That night was the first time I was so afraid, I thought I'd die.

After the action movie ended, we all decided to head to bed since it was too late to try to watch Twilight. Megan was dozing off on Lauren's shoulder, annoying her with her silky, brown hair that stuck to Lauren's lipgloss.

Angela and Amy went down the hall first, then Lauren and Megan. Ethan and I stayed with Tyler, heading back and forth to and from the car to get our luggage. I wanted to confront him about telling my story to his friends, but every time we were alone, I'd open my mouth and take a breath, but nothing but air would come out. My chest was tight, like it was engulfed in a firm fist, and my legs would shake when I stood behind him while he was sifting through his trunk.

I knew it would come out in the papers, but that was what I was comfortable with. In that way, I would have control over how my story was told. It wouldn't be sensationalized like what's expected of gossip, and some people would be granted anonymity.

When we brought in the last bag, I decided to let it go for that night. We were all tired, and I knew he'd only argue with me, which was something I didn't have the energy for.

Tyler sent me to the last door on the left, a guest room across from Lauren and Angela. They were awake when I was stowing my suitcase in the closet, but it wasn't long before they yelled out goodnight one after the other, like the ending of The Waltons.

I changed into dolphin shorts and a long black T-shirt that fell down my body like a loose dress, and I wrapped myself in their linen and my afghan. I held the knitted blanket close to my face and inhaled as my eyes closed.

I didn't miss Columbia, but part of me wished I'd have at least told Jay where I went. I took in the smell of dryer sheets and detergent—vanilla and wildflowers—and the scent brought me to a time when I was the happiest I'd ever been.

The day I met Kristin.

But that's a story for another time.

I eventually fell asleep, and all was well. I dreamt, but of what I didn't remember. I woke up to distant, eerie voices. The room was shrouded in darkness, but the light seeping in through the window above my headboard cast bright shadows in different corners of the room.

There was the vintage dresser across from me, but instead of the snowglobe, trinkets, and a hygiene basket, there sat the black figure I thought I had overcome. It sat, slouched on its toes, with its hands gripping the dresser's edge. It was smiling like The Cheshire Cat, displaying its teeth so sharp they could shred through flesh with little to no effort.

Yet, I couldn't move.

My chest rose up and down with shallow breaths, and I knew my mouth was open because my tongue was dry. I couldn't blink the eyes I wanted to widen, and I couldn't take a bigger breath to scream. I couldn't move my fingers or toes, but my arm and leg hair stood up.

It felt like something was pressing against my chest, but there was nothing there.

It slowly stood to its full height with its arms dangling in front of it, and that smile never faltered. I couldn't move my eyes, so they remained on the legs, blacker than soot and thin as bones. I watched the knees bend and straighten as it walked closer. At no point did it step off the dresser, so it approached as if suspended in the air, but the knees bent to mimic natural movement.

My heart began to beat faster and faster as it flew closer and closer. It left a trail of black, like slime under a snail, and it coated everything beneath it: the dresser top and now the linen.

It stopped above my pelvis, its legs gently swaying back and forth. I could only see its feet. The skin flaked off its flesh like burned pieces of a house. The dark grey toenails were as long and pointed as a bear's claws, and they curled under the feet, stopping at the heels.

My heart thumped so hard that my peripheral vision began to blur. Instead of the white shadows on either side of my bed, I saw nothing but darkness that gradually spilled further across the room. The last two corners were soon blanketed until the only things providing light were the moon and the bright yellow eyes shining down at me like streetlamps.

Then it lowered itself into the position it held on the dresser.

It stood on its toes and sat on its heels. It hung its arms between its knees, and the nails pressed into my stomach over the large t-shirt. The thing slouched forward more and more until our faces were inches apart. I could smell the stench of mildew on its breath.

My eyes watered, but I couldn't blink them. My nose stung, but I couldn't close it. I could only lay on my back, staring into those bright, soulless eyes.

It slowly widened its mouth and lifted an arm. That hand hovered over my chest, dripping the same black film it left on the dresser. The substance trickled off its talons like tar-colored rain. It drew in a breath, and the thin skin over its stomach tightened so much that I saw the ribcage in full detail.

Like a creaky morse code machine or bones rattling, it let out a rhythmic clicking noise. It clenched its hand above my chest, then relaxed it. It repeated that movement, massaging the air.

I drew in a breath that sent me upright in bed, my back arched and my face aimed at the ceiling. My eyes had closed tight, and my hands found the afghan and squeezed the material like it would be ripped away from me at any moment. I held that breath, my chest vibrating. My throat began to close, and a throbbing headache followed.

I collapsed onto my pillow, gasping for air as if I had been held underwater by the neck, feeling like I was on the brink of death. The cotton gave way down the middle, unevenly distributing around my head.

As I looked around, just as expected, the entity was gone. There was no trail of black ink, the decorations on the dresser had returned to their positions, and instead of mostly darkness, the room was relatively bright.

My bottom lip quivered along with my chin as my eyes found their way to the door.

"Ethan," I called out, my voice barely above a whisper. I sniffled, each breath trembling in and out. I squeezed my eyes shut as I drew in another, then yelled, "Ethan," at the top of my lungs. I screamed his name again and again, and my body shook under the jumbled comforter and knitted blanket.

The door swung open, and Ethan, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, stood in his pajamas. His t-shirt lazily hung down his torso, and his flannel pants were two sizes too big.

When I stopped calling for him, he asked with the same volume and urgency, "What's wrong?"

"There's something in my room." I was blubbering and incoherent. Tears raced down my temples and over my ears, but I didn't release the blanket to wipe them away. My body shook like I was freezing, despite the heat being on.

He pulled his eyes off me to stare out of his peripheral, toward the closet. He scanned the room without stepping further inside, but his attention was on the closet door. It was early morning, and the sun sent a hazy orange light through the bedroom window. His blond and brown hair barely stood up in its usual spiked style, indicating that he'd only been awake for a short while.

Ethan walked into the room and inched toward the closet door. He grabbed a hairbrush from the dresser and held it like a bat, tapping his other palm.

My lips felt like pins and needles, and my heart thumped in my ears. I turned my head to the side and, with my chin pressed to my shoulder, watched him standing at the white sliding door. He lifted his hand to the vertical handle and wrapped his steady fingers around it. He yanked it aside, his shoulders tense. They relaxed when he was met with dresses and coats on wooden hangers, swaying and knocking against each other from the force he put into opening the closet.

His shoulders dropped, and his head leaned forward as his eyes surveyed the dark shoebox-sized room. He pushed aside clothes with the paddle brush and the bristles, then shook his head.

"There's nothing in here, Helen," he gently said, his tone uncertain or confused. He straightened his posture and turned to face me with his eyebrows furrowed.

I sat up, and my hair fell off my shoulders. I sternly told him, "I swear, there was something in here." I swallowed and sniffled after almost every other word. "It was on top of me."

"Where'd it go?" He looked toward the open closet, then across the room, as if waiting for something to jump out or expecting something to be out of place.

"I don't know," I mumbled, and he stared at me for a few beats.

He asked, "Well, what'd it look like? What'd you see?" I shrugged, my eyebrows lowering along with the corners of my mouth.

"I don't know," I told him. I raised a hand and wiped away stray tears with the inner part, then ran those fingers through my hair. I tucked them behind my ears.

"What do you mean you don't know?" He narrowed his eyes and spoke as if he were taken aback by my answer. I knew it didn't make sense.

How was I so afraid of something that I screamed for help because it was on me but couldn't tell him what it looked like? At the time, I couldn't remember. It felt like a dream, despite how vivid it was. I felt the creature's nails, smelled its breath, gazed into its yellow eyes, and heard the clicking sounds it made, but those details were a blur.

"Ethan," I whined his name. He relaxed his face and shook his head, bringing his other hand to pinch his nose bridge.

"I'm sorry, I'm just confused," he said, then exhaled all the air he held in anticipation. His tense shoulders dropped. He pulled his head away from his hand and stared at me. He drew a breath, his mouth open, then he closed it and the air blew from his nose. "Just — get dressed." He turned his head to the dresser and returned the brush as his arm fell to his side. "We're heading out for breakfast when Amy wakes up."

I was far from hungry, but I nodded anyway. I figured if they were leaving, I had to go since I couldn't stay behind in Tyler's house.

Ethan left the room and my shoulders slumped forward. I stared down at my shadow on the bed, a long interpretation of my frail and short frame.

I'd lost a bit of weight since Greenwich. It was mostly due to stress from the trial, but I know it started while I was there.

They barely fed us because Lou was constantly angry. On days we could eat, it wasn't often I got to because of the medications that kept me fatigued.

I released my grip on the afghan and raised my stiff hands. They were stuck, clenching nothing. My palms were red and held crescent moon-shaped indentations that caught my attention for a while.

Eventually, I got out of bed and went to the closet to grab my suitcase. I changed into a lace tank top, ivy green capris, and sandals. Standing at the room door, I ran my fingers up and down the sides of my hair. I swept it across my shoulders and continued combing through the frizz until the strands were as neat as possible and felt like velvet instead of cotton. I swatted my hair off my shoulders, and it swung behind my back.

I forced a smile and held it in place as I made my way through the hall. The living room was empty, but the blinds were fully drawn open and natural light poured in. It wasn't as orange as the light in the guest room, but it was noticeable compared to the white sunlight that would come later in the day.

Everyone was on the back patio, either sitting or standing, but laughing and talking to each other.

I watched Tyler dangle Angela off the edge of the railing by the waist. My smile slowly faltered. The others stood around while she screamed, no one seeming concerned or fazed in the slightest. My heart began to race as I watched her swing her legs while the breeze gently swept through her blonde hair. It partially covered her face, and though she was gripping the railing so tight that her hands were turning red, I knew she wanted to release one hand to move the hair from her face.

I rushed past the couches and the halfwall, then flung the sliding door aside.

"Helen, you're awake," Megan said in a soft tone, sitting on one side of Ethan. She was wearing a laced cami, denim shorts, and sandals.

Tyler stopped pushing Angela, and she was quiet when she heard my name. He pulled her onto her feet with his eyes locked on mine and mine on his.

"Are you okay," I asked Ange, giving her my full attention. All eyes were on us. They stared with furrowed eyebrows like I had ruined their mood by saying or doing something weird.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" I brought my brows together, tilted my head, and opened my mouth to respond. He was moments from dropping her off the side of the house, but they were acting like it wasn't a big deal. I closed my mouth and shook my head. "Okay," she droned, looking around at everyone. "So, do we agree on Miner's Diner?"

They went back and forth about different restaurants, but I couldn't speak. I was confused, and unused to some dynamics.

Is this normal?