Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 132582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Panic sets in because I don’t know this place. I don’t know where I am. Something heavy is in my hand—it’s the same bottle of Riesling I took out of the crate. I still have the bottle, so that must mean I’m fine. I’m still at the bookstore…right?
I turn back around to face the crate again, but the crate is gone, replaced by a dirt path that leads to a foggy void. I can’t see past the tattered gate at the end of the path.
I drop the bottle and wrap my arms around myself as the air grows colder. I’m in a forest I’ve never been in before. It’s dark and the air feels and smells different. This place feels…real. But I’m at the bookstore. I was just at the bookstore.
All around me, there is nothing but silence and it’s deafening. The dirt crunches beneath my Chucks, proving that it’s there—that this is really happening.
“How am I here?” I breathe shakily. “How am I here? How am I here?”
I swallow hard, tears welling in my eyes as I take a step toward the gate. If I move, maybe I’ll snap out of whatever nightmare this is, but I can’t move. I’m shivering again, paralyzed.
“Willow!” someone screams my name and I gasp. The voice is deep, familiar, and it’s coming from the fog. “Willow, can ya hear me?”
I start to scream, to say something, but then I recall the dream last night—the blood spilling from my throat and onto my clothes. I reach for my throat, but there’s no blood and I’m still in the jeans and graphic New York T-shirt I picked out before coming to Lit & Latte’s.
“Willow!” the voice shouts, louder this time. It grows closer, closer.
Then a crackling sounds behind me, like a twig snapping, and it echoes. Something cold grips my arm—a hand digs into my flesh and forces me to turn around, but when I do, I face nothing but blackness. No trees. No light. No fog. Nothing but darkness and cold—a dark void where I can’t see, hear, smell, or do anything.
The voice that was calling me is faint now. And before I can react, those red crescents from my nightmare—the evil red eyes—they watch me from above. The cold wraps around me like chains.
I can’t move.
Can’t scream.
Can hardly breathe.
I shudder and grit my teeth, no longer standing but floating closer to the eyes. Trying to withstand the pull, I kick my feet, pleading, but no noise escapes. Voice trapped, I float, thrashing and kicking, fighting for a way out.
Someone save me! Someone please help me!
Breathe, Willow. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Willow!
Willow!
“Willow!”
I gasp as I open my eyes and come face to face with Faye.
“Willow? Jesus, are you okay? What happened?” she asks hysterically, looking me deep in the eyes. Her hand is on my arm, her head tilted in concern, but unlike the hand that grabbed me, hers is soft, her touch caring.
My eyes widen as I spin around, taking in my surroundings. I’m in the basement again. The cold is gone, replaced by humidity. I’m not floating, I’m standing in the same place I was when I was reading the bottle of wine.
“I…” I struggle to find words, my eyes bouncing around every corner, searching for those evil red eyes, but it’s all the same. No forest. No fog. No cold. Just a basement with old shit in it…and now a shattered bottle of wine on the floor, liquid seeping into the cracks of the cement.
“I…I’m sorry, Faye. I—I don’t know what’s…”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks.
I look down at the wine. “Shit. I’m really sorry. I can go buy another one if you want me to.” I can’t help the shakiness of my voice. Something was just here. It tried to take me.
“Girl, no—what? Forget the wine! It’s just a drink! You look like you saw a ghost! What the hell happened?”
I look into Faye’s dark brown eyes, contemplating telling her what I saw and felt. It all felt so real, yet here I am. Standing still. Perfectly fine. Unharmed.
I touch Faye’s face, making sure she’s real, and her flesh is soft and smooth. She even has the sprinkle of light brown freckles on her tan skin, just as I remember.
“Okay…you’re clearly not well. Come on. Let me get you upstairs.” She wraps an arm around me and leads me past the shards of glass to get to the stairs.
I can hear jazz music playing before we leave the basement, and soon we’re drowning in the noise as we move through the bookstore, past the mingling guests and the café, to get to the front counter.
“Sit,” she insists, pointing to a stool behind the counter.
“I’m sorry, Faye. I—I really don’t know what happened. I…” I swallow hard. How do I explain what happened without sounding like a complete lunatic?