Out of the darkness, a round, luminous beacon of light appeared. It was small, no larger than a car’s headlight. As the moments passed, it grew, shifting several times until most of the room was enveloped in its glow. An image sparked to life in front of her. A young lady who appeared to be in her late twenties sat on the edge of the bed, tears dripping from her eyes onto the front of her pink, pleated dress. The woman stared down at the ground, as if too afraid to face what was in front of her. A calendar was displayed on the wall behind her. The month was too small to make out, but in big, bold letters, Addison could see the year: 1952.
The woman’s eyes suddenly shifted, reacting to something or someone across from her. But the other side of the room remained hidden, shrouded from Addison’s view. And sight wasn’t the only sense Addison was missing: the room was devoid of all sound.
Addison approached the girl, bending down in front of her. “Are you all right? What’s wrong?”
The girl didn’t flinch, her petrified gaze still fixed on the other side of the room. She stared past Addison like she wasn’t even there. Addison put her hand out to touch her, but yanked it back when a high-pitched noise pierced the silence. Sound rushed back into the room. The girl stood up and screamed, stretching both of her arms out in front of her, as if trying to push someone away.
“Please, don’t,” the girl begged. “Can’t we talk about—”
The girl stopped, mid-sentence, her head slanted, eyes wide. She appeared to be listening, but how was that possible? No one else was there besides the two of them. Were they? The girl crisscrossed her hands, wrapping them over her stomach. Her entire body trembled like she was experiencing some kind of epileptic seizure. She glanced up, desperately pleading for her life. “No—no! What are you doing?! Stop!” she shrieked. “Don’t do this—please!”
They were the last words the girl would utter.
A gun appeared in midair, hovering in front of the woman, but Addison’s vision was clouded, shielding her from the identity of the person holding it. The woman reached out, clawing at the gun. Addison sprung forward, grabbing for it herself, but she missed. At least, she thought she did until she turned around and tried again. The second time, she watched her hand as it swept right through the gun, like it was made of air. She brought her hand down in front of her face, fingers stretched, and then tightened it into a ball. Her hand was solid, its warmth pulsating through her veins. So why couldn’t she grab it? Addison turned once more; this time it was too late. A gunshot went off. Addison looked around. The woman was nowhere to be found. Had she been shot? Where was she? Moments later another shot rang out. The woman reappeared a few feet away from where Addison was standing. She looked past Addison and then her body sagged to the floor, lifeless. Blood oozed from her chest, filling cracks and crevices, saturating the wood floor in dark-red liquid.
Addison released the dress, allowing it to slump back inside the box. Light filtered into the room and she leaned forward, bracing a hand on the floor in front of her. She tried to suck in a breath or two but struggled to ingest even the tiniest amount of air.
It was happening—again.