Sleep No More

NINE

The next few days pass in a blur. Ten days later, the worst of the shock has passed. Not that anything’s back to normal. But we’re starting to remember how to function again.

Today’s the last day of school before winter break, but I don’t feel festive. No one does. I’d never have believed that the social walls in the school would crack, but something about one of the Populars and one of the Nerds both being killed within a week of each other has splintered that unbreakable stone. Everyone mourns together and though I’m sure it can’t last, this blending of all the cliques feels like a fitting way to honor them both.

Except for me. I drift through the hallways as much a ghost as Bethany and Matthew might be. No one in the entire school knows what I know—no one else feels the weight of such a blend of emotions. Even in the face of this united grief, I’m alone. Two deaths in the school apparently doesn’t make me any less of a freak.

The one silver lining in this whole catastrophe is that, oddly, Linden’s talking to me more. Not every day, and generally he just asks how I am, but it’s a bright spot in my very dark world and it helps keep me centered.

At this point, the cops aren’t fully convinced the two killings had anything to do with each other. One girl, one boy. One with a knife, one with a gun. One Popular, one Nerd. One white, one black. Although everyone was certain in the beginning that they had to have been killed by the same person, there’s nothing to actually link the two teens except for their ages and the fact that they’re both from our small town. People are starting to hope that it was two bizarre but isolated incidents and that everything will go back to the way it was.

I’m not letting that stop me though. I’ve put a password on my phone—just in case—and each night, after I’ve closed my door, I pour over the pictures I took. I got about forty of them, but after almost two weeks I’ve barely made it through twenty. Not only is the handwriting hard to read, it simply doesn’t make sense. It talks about jumping into a supernatural plane, and there’s a drawing that looks like a domed room. I don’t know what that means, but apparently once you’re there, you can see multiple visions—multiple futures—and maybe even change them?

But there’s nothing about how to do this. Or even if a normal Oracle can. I mean, if I had a power like this, wouldn’t I know something about it? Or this supernatural plane place? I’m starting to wonder if this is one of those legend books that doesn’t actually have any truth in it, but that Sierra bought because it was a cool, old, handwritten text.

I keep reading anyway. I risked so much to get these pictures, and there might be something more helpful in the last half of the pages.

There haven’t been any new messages from the mysterious texter either. I read the two I’ve already received at least ten times a day. I haven’t gone so far as to call, but the number is always there. Just in case.

The parking lot at school is still covered with snow. It starts to melt in the afternoon sunshine, only to freeze again in the bitter cold of the night. So it’s not soft, fun powder anymore, but sharp, unforgiving ice veiled by a thin layer of fluff.

I’m only halfway through the lot that last Friday when I feel the familiar tingling of a foretelling. After shaking off the terror of what might be coming, I glance around and then crouch beside a big truck and let it come.

Since the vision of Matthew’s death, I haven’t fought a single vision, and I’ve had a good ten or so. It seems pointless—the murder visions I had about Bethany and Matthew bowled me over anyway, and the others are so insignificant that resisting them isn’t worth the effort. And despite that bubbling fear each time I feel one coming on, every vision since the one about Matthew has bordered on boring. Who cares that Mr. Johnson’s car is going to slide off the road on Christmas Eve? He’ll be fine and it’s an old car anyway; he wants a new one. And there’s some lady I don’t know who’s getting ready to serve her husband with divorce papers. What the hell would I do? Find them and tell them to get counseling?

It’s just tiny glimpses into the lives of people in Coldwater—most of whom I don’t know. So I let the foretellings come and then forget about them almost as soon as the vision is over. Although I wouldn’t dare tell Sierra, I’m glad I’ve stopped fighting. It’s all so much easier now.

Easier. Not easy. I’m still doing the same things I’ve always done—throwing myself into my classes and studying my brains out so I’m too tired to think when I lie down to sleep at night. But at least I’m not trying to conserve energy to fight visions on top of that.

The blackness starts to encroach on the edges of my physical sight and I close my eyelids before it even starts. Give up. Let it wash over me and suck me in.

I’m standing in an open field at night and soft, powdery snow is falling lightly. Like lace, not the heavy muffling snow we’ve been getting lately. This is the kind of snow they always have in movies right before the main characters kiss.

I look around and see nothing. Confused, I wait for the vision to pull my feet in the direction they’re supposed to go, but after several seconds, I’m still standing there.

With nothing else to do, I try to take a step on my own but my feet are glued to the ground. Okay, there’s something here I’m supposed to see. Instead of looking forward, I look down and realize the lumpy surface a few feet to my left isn’t, in fact, a snow-covered patch of bumpy ground.

It’s a cream-colored coat.

I suck in a freezing breath and even in my vision the sudden cold makes me want to cough. I lift my foot and it obeys me now. With terror pounding in my heart, I walk forward one step. Two. Three.

Whoever this is is lying on their back so peacefully he looks like he’s sleeping. I choke back a sob and hope with all my heart that it’s just some drunk guy who fell asleep and froze to death. Not that I would wish anyone death but it would be better than . . . better than . . .

Better than a teenage face looking up at me with vacant eyes and skin covered with a tiny layer of lacy flakes. A gust of wind clears some of the snow and then I see the bruises.

It’s another victim.

His coat is unzipped halfway down his chest and his scarf has been untied and pushed to the side as though to display what the murderer has done. Deep purple swatches cover his neck, almost black against his pale skin made even whiter by death. I stand there shaking, shivering, even though I can’t feel the cold anymore. He looks so serene that it’s almost worse than the gory scenes I witnessed with Bethany and Matthew. So incredibly dissonant.

I force myself to focus—the vision won’t last forever—and I lift my eyes to his face.

“Jesse.” My words are lost in the wind. Jesse Prince. He was in my art class last semester and we ended up being partners on a project. He had all the talent; I had all the discipline. The final result was subpar at best.

I suck in a ragged breath and look around again. It’s an empty space—a parking lot?—and I’m standing underneath a tall lamppost with only one light functioning. Maybe a park?

That’s it. A park. And now I can see the dim outline of a row of houses just out of the circle’s light. There’s a sign. It’s some kind of development. But as I lift my feet to get closer, the vision starts to fade. I try to run, to get there before everything goes black, but I can only lift my foot an inch or two and, within seconds, it’s all gone.

I blink slowly, carefully, bright sunlight invading my eyes and making them sting after the pure blackness. Unfortunately because I was sitting on a slippery patch of ice, I’m now lying full out on the ground beside the rusty truck. My head sits right next to a puddle of slush and I can feel moisture soaking into my hair and dampening my scalp.

I sit up, but don’t bother to look around. It doesn’t matter if anyone saw me; nothing matters now. Damp strands of hair fall into my face but I shove them away and push my hands into my pockets, grasping for my phone.

I don’t stop, don’t think, and don’t let myself reconsider. My icy-cold fingers dial the number and, as it starts to ring, I get to my feet, hanging on to the truck for balance.

“Hello?”

A man.

I was expecting a girl.

A woman.

Despite what Sierra said, deep inside I was certain it had to be another Oracle. “Hello?” My voice cracks as I answer and I have to clear my throat a few times before I can speak clearly.

The man on the other end says nothing, just waits.

“It’s Charlotte,” I say once I can speak again.

I hear a long, slow breath and he whispers, “Finally,” so softly I barely hear it. “Did you see the next one?” he asks in that same, calm voice.

“Yes,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes.

“I need to meet with you.”

I swallow hard and force my emotions back. “How do I know you aren’t the killer?”

He laughs now, a soft, bizarre sound considering the circumstances. “Charlotte, how stupid would I have to be to try to kill an Oracle?”

Every muscle in my body stiffens.

Never reveal that you are an Oracle to anyone except another Oracle.

He pauses and when I don’t say anything he continues: “You know you’re not going to die today, don’t you?”

My silence is answer enough.

“If it makes you feel better, you choose the place. It can be as public as you want so long as it’s somewhere we can talk without being overheard.”

It’s still so soon after the vision that my brain and my body are moving at half speed. I should have waited to make the call until after I had recovered.

But then I might have changed my mind.

“The food court,” I finally decide. “At the mall.”

“When?”

“I’ll head there now. How will I recognize you?”

“I’ll find you. I know you.”

The way he says “I know you” makes a trickle of fear shiver up my spine. But I chide myself for it. Of course he knows me. He knew me well enough to learn my cell number. He’s been watching me closely enough to know that I warned Matthew.

Of course he knows who I am. But the words make it real.

“Ten minutes,” he says, and then the line goes dead.

What have I done? But my fingers clench and I push my phone into my pocket. “Something,” I mutter to myself as I duck my freezing and still-damp head and turn in the direction of the mall. “I’m doing something.” Of course, the last something I did might have made things worse. But I shove that thought away. I can’t be afraid.

It only takes me about twenty minutes to walk to the mall, which is plenty of time to feel thoroughly frozen. Coldwater’s mall is more like one hallway of a real mall, with a mini food court stuck onto the end. There are about ten tables spread out around an alcove with several skylights that are quite pretty in the summer, but make everything feel even colder in the winter. I pick a table at the edge farthest from the stores and restaurants. Everyone can see me, but the nearest seat is about ten feet away. It’ll work.

I sit there like I’m just ditching school to meet a college boyfriend. Like I’m sneaking off for some typical teenage mischief, not supernatural lifesaving. At least I hope it’s lifesaving. If this guy can really show me how to stop this, then it’s all worth it.

Because I’m not sure my mind can handle another kid dying. A kid pretty much just like me.

I sit alone for a few minutes before I realize someone’s looking at me. I raise my head to get my first look at the man who thinks he can save our town from this monster.