am discombobulated from my fall.
I groan and weakly try to pull myself up again, being careful to check for grip. The floor is soaked, and feels as though it’s been oiled, so I change my tactic and roll onto my back. I look up into an abyss of blackness and lay there for a moment, assessing my possible injuries. A light annoying tickle has begun on my face, and I reach up and swat at the hair on my face, and wonder how wet hair could feel so light upon my cheek. As soon as my hand has pulled away, it begins again and, confused, I slowly lift my hand to grip the source of the irritant.
My hands curl around a swathe of hair and I swiftly realize it isn't my own. I follow it up, hanging from an unknown source overhead.
My terror is manifesting as a muted ball in my throat and before I can push out a scream the lights begin flickering back on. They strobe with effort to maintain brightness and I finally lay sight on what is above me.
Hovering inches above my body I catch sight of hardened, black pupils, and they behold me with rage, flickering with the faltering lights. My hand is still curled in the things long, midnight hair as it hangs down like frayed silk, brushing my face. It levitates above me as though it’s suspended in invisible water.
I begin trying to scream as the gnarled hands come up to grip my face. The mouth opens, but before it can utter a sound I find my voice and begin shrieking, the sound piercing the stillness. As though the spell has been broken, the lights roar back to life, and I’m bathed in fluorescent lighting, and I feel blessed for it, despite all the times that lighting has done me dirty in dressing rooms. I shoot up to a sitting position and meet no resistance. It’s gone.
Ignoring my sore body, I spring to my feet, using my fallen towel as grip. I throw open the door and am greeted with only the tepid calm of the hotel room. The very quietness has me doubting my experience, as though all the furniture should be acting as panicked as I am.
I shake my head and run over to my suitcase and put on whatever I can find, not even bothering to look at it. I just know I need to be dressed, in case I need to run from the room. As I’m searching around frantically for my boots I hear an insistent knock on the door. I head right over, expecting security to be there, checking on me after the peals of screams, but I’m shocked to see Kayla there, eyes wild.
“It’s true. She’s here,” she spits out, panic punctuating every syllable.
Chapter 7
Mario
What am I doing here? I look up at the greying facade of The Bishop Inn and fear grips me. Another blackout.
I had told myself if it happened again I’d go straight to the emergency room, but I’m too frightened. I keep reassuring myself that this is just some sort of lingering haze from days of consecutive partying midweek, but a small voice in the back of my head rebels. It won’t stop whispering to me that it is real. It’s something in my own brain and it won’t go away. It wants something,
