Page 137 of Wicked Hungry

“Are you going to be all right?” I ask her.

“I think so. If you promise you’ll call me tomorrow night. I’m afraid I’m going to have the nightmares again. I keep remembering what happened. But did it really happen? Or was it all a dream? I can’t keep it separate anymore.”

“I’ll call you,” I say.

“Are you going to ignore me at school?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Well, I’d like you to act like my boyfriend.”

Her boyfriend? Her boyfriend. Did she just say her boyfriend? She said it. And she’s waiting for me to say something.

“I’m not sure I can do that,” I say.

“Please, Stanley.”

“Really,” I say. “I’m sorry. But you’ve got to give me some time. If you need a hug or something, I’m there, but—”

“Thanks,” she says. “I guess that’s the best I can expect, huh?”

“I don’t know, Meredith. But it’s the best I can do.”

“Goodnight, Stanley. Sweet dreams.”

“Goodnight, Meredith.”

I hang up the phone and turn off the light. The room is dark. I lie back and close my eyes. All things have beginnings, middles, and ends, and this story is no exception.

But my story doesn’t end here.

Chapter 44: THE WRONG ENDING

I lie down to sleep. I close my eyes tight and try to release all the tension in me gradually, starting from my toes and moving up all the way to my ears. It’s a difficult process, and usually it’s foolproof. By the end you’re either asleep, totally relaxed, or both.

It would be nice if my story ended here, but it doesn’t. Because this time sleep eludes me.

Not only that, but I’m no longer alone. There’s a cold draft in my room and a smell of damp earth. Have I left open a window?

My eyes open against their will. My lids are so heavy. There’s someone here with me, sitting at the end of my bed. Quiet. Waiting. And very dead.

The room fills with the smell of damp earth, and something else. The sweet tangy smell of roses. Dead, dark, wilted roses.

I sit up slowly, but her hand reaches out, touches me lightly.

“Lie down, Stanley. It’s easier for me when you’re lying down. And close your eyes.”

I lie back down and close my eyes. The room is cold and silent, and I feel goose pimples on my arms. I can’t help it; I shiver.

“You’re cold,” she says. “I’ve brought the cold with me. I bring the cold with me everywhere now.”

“That’s okay,” I say, my eyes closed. “But why are you here, Karen? You’re dead, aren’t you?”

“I told you I’d watch over you, Stanley,” she says.

“I know,” I say. “But you’re dead now, Karen. You’re supposed to be resting. You don’t have to watch over me anymore.”

“I know,” she says. “You think I don’t realize I’m dead?”