I’m dreaming.

I know I’m dreaming because there’s no way I’d come back to the lake in real life. That, and the birds in the sky aren’t actually moving. They hang there, suspended, black smears against the pale blue dome, like museum pieces. Everything here is still.

I stand on the edge of the dock, my bare toes just over the edge, and stare down at the crystal-clear and mirror-smooth surface. My reflection stares back. I’m just in my pajamas, which is another clue I’m asleep, because I wouldn’t be caught dead outside in these faded pink unicorn–covered things. (They were a gift from my grandma, and my mom refused to let me throw them out.) Not that there’s anyone out here to see. Just me and my reflection.

I look tired. Dark circles ring my eyes.

“What am I doing here?” I whisper to myself. Why am I not waking up? Normally, when I realize I’m asleep, I wake up immediately. But now, nothing changes.

I wonder if maybe this means I can do whatever I want. Maybe I can fly?

I close my eyes and will myself to levitate off the docks, to soar up into the sky, and then maybe I could give myself more magical powers, like shooting lightning out of my fingers or breathing fire like a dragon. Rachel’s face flashes before my mind—we used to play make-believe like that, when we were younger. Before …

I open my eyes. I’m still firmly on the docks.

And Rachel’s face is no longer a figment of my imagination—she stares back at me from the lake, my reflection changed to hers.

I gasp and try to take a step back, but I can’t move. I look down at my legs; seaweed wraps up my calves, thick and green and slimy, like moldy ropes.

“You can’t escape from me,” Rachel says. Her voice is eerie. It sounds like her, but it’s scratchy, deeper, like a bad recording. “You can’t escape from what you’ve done.”

She reaches her hand up, and when it touches the water’s surface it stops being a reflection—it’s a hand, a real hand, pale as paper and just as thin, with bits of skin peeled back to reveal gray muscle and sharp white bone.

“We will make you hurt,” she says, her hand stretching farther, reaching toward my leg.

I struggle against the seaweed holding me in place. It doesn’t budge, just wraps tighter, making pins and needles scream out along my legs. Why won’t I wake up? Why can’t I wake up?

Her hand claws around my ankle, ice-cold and shockingly strong. She begins to pull me down, my feet slipping on the wet, algae-covered wood.

“No, no, you can’t,” I gasp out.

“Why not?” she asks mockingly. “When you did the same to us?”

I blink. It has to be my imagination.

But no.

She’s not alone in the water. Other faces appear. Some old, some young, in all shapes and colors. Only one thing remains the same—each of them is decayed, flesh peeling back to reveal bones and gums, their eyes wide and watery, their mouths open in screams I can’t hear …

… until Rachel yanks and pulls me under with a splash, and their collective howls fill my ears with the sound of crashing waves.