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It’s dark. Pitch black.
At the top of the stairs, a hallway stretches out before me.
And there, a few feet ahead, a white door appears. Under it, a thin strip of light. Like a beacon, it summons me forward, guiding me out of the inky tendrils of blackness.
My body seems to float toward the door, and when I glance down, all I see are slithering shadows.
Panic tinges the edges of my awareness, speeding up my heart. Where’s the ground? I can’t decide if I’m grateful or not that I can’t see it. I don’t want to know how high I am.
But just as quick as fear grips a hold of me…
Something else drags my attention.
Someone’s…humming. Singing maybe.
I know this song, I think, and next thing I know, I’m twisting the knob on the door, and pushing it open, revealing a light so bright, it momentarily whitens my vision.
The music grows deafening, no longer just humming, but there’s piano too. The melody screeches into my ears, blending into a single high-pitched buzz.
And then?—
Silence.
Blinking rapidly, I lower my hand from where I was shielding my eyes from the glare, and as my vision adjusts to the room around me, my heart slows, stealing my breath with it.
It’s the photographs taped and pinned and hung up all over the room that register first, quickly followed by rumpled black and pink bedding. Cream walls that have been graffitied with quotes, lyrics, snippets of poetry, and random doodles.
A scrapbook.
I’m not sure why I think that, but it brings a small smile to my lips.
“Did you bring it?”
Whipping around, I find Izzy standing there in front of her now-closed door, head tilted, gaze expectant.
“Bring what?” I hear myself say.
She rolls her eyes, grins, and shakes her head as she approaches me, and tears the scrunchie I didn’t know I was even holding, out of my hand.
“Why do you have that?” I ask, my voice oddly warbled now.
“It’s my lucky scrunchie.”
I frown as I watch her shove all her hair up into a messy top-knot. Loose brown tendrils curl around her face, and she swipes them away with a huff.
“You…you don’t have a lucky scrunchie,” I say.
“I know.”
And with that, she brushes past me, heading for her bed. My gaze lowers to where the carpet should be, but there’s still only inky shadows, slithering about like snakes.
My throat clenches.
A low, melodic humming fills the room, soft and sweet.
Turning toward the source of it, I find Izzy sitting on her bed, leaned up against the headboard as if she’s been there all along. Her knees are bent toward her chest, and against her thighs, she’s writing something into a notebook.
“How do you know that song?” I ask, slowly approaching the bed. I take a seat on the edge.
