Page 58 of Pretty Nightmare

It has saved my life, if Donovan’s tapes are to be believed, on many an occasion.

But not this occasion. Right now, it feels more like… panic. More like a complete and total unraveling of Dear Indie’s psyche.

I take a deep breath, hold it just the way Donovan taught me, then let it out in a burst of laughter. It’s the crazy kind of laughter. Like… picture insane-asylum inmate type of laughter.

Maniacal, maybe?

That might be a tad over the top. But only a tad.

I’m fuckin’ losing it.

Because using a relaxation technique provided by Donovan feels a little bit like… that stupid girl in a horror movie who says, “I’m gonna go check it out,” when she hears a weird noise in the attic. She’s probably a babysitter. Home with the kids. It’s super dark outside, probably past midnight, and she’s the butt of everyone’s joke. So it’s maybe a prank. But of course—I stop to laugh here—an inmate, a psycho inmate from the nearby insane asylum, just escaped that afternoon and he’s on the loose.

You know, I get it. It sounds stupid. All those coincidences leading up to the dark attic. Kids begging her not to investigate. They’re on the ball. They know what’s up. Hell, these days they’ve whipped out their cell phones to TikTok the whole thing. It’s gonna go viral tomorrow.

Take a deep breath, Indie.

As I was saying. It sounds like a really low-budget horror movie.

But this shit is real. This level of stupidity is an actual fact.

I know. I’m that girl walking up those creaky stairs with a half-dead flashlight asking, “Is anyone there?”

Yeah, you clueless bitch! The fuckin’ boogeyman is up there. Turn around. Grab those kids. Run to the neighbors—oh, I forgot. No. The neighbors live far, far away. Miles away! Except for that boy called Nathan who lives just across the duck lake. But he’s dead and the house was torn down. So no. Can’t run. Gotta just suck it up and go up in the attic and ask that stupid question.

“Is anybody there?”

Of course someone’s there! That’s the whole point of the movie! Or journal in your own handwriting. Or tape in your own voice.

Correction. Someone is not there. Someone is fucking here.

There’s nowhere left to run, Dear Indie.

The only thing left to do is fight.

Dear Indie,

Let’s try this again. Without the insanity, please and thank you.

Adam gave me this new journal for my twenty-fourth birthday. We didn’t have the big traditional celebration. McKay wanted to, but I told him no.

It just didn’t feel right.

It won’t ever feel right again.

But I did get presents. Well, a present from all of them, including this journal. Donovan wanted to “switch things up” so he offered to cook breakfast. Obviously not something he does. That’s McKay’s job. But that was the point. He said sometimes traditions become ruts and wouldn’t we like to try to get out of our rut?

No one objected and the thought of seeing Donovan wear an apron made me smile.

It still makes me smile. But I’ll get to that part.

So Donovan said he would cook and McKay should do something that Adam usually did. And then Adam should do something Donovan usually did.

Adam always bought me a dress but McKay didn’t buy me a dress. That was too close to the real tradition and none of them were very excited about reliving the last time I put on one of Adam’s special dresses.

But McKay figured he only owed me something beautiful and beautiful was a thing he could do. We only made this decision the week before my birthday. That was the deadline for when McKay had to order the cake and he needed to know what our plans were. So he didn’t have a whole lot of time to come up with the pretty, but that never stopped McKay before.

He made me a carpet of flowers.