HAUNTED SONA
CHAPTER 18
Sleep had come to her. It had taken so long, eluding her. Yet once her eyes closed Sara was able to drift into a long, deep and yet troubled slumber.
The dream she'd had during that time had been so vivid. She'd seen herself walking through a graveyard. And she was dressed, crazily enough, in a beautiful, sequined wedding gown adorned only by a delicate string of pearls around her neck. So real was the dream that she could see her long, silky veil flowing around her. Her hair was up in a wispy bun—the way she'd always wanted to wear it, if she ever became a bride. The most romance touch? An origami swan tucked into her bouquet of tiny pink roses.
And she was barefoot. Fretting over having no idea where her shoes were on her wedding day. Prepared to meet her groom at the altar, but not fully prepared. One very important item of dress was missing, and as so often is the case in a dream, it was something utterly absurd.
Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaraaaaaaaaaaaa…
That was Michael's voice! She looked around, confused. His voice seemed to be coming from somewhere in the graveyard. But where? She hurried past headstones, looking for him.
Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa…
"Michael! Where are you?" she called back desperately.
Sara, hurry. Hurry, Sara.
She whirled around. Behind her, several yards away, was an old mausoleum. The name of the family on a plate over the door seemed to have worn away. Up the side of it climbed ivy which was dying. Michael was in there? In that terrible place? She could have sworn his voice had come from the structure.
Sara stumbled toward it. This was so unfair, she thought. Though afraid, she was also angry and frustration. This was their wedding day, and yet she and Michael were still being pursued, still in deathly danger. Well, enough already. She walked with determination, believing she would put a stop to this once and for all. She and Michael, they were going to run away somewhere. They wouldn't waste a minute. Directly following the wedding, they were going to flee—hop a ship or plane somewhere and never come back. She didn't care where they went, but they would be together.
They would be free.
Saaaaaaraaaaa!
As she reached her hand out to push the door, it noisily creaked open by itself. She withdrew her hand out of fear. Hesitantly she stood there. A gust of wind rose around her, tossing the skirt of her gown and her veil.
Sara, don't go in there.
It was as if her feet were glued to the marble floor. She tried to move but she was paralyzed; she tried to speak but she was mute.
Through the tomb's arched doorway she could see a mantle, along with a dozen or more candles were lit. In the room was someone, a small male with a hunchback, seated on a coffin. With his back to her, he remained still. Patches of hair were missing from his misshapen head. Along his shoulder a large cockroach crawled lazily, its long antennae quivering.
Then, without warning, the thing turned its head. Grotesque. That was the word that came to her. There was a triangular gap where the nose belonged, through which a disgusting yellowish-green ooze flowed. The mouth was hideously shaped, stretching from one ear to the other. It opened to reveal rotted teeth and three tongues, all of which were gnarled around each other and dripping blood.
This is what they had sent after her. The ones who wanted to murder her and Michael. No one had to tell her; she sensed it. In her horror, Sara turned and ran off the mausoleum's single step.
And she collided instantly with Michael. Her groom, looking handsome in his black tuxedo, his blue eyes filled with love.
"Oh, Michael, Michael—we have to get out of here!" she pleaded.
Smiling, calm, he wrapped his arms comfortingly around her.
"It's all right, Sara," he said.
"No—no, it's not! Michael, don't go in there. There's—there's this thing in there."
"It's all right, baby. But I need you to get out of the bed."
The door to the mausoleum shook with the strength of an earthquake. It was knocked off its hinges, the dust of the dead rising from it and swirling around in a circle. Whatever that was inside, it wanted out. NOW.
And it was coming after them.
"Michael, we have to go!" she screamed, now close to tears.
He was calm. Determined.
"Get out of bed, Sara."
"I can't!"
"Yes, you can. You have to. Get out of bed. Now. Hurry, my love."
It was then that she awakened. It was like her soul had escaped the dream by the sheer force of her will.
Seconds passed before she realized she'd reached up both hands to rub her face. Slowly, trembling inside and out, she held up her hands and stared at them in disbelief.
My hands. I moved them!
Was this a dream, too? A cruel dream that was letting her believe she wasn't in the coma any longer, nor was she paralyzed? Would she wake up to find that nothing moved, not one little finger? Or would she remain in that coma?
Tilting her head to the side, Sara blinked her eyes. She could see the clock on the nightstand. She could even hear it ticking. Clearly, she heard it!
Tick, tock, tick, tock…
Oh, my God. Was there ever a more beautiful sound?
Licking her lips, she glanced to her left. It was nighttime. She could see the opaque sky, completely devoid of stars, through the room's single window. Gathering her courage, she turned to look down at the foot of her bed.
And then she did it: She raised and lowered her right foot. A loud gasp of delight and a sob threatened to be heard, but she muffled both behind her shaking hands. Up and down she moved her foot, forming a little circle underneath the bedsheets.
No more coma.
No more paralysis.
Life and movement, life and movement. Oh, each one was as sweet as each other!
I need you to get out of the bed.
That was impossible. Or…was it? She remembered the fall of that building. No, not a fall—that woman with the long dark hair and the cold, dark eyes—what was her name? Susan, she'd said—had pushed her off the roof. Pushed her with the express purpose of killing her. Sara suspected the pain throughout every muscle and bone inside her was the result of the trauma of her body hitting the ground from that height.
Had she suffered internal injuries? Possible. One thing was certain: There was no part of her body in a cast. Her head ached dully and it felt too heavy for the rest of her body. With an electric thrill, she noticed hunger gnawing at her. Hunger! She was aware of her need for something to drink, too. Hunger and thirst—reminders that she was no longer in a coma, that she couldn't be sustained merely by an IV bottle any longer. The leaving, the breathing, the alive-and-well bunch needed a lot more than that. Amusingly, what she could have devoured right at that moment was an entire dish of lasagna, and for dessert, some blueberry pie!
Footsteps approached again. Was that her kind nurse, the woman who'd tended to her? Sara resumed her motionless position to the best of her ability and recollection.
And then she closed her eyes.
The steps belonged to a man. A heavy man, rather large. She could see him when she ventured to part her eyelids ever so slightly.
Nothing strange or out of the ordinary about him. White lab coat, so that had to mean he was either a doctor or a male nurse. He behaved like a medical professional, appearing to check her pulse and heartbeat. It sounded like he was checking the machines. Should she tell him the truth? Open her eyes, tell him the good news that she was no longer in Never-Never Land?
"Hmmm. Interesting," she heard him remark.
Again she peeked at him, refusing to reveal the truth about herself yet. He was an older gentleman, completely bald. She felt him patting her shoulder and chuckling. The strange thing was that it should have been a soothing gesture to her. But coming from him, it was nothing short of sinister.
Then he drew closer, whispering into her ear.
"My, my. You're a feisty little one, aren't you, Dr. Tancredi? A tough cookie, I'll give you that. You should've died in that fall, but you didn't. That's quite all right, sweetheart. If you live—and I think you just might—you'll make some very useful bait for us to catch our dear Mr. Scofield."
Behind the words was a smug chuckle. And extraordinary malice. Then the bald, mysterious man padded back out of the room. He had to have heard the wild surge in her heartbeat, with or without the stethoscope he'd used on her.
Opening her eyes again, Sara waited for some minutes to pass. It might as well have been an entire decade, for as anxious and frightened as she was. She kicked off the sheer blanket with some effort, moving despite the pain and weakness throughout her body. Her heart seemed to be keeping perfect rhythm with the clock now.
She had to find some clothes. All she wore was one of those flimsy hospital gowns. Oh, and shoes. She knew what she was about to do—escape from that place—was dangerous beyond words.
But to stay there would mean she would be trapped within the nightmare with absolutely no way out.
Note to Readers: Thanks for stopping by to read my story! I hope to update more in the next couple of weeks, since the real PB will be on hiatus & we'll miss the guys! - Cheers, Seabluemermaid