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❝the after.❞

"MISS STONE, CAN YOU ELABORATE ON THE EVENTS THAT TOOK PLACE ON MOUNT. WASHINGTON LAST NIGHT?" The policeman with an authoritative, gravelly voice asked the shaken girl sat before him.

There was something unsettling about his voice, a thickness within it that added to the stark coldness in his eyes — as though this were just standard procedure for him . . to be doing something like this. Though, this was anything but standard procedure.

The zipper of the policeman's unzipped coat tapped against the metal leg of the table repeatedly as he bounced his foot, the incessant noise buzzing in the frigid air of the interview room. In police stations, interview rooms were often kept cold to keep the people inside them — usually suspects of crimes — on edge. There was no need for that this time, though, for Florence Stone was no suspect. She had been the victim of something heinous, purely evil.

Florence — wrapped in a scratchy blanket provided by a policewoman who she couldn't recall the name of, the kind woman who'd gently pulled her up from the ground after the Washington lodge was set ablaze — couldn't speak.

Talking seemed impossible after everything she'd just endured on that godforsaken mountain. There weren't any words to adequately describe what she and her friends just went through. The closest word she could think of was hell but even that seemed too flippant. Nothing came close.

Stuck in a daze, all Florence could focus on was the agonizing throbbing sensation that seemed to crawl all around her body. There wasn't much unblemished skin left on her anymore; she was nearly completely covered in bruises, cuts, and grime.

Her concussed head pounded, the ache syncing with the hastened beat of her heart. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. It hadn't slowed down in two hours.

Her ribs — either bruised or broken, she still didn't know for sure — seared with agony every time she took more than a shallow breath. Her feet involuntarily scrunched up in an attempt to soothe the unbearable tenderness. Some of her fingers still felt numb from the unforgiving temperatures outside, the Canadian winter a cruel mistress.

For hours, the adrenaline rushing through her veins kept the pain of her varying injuries at bay; kept her from focusing on anything other than surviving, getting off that fucking mountain alive. That adrenaline — her saving grace — was gone now, having faded into the fog clouding her mind. She'd been left with a lifetime's worth of aching, throbbing, and stinging.

The part of her mind that wasn't murky was forcing her to relive the night in flashes. Every few moments, she'd hear a scream — sometimes her own, sometimes her friend's — or see bits and pieces of the mines. It was like she was watching a movie, a cinematic adaptation of the most traumatic night of her life that her own mind had created.

Her eyes glazed over as her head carried her out of the cold interview room and back onto Mount. Washington where nightmares bled into reality.

It took all the strength she had left in her body — which wasn't much — to pull herself back into the moment. Even as she did so, she couldn't seem to shake the feeling of impending doom, the same feeling she had running through the bowels of the abandoned mines and back in the lodge. It had all been branded into her mind — she was damned to be haunted by what happened forever.

The policeman, having received nothing but silence from Florence for the last several minutes, sighed and folded his hands in front of him. This interview was proving to be of little to no use. The poor young woman had just survived what was obviously some sort of hell on earth, how could she be expected to answer any of his questions right now?

For the sake of the integrity of his job, the policeman repeated his last question — "can you elaborate on the events that took place on Mount. Washington?"— but with a softer tone than he took last time.

No answer.

"Ma'am?" The policeman asked, hoping to snap Florence out of the daze she was stuck in, "Can you hear me?"

Florence, suddenly flung out of her head and back into reality, abruptly lifted her gaze from the ground. As she looked up to meet the concerned gaze of the policeman before her, a single tear slid from her eye and unto her cheek. The droplet stung as it fell upon the blood-crusted wounds along her face. Her voice trembled as she breathed, "The mines. Don't go to the mines alone."

Her voice was quiet, so low that it was almost a whisper.

"What's in the mines, Miss Stone?" The policeman  asked, leaning forward as he jotted down what Florence was saying onto an aged legal pad. There was an eeriness about the way she said it that sent a chill down his spine. The room seemed to get colder as her voice echoed against the walls.

Florence curled into her blanket once more, her gaze falling back to the ground.

"You'll find out."

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