2014
Alannah slept that night, totally relaxed. She’d written in her diary about the stranger who wanted to watch her dance. Even though he was much older than she, she felt attracted to him. She’d never have the courage to tell him that, of course, but as she drifted off to sleep, his face stayed in her imagination. She liked that.
She wasn’t very experienced with men; her perpetual shyness was a big part of that. That’s what made him such a nice surprise.
Chances were that she’d never see him again, but that didn’t stop her from contemplating what might be.
“A agua esta fria.”
What?
She blinked awake and froze in her bed. The voice seemed too real to have been a dream. And it was that odd phrase again that she’d heard once before in a—
(vision)
—dream. It was the same soft voice, a girl or perhaps a young boy.
Alannah sat up and realized her fingers and hands were sticky. She couldn’t see anything in the dark, so she shuffled her way to the bathroom and flicked the light on.
Her hands were covered in blood. It was sticky, but not wet, like it’d been there a little while.
Oh my God . . .
Alannah’s first reaction was that she must be bleeding somewhere, but she didn’t feel any pain, and other than some dried red smudges on her night clothes, there was no blood anywhere except on her hands. She wanted to cry out but she was frozen with fear.
“What happened?”
She clenched her fists. The blood was tacky and sticky, but there was no pain. She glanced toward her bedroom, but there was only darkness.
Pulling together every bit of courage she could find, she turned the water on and scrubbed the blood from her hands. It swirled down the sink and left her with just wet, cold fingers.
Part of her knew she needed to turn the damned bedroom light on and see what there was to see, but she ignored that. She wanted to stay hidden in the bathroom as long as she could. It was safe there.
Surely there was nobody hiding in her room.
Who’s blood was it?
She bent over and splashed water on her face, hoping that the chill would help wake her up and allow her to think about what to do.
Alannah listened, but there were no strange noises from her bedroom.
She grabbed a hand towel, patted her face dry, and looked at the mirror.
It wasn’t her face staring back. It was a little boy. He had long, light brown hair and was naked. His face and body were bloated, parts of his flesh ripped off. A large hole disfigured his right cheek, and blood oozed out of it.
His face was pure evil, hate lasering from his eyes and hunger from his mouth.
She couldn’t move, knowing she must be dreaming, but this wasn’t like any dream she’d ever had. This felt real, and although she wanted it to be a dream, her mind screamed no.
He was real.
The boy grinned hugely. His teeth were covered with green slime.
Alannah’s legs almost gave out, and she grabbed onto the counter to stop herself from falling.
“A agua esta fria!” he shouted.
“No,” Alannah whispered. “You’re not real.”
The boy laughed and said, “Oh, I’m real, sis. And I’m coming back.”
Alannah couldn’t look at him. Neither could she move. She wanted to leave the bathroom but couldn’t. Her legs wouldn’t carry her; neither could she move her hands. She couldn’t even turn her head from the monster staring at her.
The boy laughed and reached for her. She felt sure that his arms would come right out of the mirror to strangle her.
She couldn’t scream, couldn’t move, could barely think. She was a frozen statue of herself. Urine spilled down her legs.
All she could do was close her eyes. She didn’t want to see him touching her.
“Who are you?” she wanted to ask, but no sound came from her mouth.
After a moment, she gasped as she realized she hadn’t been breathing. Her eyes flew open, and she saw only her own terrified image in the glass.
Her body was free again, and she almost collapsed but caught herself on the counter.
Alannah took a deep breath, not daring to move her eyes from the messy girl in the mirror. Her hair was soaked, and the T-shirt she wore was covered in sweat. Her eyes were wide and tearstains glistened below them.
“You’re not real,” she said again. She wasn’t sure if she was saying it to herself or to the little boy.
She walked back to her bedroom and turned the light on.
Blood stains marked the sheets where her hands had been.
She sat on the side of the bed, thoughts of Jeremiah Moore long gone.
Would Savannah know anything?
No. The blood was still wet when I woke. Fresh.
Alannah creeped herself out by kneeling and looking under her bed. There was nobody there. Her room was exactly as it should be, except for the bloody sheets.
She walked through their apartment, but there were no signs of anybody. The door was closed, locked, and deadlocked. The windows were shut and locked.
She bit her lower lip. There was no way anyone could have gotten into their place and certainly no way for them to have left without leaving something unlocked.
Everything was quiet, and although Alannah normally loved that, right now it felt somehow wrong.
It was 4:42 a.m.
She’d be waking up in less than an hour, so she decided to just stay awake. There was no way she would be able to get back to sleep, anyhow. She made coffee and sat in the living room, watching CNN with the volume turned low.
As she sat there, the odd phrase crept into her mind, but this time she thought she knew how it was spelled. She typed A agua esta fria into Google on her iPhone.
The water is cold.
Alannah frowned as she stared at the words translated from Portuguese.
“What water?”
Google didn’t have an answer for that.
* * *
At a little before 6:00 a.m., sunshine started to stream through the apartment windows. Alannah had finished three cups of coffee (one more than she would usually drink in an entire day). She’d continued to watch CNN but none of the stories really sank in.
She swirled the mug in her hand, the last slurps of coffee waiting for her, but she decided she’d had enough and took it to the kitchen.
Wine would be better, she thought. She choked out a small laugh. She wasn’t much of a drinker; Savannah would have more seriously gone that route.
Savannah.
She needed to know.
Alannah removed her diary from the bureau and wrote two entries. The first was about the vision she’d had of the scary little boy.
The second, longer, entry was about Jeremiah Moore. She took her time with this one, writing every detail she could remember about their meeting.
There was something about him . . .
For the first time since waking, she moved the Portuguese boy to the back of her mind and thought of something else. Someone else.
She liked his smile and his voice. She knew without a doubt that he was gentle and trustworthy and lovable. His smile was a wide grin that seemed to stretch too far, but it had made her want to kiss him.
He was taller than she (well, who wasn’t?), probably by a foot, but that wouldn’t matter, would it?
The age, though.
She tried to guess his age and decided he must be near forty. She was twenty-two.
“Not quite double.”
It wouldn’t make sense that he would be interested in her. He’d see her as a little kid. She was kidding herself to think he might be interested.
But would he be?
She went to her bedroom and took off her T-shirt and panties, tossing them in the laundry hamper for Sunday’s chores.
After walking to the bathroom, she turned the shower on and climbed in. The water felt brisk and hot, and she was glad it would wash away any remnants of the blood.
She turned her back to the streaming water, letting it flow into her long dark hair. Her eyes were closed, and it felt nice.
“Wish you were joining me, Mr. Jeremiah.”
She felt her face flush at that thought.
She finished her shower and got dressed. It was her day to work, so she poured herself one last coffee and sat at her desk, ready for the first call of the day.