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As the second branch scraped his face, Mason wished his eyes would adjust to the change in light more quickly. He stopped, blinking hard. It didn't work. He still couldn't see. Raising his hand, he began to move forward gingerly, hoping branches would collide with his arm and not his eyes and forehead. There was a path through the woods somewhere, but he could never find it, especially not at night. He turned. Behind him, in the distance, he could still see the light of the bonfire through the trees. He debated going back the way he came and looking for the path again. Maybe this time, he'd get lucky and find it. But he was late already, so he trudged on. His eyes fully adjusted ten minutes later, when he finally reached his destination. It figured.
Mason emerged into a small clearing in the woods. In the center was a raised stone shaped like a table or a pulpit. Blair was sitting on it.
"You're late," she snapped.
Mason shrugged. "I'm sorry."
"Spare me. You're not. You're really not sorry at all."
"Ramona?"
"She won't be saying anything," said Mason. "I've got it taken care of. Don't worry about it."
"You're dangerously close to ruining everything. You know that. And you don't seem to care." Blair slid off the rock and faced him. "Sometimes I think I could just kill you."
Mason chuckled. "That would be nice, wouldn’t it?"
"If anything goes wrong," said Blair, "anything at all, I will blame you."
"Me? What about your carelessness with Garrett Hillard? You don't think that's a problem?"
"I can handle Garrett."
"And I can handle Ramona."
Blair shrugged. "We'll see."
* * *
Ramona scrambled up the steps in her apartment building, fumbling in her purse for her keys. She had forgotten to bring the leftover beer inside with her, but she wasn't going back to her car now. It was parked behind the building, facing the porch. When she'd pulled the car into her parking space, she'd looked up, her headlights turning the railing's shadow harsh. That was where she'd seen Angelica last. Seen Angelica, very much alive, hours after her death. It made Ramona cringe inside. It made her want to be indoors, locked away from the porch.
Once inside, she checked the lock on the door in the bathroom, the door that led to the porch, three times. It was locked. But Ramona didn't really know if locks mattered to ghosts. Angelica had seemed pretty solid before, but that didn't mean...
She shook herself hard. This was ridiculous. Ramona didn't believe in ghosts. Ghosts were Heather's thing. As she shrugged out of her Guinevere costume and into her pajamas, she tried to steady her breathing. There were no such things as ghosts. She was freaking herself out for nothing.
Nothing?! She'd seen a dead girl. It wasn't nothing. She had a reason to be freaked out.
Ramona buried her face in her hands. Oh God, oh God, oh God, this was bad. This was so bad. What had she ever done to deserve this? Was it because she hadn't gotten out of Elston? It probably was. She was being punished because she hadn't moved on with her life after college. Because she was working in the admissions office instead of going to grad school.
Actually, that was probably right. She was being punished. But there wasn't some ghostly force behind it; there was only her own psyche. She was punishing herself. Making herself believe that because she hadn't lived up to her own personal expectations, she should be in trouble. Bad things should happen to her.
Had she imagined seeing Angelica?
Why the hell would she have done that?
Something had happened. Something fucked up, because Ramona had witnessed the impossible, and she didn't know how to explain it away. Make it better. Make it safe.
Ramona strode through her apartment, flipping on every light switch and turning on every lamp. She hoped that the light would chase away her fear, just as it had done when she was five. But as she sat on the corner of her bed, bathed in brilliance, clutching her knees against her chest, she still felt like something was out there. She didn't know if she thought it was the ghost of Angelica. She didn't really want to think about it at all. She wanted to distract herself. Think happy thoughts.
Ramona tried again to calm her breathing. She drew in deep, slow breaths and hissed them out. Lying down, she closed her eyes. She forced herself to think of nothing but her breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Gradually, a sense of peace descended on her. She didn't think. She just was. The dark behind her eyelids traced patterns. Plaids. Triangles. Then pictures... Ramona felt dreaming begin to descend--
A crash. Glass breaking.
Ramona jumped. Sat up on her bed. Her breathing became erratic again.
The lamp in the living room area had fallen over and broken. Had it been on its own, or had something--someone--knocked it over?
"Angelica?" Ramona whispered. "Are you there?"
No reply. No sound, except the whoosh of cars passing on the street outside.
It was cold. Ramona wrapped her comforter around her shoulders and walked slowly around the perimeter of her one-room apartment. There weren't many places that someone could hide in here, but there were a few. She checked each one. First, she looked in the dark corner between her couch and armchair. Darkness pooled between them. Ramona scooted the chair over a little. Stood in the corner. No one was there. Then, she looked in the kitchen area, between the breakfast bar and the refrigerator. Nothing there but dust. Finally, she checked the bathroom. Threw aside her deep blue shower curtain, half-expecting to find Angelica inside. But instead of the cheery Angelica she'd seen that evening, it would be the dead Angelica, fresh from the shallow grave she'd been buried in. Mud would streak her face, cake her hair. Blood would be smeared on her lips and chin--crimson, like a child's picture, crayon outside the lines. Her heart pounded as she thrust the curtain to one side. The curtain rod screeched.
The shower was empty.
Ramona collapsed against the wall behind her, whimpering. She covered her mouth with splayed hands. What the hell? She couldn’t handle this. She couldn't deal with being haunted by the ghost of her murdered neighbor. She couldn't even deal with the possibility of it. What could she do? She was losing her mind. She was acting like a crazy person. Sliding down the wall, she sat down hard on the linoleum in the bathroom. The empty shower stall gaped at her. She closed her eyes. Tried to monitor her breathing again. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.
In. Out.
It didn't work this time. She couldn't calm her breathing. It was like the time in the closet. The time when she was four. When she couldn't breathe.
She should get out of the bathroom. The bathroom was tiny. It was too small, and Ramona didn't like small places. She raised her eyes to the ceiling, which suddenly seemed very close, even from where she sat on the floor. It suddenly seemed as if it were getting closer. Closing in on her. Ramona struggled to catch her breath. If she could breathe, everything would be fine. The bathroom wasn't closing in on her. It was just her head, playing tricks on her. She knew that. She knew that. If she just got control of her breathing, then everything would be fine. If she could just...breathe...
Ramona was starting to feel light-headed, and she began to panic. She was trapped here. She was trapped in her own goddamned bathroom.
Her hands shook. She raised them slowly in front of her face as hot, wet tears squeezed themselves down her cheeks.
She tried to move her legs. They wouldn't move. She was frozen. She was trapped.
Ramona struggled to get a breath. Her breathing was quick now, stunted. Staccato. She could barely get a breath in. She wasn't getting enough oxygen.
She stared at her trembling fingers. Then she forced them down, down. Slowly down to the floor.
And pushed...
Ramona tumbled out of the bathroom, landing flat on her back just outside the door. She lay on the hardwood, staring up at her ceiling (much higher out here) and drawing deep, clean, cool breaths of air.
Mason was right. She should never tell anyone about the fact she'd seen Angelica. In fact, she should never even think about the fact she'd seen Angelica. Ever again.
Copyright (c) 2010 Valerie Chambers