South Dakota, Late Friday Night
Dru woke up from a sound, dead sleep, a dream she couldn't quite remember about a dark hole in the closet receding as soon as she opened her eyes. The window was full of the weird directionless nighttime shine of streetlamps reflecting off fresh snow, as her Gran's white owl fluffed its feathers and stared in at her.
Dru slipped from the bed and pulled on her sweatshirt. She slipped past a sleeping Dinah, out into the hall and past a sleeping Kennedy. Down the stairs and past the living room where Christophe sat, shotgun across his knees watching the TV. The sound was turned way down low as a black and white movie unrolled across the screen between bursts of static.
That's not right, Dru realized. There shouldn't be static. We have cable. But the thought was slow, moving through pudding.
The front door glowed. Thin threads of bright, cheery, summer-sky blue outlined it and scribed a complex pattern across its face. Dru stepped forward, bare feet floating an inch above the cheap carpeting and her hand came up without any conscious thought on her part to undo the locks.
The taste of oranges ran in rivulets across her tongue, fresh instead of waxed, and the shock of tasting them made her head hurt.
The door opened and Dru stepped out gingerly, still floating. The stairs unreeled under her feet as a humming began in her middle, like an electrical cord plugged into her belly button. The line of force was almost visible, snaking away across the drifts of snow in the yard.
Where am I going?
There was a soft explosion of sound overhead, wings flapping frantically, and her Gran's owl glided past. It circled, cutting a tight figure eight before slowing and floating down the street.
The line against her belly snapped taut and began to pull Dru faster. The world drifted past, streets sliding by as she made her way through town to an old, dilapidated, two story house. A massive oak tree stood int he front, its twisted limbs reaching towards the sky.
The pulling stopped.
Why does that look familiar? Dru cocked her head, studying the house for a long moment. The owl settled on the tiny strip of broken roof over the porch. The snow was deep, drifting up against the steps and swallowing them.
Dru knew what those steps would look like. She knew what the porch would say if she stepped on its groaning old wood, and the screen door - busted off its hinges, plastic yellow crime-scene tape old and faded and fluttering over the yawning caver leading into a front hall - she knew what sound it would make if it had still been whole.
There would be stairs inside, right off the narrow foyer. Up those stairs and to the left, there would be four doors: a bathroom, a main bedroom and a small bedroom, and a closet.
I know this house. Somehow I know this house. Dru stared as the owl mantled, then tilted its head and made a soft call once more. Its yellow eyes were old and terribly, terribly sad.
Dru moved forward. It was hard - the air grew darker and darker the closer she got. And there, at the bottom of the oak tree, was a scorched place were the snow lay discolored and sunken. A moon-silvered figure lay under the darkness, terribly still, crushed under the running shadow.
What is that?
The owl called again, a new not of urgency in the soft calls. Dru put her hands out as the buzzing in her belly got worse, a hornet's nest in her gut, rattling and scraping.
Wait. I know something. I know this house...
The world shivered. She looked down at her hands and realized she could see right through them. Faint snowlight shone through her translucence, curve of her forearm like a glass full of solid smoke.
She was a ghost.
The owl spoke one final time, only that wasn't right, because it wasn't a soft hoot. It was a bell A loud, rasping, heavy sound; the hornets had broken out of her belly and were swarming. Stinging needles rammed through her fingers as she reached the shadow of the oak tree and its branches buzzed like a rattlesnake before it launched itself to strike.
[Dream/journey taken from Lili St. Crow's novel Strange Angels]
Dru slipped from the bed and pulled on her sweatshirt. She slipped past a sleeping Dinah, out into the hall and past a sleeping Kennedy. Down the stairs and past the living room where Christophe sat, shotgun across his knees watching the TV. The sound was turned way down low as a black and white movie unrolled across the screen between bursts of static.
That's not right, Dru realized. There shouldn't be static. We have cable. But the thought was slow, moving through pudding.
The front door glowed. Thin threads of bright, cheery, summer-sky blue outlined it and scribed a complex pattern across its face. Dru stepped forward, bare feet floating an inch above the cheap carpeting and her hand came up without any conscious thought on her part to undo the locks.
The taste of oranges ran in rivulets across her tongue, fresh instead of waxed, and the shock of tasting them made her head hurt.
The door opened and Dru stepped out gingerly, still floating. The stairs unreeled under her feet as a humming began in her middle, like an electrical cord plugged into her belly button. The line of force was almost visible, snaking away across the drifts of snow in the yard.
Where am I going?
There was a soft explosion of sound overhead, wings flapping frantically, and her Gran's owl glided past. It circled, cutting a tight figure eight before slowing and floating down the street.
The line against her belly snapped taut and began to pull Dru faster. The world drifted past, streets sliding by as she made her way through town to an old, dilapidated, two story house. A massive oak tree stood int he front, its twisted limbs reaching towards the sky.
The pulling stopped.
Why does that look familiar? Dru cocked her head, studying the house for a long moment. The owl settled on the tiny strip of broken roof over the porch. The snow was deep, drifting up against the steps and swallowing them.
Dru knew what those steps would look like. She knew what the porch would say if she stepped on its groaning old wood, and the screen door - busted off its hinges, plastic yellow crime-scene tape old and faded and fluttering over the yawning caver leading into a front hall - she knew what sound it would make if it had still been whole.
There would be stairs inside, right off the narrow foyer. Up those stairs and to the left, there would be four doors: a bathroom, a main bedroom and a small bedroom, and a closet.
I know this house. Somehow I know this house. Dru stared as the owl mantled, then tilted its head and made a soft call once more. Its yellow eyes were old and terribly, terribly sad.
Dru moved forward. It was hard - the air grew darker and darker the closer she got. And there, at the bottom of the oak tree, was a scorched place were the snow lay discolored and sunken. A moon-silvered figure lay under the darkness, terribly still, crushed under the running shadow.
What is that?
The owl called again, a new not of urgency in the soft calls. Dru put her hands out as the buzzing in her belly got worse, a hornet's nest in her gut, rattling and scraping.
Wait. I know something. I know this house...
The world shivered. She looked down at her hands and realized she could see right through them. Faint snowlight shone through her translucence, curve of her forearm like a glass full of solid smoke.
She was a ghost.
The owl spoke one final time, only that wasn't right, because it wasn't a soft hoot. It was a bell A loud, rasping, heavy sound; the hornets had broken out of her belly and were swarming. Stinging needles rammed through her fingers as she reached the shadow of the oak tree and its branches buzzed like a rattlesnake before it launched itself to strike.
[Dream/journey taken from Lili St. Crow's novel Strange Angels]