“I’m never sleeping again.” The words come out flat. Certain.
“What did you see?” Alex presses. She’s moves closer. Sitting on the edge of her bed now. Serious.
“I don’t know.” I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to remember. Trying to see it again without actually seeing it. “A woman. Ithink. Dark grey. Like smoke. But she was black at first—solid black, like a silhouette—then she turned grey. Like she was...” The words tangle, refuse to form properly. “...fading? Coming into focus? I don’t know.”
I open my eyes.
Alex’s brow furrows—not disbelief, concentration.
“I agree,” she says quietly.
My stomach drops. “What?”
“I felt her too.” Her words land flat, certain. “In your room. Heavy energy near the closet. Cold spot by the bathroom. She’s angry.”
“I wish you wouldn’t say that.”
“Why are you scared?” She tilts her head, genuinely confused. Like I’ve just told her I’m afraid of puppies.
“I—” I pull the blanket up to my chin. “Well. It’s a ghost.”
“I mean, that’s one opinion.” She disagrees with me so sweetly it shakes everything I thought I knew. “But that’s not really an answer.”
We usually steer away from this conversation. Have an unspoken agreement not to go here.
Ever since that one time when she swears she saw my dad sitting at our kitchen table. We were sixteen. I didn’t talk to her for a week after that.
The memory hits me sideways. Alex at sixteen, crying, telling me she saw him. My dad. Sitting at the kitchen table in their apartment.
Just sitting there. Smiling at her. Then he was gone.
I’d called her a liar. Said she was cruel. That she was using my grief against me for attention.
I didn’t mean it. But I said it anyway.
We didn’t speak for a week. The longest week of my life.
When we finally talked again, she didn’t apologize for seeing him. Just apologized for telling me.
We agreed never to talk about it again.
“I don’t know,” I answer finally. Ready to face this conversation. Or as ready as I’ll ever be.
Alex flicks off my bedroom light but leaves the bathroom light on. The door cracked. Light spilling into her room like a nightlight.
She climbs back into bed, movements careful. Her mouth pulls down at the corners.
“Why.” It’s not quite a question. Not quite a demand. Something in between.
My heart gives a heavy thud.
“Why what?” I ask, even though I know damn well what she’s asking.
“Why do you act like they’re monsters when they’re just... people. Dead people who need help. Who are trying to tell you something important. She’s not here to scare you, Dylan. She’s here because you’re the only one who knows she existed.”
Dead people.
My throat closes. My stomach turns over.
