Dreamt Apparition

It was midnight when she had heard the first sound; a swift movement of air that did the bells attached to her dreamcatcher ring.

At first, she didn’t think much of it, but they grew persistent with time. 

Yara was sat behind the desk of the small office she had built soon after she had moved into the property. It was a one bedroom house, the last in a row of seven. After her house, there was nothing but an empty open road that led to nowhere. The owner had to leave promptly, and the price was well within her budget. She had accepted the mold in the corners of all the rooms, the thick dust that gathered no matter how long she dusted and the strange sounds that occurred when she sat behind her desk, alone.

It wasn’t much of an office, but an empty room with a small table, a wobbly wooden dining chair and a wooden dreamcatcher in the corner. She had bought the dreamcatcher after she told the shop owner about her sleepless nights. And that she was an author and that her story unfolded as a nightmare when she slept, how the story kept her up and restless. She had put it up beside the open window by her bed. It did it’s job and the soft clicking noises of the beads lulled her to sleep each night before midnight.

It was the deadline that had stopped her from decorating the walls, cleaning the mold, or doing anything besides writing and except for the dreamcatcher in the corner, the room was as anonymous as it was given to her. 

The caffeine from the one cup of black coffee she had allowed herself, more or she would start hallucinating, started to leave her body. It has done its job and she was now a few chapters closer to the deadline.

She sighed and leaned back. She opened her email to an enthusiastic “Hi!!!” from her agent, Cindy. The three exclamation marks that almost symbolized the third deadline, made her sink deep in her chair. 

11:03 PM

She continued writing where she last left off, the blood on the red Volvo, the body in the passenger seat and the murder committed in rage. It nauseated her, so did describing the bitter sticky marmalade that her character ate for every meal. But her debut novel was a thriller and Cindy pushed her to write only what sells. She saved the documents three times, sent a copy to herself, to Cindy and closed her laptop.

The ivy that grew thick outside her bedroom window, another task put off, obstructed the early morning light, and reduced it to nothing but thin streaks that depending on the day still managed to wake her up by sunrise. Except it was still midnight. 

Yara got up, found her slippers, and walked to the open window, still dizzy from the sleep she had not been getting much off despite being in bed by midnight each time. There was a ringing sound in her ear, like the rapid ring of a bell but she focused on the source of the light. Headlights? She blinked then squinted her eyes slowly to adjust to the bright light. It was indeed her red Volvo. She walked outside. Her hands felt around for the door handle. Wet? She looked down at the blood on her hands. Still half-asleep, she leaned forward to check the passenger seat. She pressed the button on her car keys, the lights went off.  

Yara shuffled back to her bedroom again. Her feet felt heavy and wet and she dragged her blood stained-slippers back to her bed.

It was already twelve when Yara woke up. She had missed the brunch she had promised Cindy. Yara wasn’t much for confrontation, she kept her phone off. 

There isn’t much time for lunch either when there is a deadline around. She made herself a quick toast instead. The bread she had bought three days ago tasted stale and although she didn’t care much for marmalade, it felt necessary now. 

It was already 3 PM when she went back to her office and sat down, her coffee ready and her laptop open when she noticed the dreamcatcher on the floor. It was neatly broken in half. Its tattered feathers were stuck between her toes. The small bells attached to it pressed against the sole of her barefoot. 

She did not remember breaking it. The deadline buried the thought of what and how to the back of her mind. She sat down. She took a sip of her coffee, followed it by a second one and after a thousand words her mug was empty, and her toast eaten. She craved another cup of coffee and she knew she needed it, or she would creep back into her bed again. A second toast with an extra thick layer of marmalade would do her good too, she thought.

Yara ticked away to the last thousand words of her novel. The coffee had made her jittery, but tired. She focused on the tick tick tick of her keyboard, but not on the ringing of the doorbell, the steps on the stairs. Yara inched closer to the screen. Her palms were sweaty. It was getting darker and although it was autumn the room seemed to be getting hotter. The final few words. Her fingers were sore, her head was throbbing, but she saved the document. Sent it to herself and Cindy, she saw the unread emails but didn’t reply.

She closed her laptop a minute after midnight. Her bed seemed too far to get to. It was suddenly so quiet. She exhaled and then she heard the dreamcatcher. She looked up. It was dark outside. She reached for the switch on her desk lamp. It didn’t seem to work. She kneeled and looked for the fuse switch on the wall. There was a hand on her bare neck. Yara turned to look at her own reflection.

“Cindy?”