My eyelids flutter open as the first rays of sunlight sneak from behind my thick curtains and stream across my hardwood floor in stripes of alternating light and dark. A hand instinctively jerks toward the sight where sharp teeth ripped my flesh what seems like moments ago, my upper body hurling from beneath the covers draped around me to a quick upright position, and an audible gasp separating my lips. My heart beats wildly within my chest, but with each deeper breath, the pace slows. I'm okay. The psyche takes a few minutes to register this fact, the mantra repeated internally until it's accepted. Swinging my legs out from my blankets and over the edge of the bed, I seek the refuge of a steamy shower to cleanse my body and soul, along with the aches that have me feeling as if I have just run my first marathon. My eyes quickly flit to the smudge of red streaked on the pristine counter, and I sneak to it as if it's a wild animal that will viciously attack if I get too close. Swallowing hard, I realize that it's a perfect representation of four of my fingers, and they must have been stained while I dragged them off the edge. My eyes are as big as saucers as the implications scream at me, and I shake my head in adamant denial. There's no way. Maybe they're Jeremy's from his normal dirty appearance after a visit to his beloved woods. I grab a washcloth, furiously scrubbing away the dried mess until the surface gleams from the bright overhead light. There. All better. The shower is my next stop, the numbing deluge like an unpatented medicine, and even though I have skipped my morning jog, there's a welcome happiness that allows a broad smile to plaster onto my face while I join Jeremy for a bowl of cereal downstairs. "I was thinking since it's Sunday, we could do a family thing tonight for dinner. Maybe food and then a movie, or even a game."

Jeremy tugs his one remaining ear bud, and it falls to his lap during a glance that tells me I clearly need a padded room. "Are you kidding me right now? Aren't we too old for family night? That lost it's fun when I was ten. We barely have family to attend anyway, not to mention Jenna has some paper I heard her say she needs to write."

Pursed lips and a reluctant nod answer my younger brother, but I have a feeling he just needs another excuse to get high with his friends to rid the Monday blues before they begin. "Fine. You have a point. I just think we need to do something with the members of this family that do still exist." The part where I need the comforting support of family after my rough night goes unsaid, and I prepare myself for an uneventful night. There's always a chance Bonnie or Caroline need a study buddy for that algebra quiz.

The scrape of chair legs against the tile on the floor brings me back from my thoughts, followed by Jeremy's silverware clanking against the side of his ceramic bowl as he roughly discards it into the sink. He shuffles past, wearing all black again, and my head follows his pursuit to the front door. He pauses with the door wide open, tossing me a pitying grin. "You know that whole spacey thing you do is starting to get weird."

I open my mouth to respond, a fidget having damp locks shoved behind my ear, but the click of the door in its jamb cuts off any retort I could've stuttered out. My stare at the door lasts a minute before I decide my brother sees through the shaky facade of normal I've been practicing for weeks. Ever since the nightmares started, in fact. The now eerie quiet has anxiety creeping in. This is the time I hate most, when I'm alone in this huge house. I saunter back upstairs to my room, going through the motions of making my bed and collecting dirty laundry, when there's a faint voice that echoes in the four walls.

"You're right to be afraid."

I swivel in all directions, my hand grabbing up the letter opener I'd snagged from Jenna's room two days ago and placed on my nightstand, but nothing meets my eyes. "Who's there? Show yourself, you coward!" The silence drags on, and I start to question if the voice was real. Is this all in my head? Am I making this up? Why would I do that? Scaring myself is nothing but stupid. Weary, my fingers lose their grip on my little weapon, and it clatters to the floor. I look up just as I hear the flapping wings of a bird, along with its cry and the bristling of leaves as it vacates its perch on a tree outside my window. An open window. My head jerks in surprise. Did I leave that open?