Chapter 3

"Suspect" The word resonates in my head like the chime in a bell. My eyes are as puffy and red as my stitched up hand. I stare at the white floor of the police station and think about everything. I called the police. I drove to her house. I watched as they wheeled the body out. I cried. I screamed. And yet they still stick that word on me. Suspect. I sat on the back of their ambulance, clutching the blanket they placed on my back while I wasn’t looking, and listened as they spoke to each other.

"She's got blood all over. It's very likely she called because she felt guilty. We don't know what we are dealing with here. She could be psychotic."

"Cliff come on, she’s just a kid"

"She's a suspect if anything," the officer said, firmly finishing his point. Just then an EMT came up to me and asked to see my hand. They took me away back to the station. The flashing lights stay in my eyes, and the image of her house disappearing in the background. Her parent's faces as they told them what had happened. They wouldn't tell me. But I'm not sure I want to know.

The jangle of keys cuts off my thoughts and I hear an officer's scruffy voice. I look up to see a man, in good shape, mid-forties, with a small beard, walk toward me. 

"Hello-" He looks down out papers to say my name, my real name. But I cut him off.

"My name is Evelyn," I say sternly. He clears his throat and starts again.

"Okay, hello Evelyn I'm officer Hartley. I'm here to ask you some questions about-" I cut him off again.

"I already told them what I was doing that day. I told them everything. I just want to go home”

"Okay, I'm afraid you can’t until I ask you some more simple questions. if you could just follow me." So I get up and grab my blanket and follow him past the desks and pin boards with mugshots and files. He brings me to a room that has a couch and some chairs. It also has a table with crayons and paper.

"This is usually where we question little kids but we want to relieve as much stress on you as possible." He says as-a-matter-of-factly as he sits. I do the same. He proceeds to ask me about my parents and relationship and my personal life. He listens to everything I say before writing it down. He studies my face and body stance. He seems to know when I'm getting uncomfortable and he steps back. We go on like this for an hour. I grow tired, but I keep my guard up the entire time. I have to tell him the truth, but that doesn’t mean I want to. He stays calm, to the point where I get annoyed.

"Here is a card with my work number if you need anything. Your dad is here to pick you up." I stand up and he grabs my good arm. I stop and look back at him. All that I want in that moment is just to leave that room and go home. But something in his eyes comforts me. A type of sorrow. But not the sorrow that you look at an injured puppy with, the one where you are trying desperately to get a point across.

"Hey, I believe you. And I know you aren't immediate family of her but give me a call and I'll tell you what you want to hear. I know you were close and I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," I say in a sincere whisper. I walk out of the children's room and to the front desk. They give me my phone and clothes back. They kept them to test the blood. 

"Here you go, good as new" the guy says. The clothes are clean but I will never wear them again. I give the man an unconvincing smile and turn away to see my dad sitting in a chair. He must have come straight from work because he is in his suit. He looks tired and aged. It's almost 3 am and he's been sitting here filling out paperwork for what must seem like forever.

"Time to go home sweetie?" I would glare at him in a way to tell him that I don't want to be called sweetie, but I'm too tired.

"Uh-huh," I say as I pass him and head to the car.

I don't sleep that night. The light doesn't come. And I don't expect it to. It's too comforting. I know I need comfort, but I just won’t accept any. It would hurt too much to know that she is dead, and I’m happy. I have to mourn, I feel like I owe it to her. My dad takes off of work and I stay home from school. He spends the day accepting calls from neighbors and relatives. And writing thank you notes to the millions of senders of sweets that were sent over. Like I said, I was known as her best friend. As for my phone, I don’t touch it. It sits on my nightstand collecting dust. It buzzes every two minutes with apology texts. I even stopped watching tv because all that is on the news is her. Nothing ever happens in this town, this is the biggest thing since the mayor's dog died. For the first few days, it was all I watched. They told stories of her and showed pictures. Sometimes I’m in the pictures they show.They said they tried to contact the family but they were in mourning. My dad once got a call from a reporter asking to interview me. But I declined. I liked watching her on tv. It felt nice to know she was getting the attention she wanted. After the sad period came the detective period. They started showing pictures of people who were suspects, like me, for murder. I hate that word. Murder. It doesn't seem right to me. None of this does. My father says that once they catch who did it, I will get some closure. But all of these suspects aren't it. Each face they show, it's not the one that killed her. I just know it. 

The tears eventually stop. But the pain doesn’t. A week goes by. No sleep. No tears. No glazing. For this entire week, I have lived every moment of it. But I don’t know why. Nothing has happened. I get up, eat breakfast, read, go outside, read more, go inside, eat, lie in bed. Nothing important. I live out the boring and depressing day. And the boring night. I hear sometimes my dad get up and go outside, to drink. Then he comes back in and sleeps. I close my eyes to glaze but nothing happens. So I stare at the cracks again, studying each one. I do this for hours, and let my thoughts take over. I am overcome by images of red and blue flashing lights. And the red stains on white sheets on the multiple stretchers. Underneath is not a body but parts of one. The men pushing the stretchers with green faces. The blue blanket, that they thought would calm me down. And then that bell chime. “Suspect”. 

All these thoughts are cut off and I’m looking at the cracks again. It takes a second for my brain to register why my thoughts were interrupted. I heard a sound, but I already forgot where it came from. Then it happened again. A creek. I look up into the darkness. It came from the other side of my room, where the moonlight from my window doesn’t reach. I pull myself up in my bed and my feet swing over the side touching the cold wood floor. I try to adjust my eyes to see, but it is too dark. Like the stairwell at school.

I glance up at the clock on my wall but it is blurry. So I stand up and walk over to my lamp. I touch the cold metal and the light blinds me. I shield my eyes in response for a second when I hear the sound again. My head looks in its direction and at first, I think it's just the light in my eyes tricking me, but I can clearly see that the rest of my room is still pitch black. I look back at my bed but all I see is a void.

“What?” I say allowed. I'm confused. I'm not afraid of the dark, but I am afraid of the dark appearing when it shouldn’t be. I hear a tiny screeching from behind. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I turn to see the light bulb in the lamp slowly turn. Not continuously, but at intervals, as if someone was turning it and needed a second to reposition their hand to continue. I stare at it in amazement my heart starts to pound but almost stops completely as the world goes dark and I hear the sound of the light bulb smash on the ground in a million pieces. Silence follows. The type of silence where you can hear a ringing that makes you go mad. I realize I’m holding my breath and I let go, stopping the ring. I look around but there is only blackness. There is a faint blue dot from looking straight into the lamp that follows my gaze. I decide to walk forward to try to reach my door. To my surprise, the floor doesn’t creak under me. With each step, the floor gets colder, and harder. I don’t feel like I’m in my room anymore. I keep walking until I see a faint light in the distance. I quicken my pace towards it. My heart races as it slowly grows bigger and bigger. I want to reach it fast because I feel as though something in the darkness might reach out and grab me. Like when you turn off the lights at the bottom of stairs and race to the top as fast as you can. Not looking back into the unknown. 

As I walk my shoulder bumps into a wall made of metal. It makes a tiny rattling sound that slowly fades. I back away from it and hold my breathe. I freeze up and I feel goosebumps appear  all over. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. But it is not enough to drown out the sound of breathing. That eerie breathing that is not coming from me. Eventually, my instinct takes over and I start to run towards the light, the sound of footsteps following me.

“Stop! Please!” I scream through tears. My voice echoes throughout the room.

“Hurry!” I hear a teenage boy's voice say from behind. I start to run even faster. The light gets closer and closer. I hear the sound of panting from behind. Maybe the boy behind me is being chased too. Maybe he knows what is chasing us. My eyes adjust as I near the light and I see a set of stairs. I race up them and the sun burns my eyes. I squint and see figures not too far away. They are slightly transparent.They look about my age. I stop running, but just as I do I feel two pairs of hands shove me to the side and I scream. The culprit runs towards the figures but just as he reaches them they disappear.

“F**k!” He yells, slamming his fists on whatever the figures were standing on. Then he turns and looks at me. “What were you thinking?” He isn’t transparent. He looks young. Innocent. And pissed. I back away slowly realizing he’s pissed at me. His green eyes glare into mine. It looks like he might come and attack me. But then I remember the thing chasing us. So I run to where the figures went. They must have gone someplace safe. I run past the boy, but he follows after me. I reach where the figures were and jump up on what seems to be a ledge. I'm just about to make my leap to safety when the kid grabs the back of my shirt and yanks me off. Everything goes in a blur as I lose my balance and fall to the floor. But the ground is soft, and the sky turns dark. I push off the ground to sit up. I expect to see legs, ready to kick me. But instead, I see my bedroom wall. I stare at the window. With the moonlight coming through. I turn and look at my bed, sheets all muffled about. My pounding heart starts to slow as I blink away the tears that invade my eyes. I pick up my fluffy white blankets and hug them with all my might. I giggle to relieve the nervous energy that courses through my veins.

“A dream” I whisper out loud in relief. “It was just a dream.”

Author's Note

Please let me know if there are any grammar problems or unnecessary sentences or places where the plot doesn't make sense.