It was trying to wake him up. Jarron could feel a restless tugging at his blankets; a voice in his ear.
A sense of self-preservation made him force open his eyes, only to find that the room wasn’t dark at all. Besides the dim light at the head of his bed, there was an odd glow to one side, that grew brighter as he watched.
It’s the drugs, Jarron tried to tell himself. He’d welcomed the painkillers ever since the doctor had told him he needed to get more sleep. Only Jarron knew it wasn’t the pain that was keeping him awake—it was the loudness of his thoughts.
He’d told the doctor about the hallucinations, but no one else—other than Kris. Jarron didn’t even know why he’d admitted it to Kris.
A moment of weakness.
He’d regretted it ever since. Ever since he’d seen that flicker of fear in Kris’ eyes.
There were other things, too, but they weren’t as frightening as the weird visions. That time when Wakeman had come into the room. Things like knowing who was standing outside the door, or that there was someone else in the room, even before he opened his eyes.
Like now.
He wanted to close his eyes; to block it out and pretend it wasn’t there. Like he’d done as a kid—hide under the blankets, Jar.
Only he knew it wouldn’t go away. It was too demanding. Insistent. He suddenly realised that hiding would be worse—would give it the opportunity to intrude closer on his space. To prod and poke the blankets. To maybe find a way inside—
Stop it.
Face it.
In the other bed, he heard a gasp. “Jar!” Nick whispered.
But Jarron was busy facing down his demons. “What—what do you want?” he asked, unaware that he’d spoken aloud.
It was the trigger. Like a vortex of swirling golddust, the glow gained substance—gathering it from the far corners of the room.
The outer door was pushed open. Andy Wakeman stood there, stunned, as the creature took form. The light in the hall seemed dim compared to the brightly glowing translucence of the apparition in their midst.
Jarron was only vaguely aware of Wakeman’s presence. He was staring now, at the oddly ethereal beauty of the being at his side.
It was a little girl. As he watched, she began to sway. Then, with a flourish and swirl, she began to dance. Swirls and pirouettes—a phantom ballet, but with a childlike innocence that left Jarron stunned.
No evil intent.
She spun, ending it a little clumsily, as a child does. Her redeeming grace was in the lightness of her step. She ended with a curtsy, and her smile told Jarron she was well aware she was the centre of all eyes.
That’s what it is, Jarron suddenly knew. She just wants somebody to watch.
With a smile that seemed to linger in the room, the dancer faded out. Only a slight chill in the atmosphere marked her passing.
Marked her passing, Jarron thought. Such final words.
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Cheers,
ND Melody
