Chapter Thirty One

Speed Dating? I'm Dead, What's The Rush?

(Harlow)

"You'll be home for dinner?"

Ryan grinned, shrugged a thin shoulder. "Depends what you're making!"

I rolled my eyes, unable to fight the smile that spread over my face. "You're lucky I cook at all, you little Monster."

He placed a hand over his chest in mock horror. "You'd never ... How could you even consider leaving me to fend for myself?!"

"If you can catch a dead person's voice on a tape recorder, you can most definitely boil some spaghetti."

"Take it we're having spaghetti," he said brightly, crossing the kitchen floor quickly. "Fantastic."

"Suppose you'll make it for supper, then?" I asked, wrapping an arm around the small of his back.

"Unless I find another woman to love me so tender and cook me gourmet meals," he said, with a light peck on my cheek. "Then I belieeeeeve I'll make it home."

"You're quite the lucky bastard," I grinned, returning the smooch.

"Like I need reminding," he said, and with a quick bum pinch and another quick kiss, he was out the door.

"Men," I muttered, unable to tear the sloppy grin off my face.

"Ahh, who needs 'em."

"They don't have speed dating in your realm?"

"Nothing in my realm is done with speed," Chick muttered, sliding soundlessly up onto the counter. "We've got an eternity - what's the rush?"

I laughed and threw a dish towel at her - it fell through her chest noiselessly, landing on the pale granite behind her. "Decade dating?"

"Much more my style," she said blandly.

I moved to grab the kettle from the countertop, trying to hide the sad wince as Chick flew off the counter next to me. It'd been months, and she still seemed unable to come close to me ... I wasn't worried about me having BO anymore. Something else was up, but neither one of us had mentioned it in almost a month. We went about our days in silence, always 10 feet apart, always awkwardly aware of the wide berth between us.

"Any big plans for the day, Chicky?" I asked casually, stepping away from her as fast as I could.

"Deadliest Catch marathon," she replied in equal nonchalance.

"I'll pop the corn," I mumbled.

"You know just how to treat a lady," she snorted.

I grinned, popping the kettle on the oven and moving slightly towards the pantry. "Dead ladies are more my specialty. Surrounded by you gals all day, I've picked up a thing or two these last twenty odd years."

"Impressive as that is, I don't know if I'd include that on your next resume."

I smirked to myself, sliding the pantry door open and flicking on the switch. "Don't see why not, I mean, it'd be a unique little attribute, don't you think? How many employers can honestly ... honestly say that ... "

The words disappeared somewhere between my brain and my mouth, gone forever, as I peered into the empty room opposite.

Everything, as always, was in it's place. Cereal on the top shelf, boxes of cake mix and macaroni on the left of it. My soups and other canned goods in the middle. Cleaners, sponges and detergents on the bottom row. The tiles were clean, the light was dim but alive. Walls were dark blue, cabinets were white. But there was something different. Nothing the human eye could've noticed. Something only my eyes seemed capable of taking in.

"Chick," I whispered, looking nervously over my shoulder.

Her eyes moved past mine into the tiny room, but were big and round as saucers. They searched each corner, each shelf, and trailed back onto mine.

"We've had a visitor," she said softly.

I looked back into the pantry - from any perspective, mine, hers or anyone - and there was no one there. Just cans of Chunky stew and boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. But there was smoke. No, not smoke ... a pale, nearly invisible vapor. Clear as water, rippled like the sea, just a slight imbalance in the air around it.

Somebody had been here.

Not me. Not Ryan. Not even Chick.

A stranger. A stranger from another world.

(Sophie)

"I'm telling you, she's not even going to answer the door. It's a waste of time."

Em and Jenn exchanged identical looks of exasperation, and glared back at me over the oak table.

"Come on," whispered Emma, leaning forward and giving me the most menacing look she could muster. "She's been weird lately ... we're just going to bring her a coffee and some cupcakes, try and cheer her up."

"If she wants nothing of it, we'll leave," Jenn said assuredly, leaning back in the cushy armchair. "Scout's Honor."

I shook my head. "Not today. I've got too much to do, too much on my plate already. The last thing I feel like doing is annoying Linds."

Jen frowned. "It's not annoying her. We're just checking up on her. She's been a mess since .. y'know."

"We're not trying to make her come out and pole dance," Em reasoned. "We're just gonna go and check in ... see if she wants coffee."

"Or cupcakes."

"Or a hug."

"Or Triple Sec."

"She doesn't want Triple Sec, Jenn."

"How do you know that?"

"I just know."

"You're not Harlow."

Emma rolled her eyes, but turned back to me, a pleading edge in her voice. "Pleasepleaseplease? She'll open the door for you before she opens it for anyone else."

"So not true," I sighed. "I'm sorry. Not today."

Emma let out a long sigh, but nodded. "Fine. But you're not getting out of it next time we ask."

"That's a promise," Jenn said fiercely.

"I'll never try and get out of it again," I said earnestly. "Scout's Honor."

Thank Christ for Scout's Honor, it appeases even the most irritating of people. With another forlorn gaze, the two of them stalked out of the library, and I was left in peace at my little corner table.

Although peace had eluded me these last few hours ...

I'd had another dream. Same little girl, same beautiful face, same withered look. Same tanned flesh, falling off in the same giant chunks. Same bones, white as the snow, shining under the starry jet black sky. Same bone-shattering scream. Same terror. Same desperation, same decay.

Different warning.

Last time, it was coming. I had to warn her, because it was coming. Never a who, never a what. Just a "Warn her - it's coming, please please tell her!" But never anything more specific. But last night ...

"Harlow. It's coming for her, please - please tell Harlow, save Harlow!"

Harlow's name.

Even half asleep, groggy and mind numbed from the three Valium it took to knock me out - I remembered the name. I heard it. The last word out of the young girl's mouth before it rose, fell, and slid off in blood smeared chunks in front of her shredded, bruised and mutilated feet. I woke up and could still see the green of her eyes. The terror in them, the shine and sheen of desperation.

I shuddered, looking glaringly over the rest of the library - nobody'd noticed.

I cleared my throat, looked back down at the 50 pound textbook in front of me. I could see the words. I knew what they were about. I knew I'd read them at least twenty times before. But my eyes refused to look. They refused to see.

All they saw was green.

I put my face in my hands, burrowing my tired eyes into my knuckles. Willing them to open, willing them to see but not to. I felt like I was the one whose skin had fallen off.

"Long night?"

My head shot up out of my hands, aimed to focus solely on the person seated in front of me - and for the first time in nearly 8 hours, I saw something other than panic-stricken green.

I saw Ryan.

(Chick)

"But ... But I didn't even feel it."

Harlow sat flopped against the sofa, head smushed back into the cushions. Her eyes were trained on the ceiling, barely blinking, unseeing.

"I didn't either," I said, slightly defensive. "I know you're the psychic and all, but spirits generally sense other spirits. 'specially when they're on your turf."

She shook her head but said nothing, still looking blankly at the ceiling.

I sighed, willing myself to move closer on the couch towards her, but finding the same bizarre force gluing me to my spot.

"Look, Harlow," I said simply. "It's probably nothing. Neither of us noticed. Might have just been something checking in, nothing residual."

Her gaze remained unmoved, she said nothing.

I looked back into the kitchen, where the pantry door still hung open. The air was more balanced now, more similar to the atmosphere around it. But there was still the slight tinge, the odd translucent shimmer in the air.

"It was nothing bad, I really don't think it was anything bad," I assured her, looking back towards her motionless body draped over the couch. "We'd have sensed it if it was bad. The air wouldn't look like that if it was bad. Just a quick visit, that was probably it."

"That's not the point, Chick," she said softly. "I didn't see it. I didn't feel it."

"Well in your defense," I said, slightly irritably. "You were a little busy last night .. you know, with Ryan. Little busy. Little ... y'know."

She blinked, but didn't look at me. "First of all, stop listening to us having sex."

"I swear to you, I wish I didn't have to."

"Second - I always hear it."

"Of course you do, you're right under him - "

"No, Chick," she said, rolling her head into my general direction - her eyes met mine, and they were hard, angry. "Spirits. I always hear them. Always. I can sit here studying with my iPod in at full blast, and I still hear them. Sense them. It's not about seeing - it's about feeling. I always feel when they're near. Or here. Or there. Or wherever. But ... this time, I didn't. Didn't feel a thing."

"Glitch in your system, maybe?"

She shook her head. "No glitch. Ghost Walkie on full blast."

"Maybe it's a gas leak?"

"It's not a gas leak."

"Hey, I'm not worried - the Hell is a gas leak going to do to me."

"It's not a gas leak, it's not a glitch in my system, I didn't just 'miss' it."

"I have no other explanation, then."

Harlow's mouth formed into a tight line, and she scooted up further onto the couch, swinging her legs towards me.

"Something was in there, Chick," she said quietly. "Some spirit, some thing. It was in there. I didn't sense it. You didn't sense it. Neither one of us knew it was there, but it was."

I said nothing, but tried to return her gaze as fiercely as she set it on me.

"Something's going on," she whispered. "Something I can't explain."

"It was one time, Lo," I said easily. "Just one missed spirit. I'm sure it's not the end of the world."

She shook her head fervently, leaning forward onto her knees. "Ryan's had these weird dreams about me. He said Chip and Michelle and Kat have, too. You keep telling me something weird is going on, you can't even come near me. And today, for the first time in twenty years, I missed sensing an entity. I've never missed it. Never this close to home."

I couldn't dispute it - she was absolutely right.

"What is it, then?" I asked quietly.

She held my gaze for what felt like an eternity. Her green eyes, usually so genial and calm, were hard and alight with burn. I blinked, trying to ease their glare, but they sucked me in. I felt my chest catch slightly - quicker than any normal person could register, I'd caught a quick flash of black cross over her pupils. Nothing extreme, no bright burn of black - just a swish of it, a hot heat of charcoal -

and it was gone.

"Harlow .. " I started quietly, searching back in the wild grass green for the swipe of ash.

But she shook her head, flopping back onto the arm of the couch.

"I don't know what it is," she said softly. "I can't figure it out. People keep having nightmares about me as a kid. You can't come close to me. Things are coming in and out of my apartment, and I can't feel it when they do. I feel ... blind."

She shook her head, peered at me from around her knees. Her eyes were calmer now, less stricken with edge, but still burning with something I couldn't quite place.

"Blind," she repeated. "Does that make sense?"

"In a fucked up kind of way," I said quietly, meeting her gaze. "Yeah. It kinda does."

She shook her head, looking down at the plush beige carpet below. She raked her hands back and forth through it, staring blankly down at her own fingers. "I just ... I just don't feel like myself."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

She shook her head again, shrugging her thin shoulders. "I don't know, Chicky. Usually I feel okay. I feel fine. But sometimes .. I don't know."

She peered up at me again, and the calm was gone - the green had all but disappeared, slight specks left in her overbright pupils. The harlequin globes had shattered - they'd been replaced with a burning onyx I didn't recognize. Black as the night, cold as ice. Piercing as a knife. They stared at me - through me - dark as death.

"Sometimes," she said quietly, in a voice too calm to be her own - a voice at least an octave or two lower than her own. "I feel like I don't even know who I am."

"You're Harlow," I said softly, trying but failing to tear my eyes away from the black. "You're Harlow. Harlow Vincent."

Harlow - I swear, it had to be her - stared at me from behind her knees, the black fading, becoming greener and brighter with each passing second. But still, that pitch black stripe remained. Unblinking, unsmiling, unusual, she cocked her head slightly to the right.

"Are you sure?"

(Ryan)

"I swear, I felt like I was going crazy .. "

I shook my head, warmed my hands around my cup of coffee. "If you're going crazy ... Everyone else is, too."

She nodded, took her own mug and pressed it deftly to her lips. Her eyes peered over the rim, gaze fixed on the table in front of us.

I'd taken a big gamble, one I wasn't sure I was proud of, but one I was positive I needed to take. Sophie, the missing link. If I'd been having these dreams, these visions - there had to be other people. And I'm not talking about Chip, or Kat, or Michelle. I'm talking about people just as close to Harlow as any of us were - I went right to the source. The confidant. The BFF. The unceasingly loyal but equally concerned friend.

Sophie.

Frankly, I wasn't even sure she'd agree to talk to me. Our report hadn't exactly been a smooth one. I think it closely resembled the whole "New Guy Steals Your Girl" situation, and from what I'd seen on sitcoms, those things didn't exactly resolve very well. But I'd been shocked - but equally relieved - that she'd opened up immediately.

As I had thought, I wasn't the only one who had been having these dreams about Harlow. Sophie'd had two of them as well, and the one she'd had last night - the one that had given her black bags beneath her sharp, ice cold eyes - had been even more cryptic than mine.

She'd heard Harlow's name.

"So, what's she said to you about it?" Soph asked casually, clutching her coffee tightly to her chest.

I sighed. "To forget it. Stop worrying. That I was just having a bad dream. All of this between long-answer like responses on a Psychology exam ... "

Sophie smiled, a gesture that softened her face astoundingly. "Sounds like Harlow. Has she used the retrospective neural theory on you, yet?"

"Ah, haven't been that lucky, I guess."

"Luck's definitely the word, I've gotten that one at least five times."

"You've told her about your dreams, too?" I asked.

She snorted, shaking her head. "First dream I had, we weren't exactly talking .. second one happened about nine, ten hours ago - so I haven't had a chance. Don't think I'll mention it, either."

"No?"

"No. I've been her best friend for four years, Ryan. I love her like a sister. I trust her more than I trust anyone in the world. But trusting her, loving her, and knowing her that long has given me great perspective into what her response is going to be ... "

"Something about Freudian psychoanalytical dream sequences, no doubt."

"Bingo," she said, with a sad grin. "Maybe you know her as well as I do."

"Doubt it," I said glumly. "That just popped into my head first because that's the last thing she psychologically bitchslapped me with."

She grinned, which was accompanied with a high and easy laugh, again changing her face's cold edge into an alarmingly beautiful, easily magnificent glow. It was amazing how just a shred of joy, a stripe of ease, could erase the cold lines of anger that had settled in from years of angst. Is this Sophie, the one with the small grin, the Sophie that Harlow knew? The world saw her at war with contentment - but maybe it was this Sophie that Harlow had clung onto.

"Then what do we do, Ghost Boy?" she said, hanging a thin arm off the edge of the table. "You've told her all about these .. dream, things. She's blown you off every time. We're all 'seeing' these bizarre predictions about her needing to be warned and saved, yet none of us know what it's about. You guys saw her dead sister's ghost in the family home, and still - no concern."

"I feel like we're at a bit of a dead end," I said softly. "No pun intended."

"Ghost and Undead joke, I dig it," she said, cocking her head tiredly to the side. "But all the punniest jokes in the world aren't going to figure this shitshow out."

"So what do we do?" I asked, trying to hide the clear note of desperation in my voice.

She shook her head, looking in exhaustion out the large bay window. "What can we do?"

I sighed. "Nothing, I guess."

She frowned, raking a hand through her hair. "But we're in agreement - this whole storm of dreamy mindfuck is definitely weird, right?"

"Intensely."

"Good," she said, closing her eyes. "S'long as it's not just me."

"But these warnings .. " I said slowly, not really knowing where I was going with it.

"Creep-tastic," Sophie agreed, winding a piece of thick cornhusk colored hair around her finger. "Definitely alarming. From your paranormal perspective, and from my normal perspective."

I couldn't help a small smile. "We can agree on that much at least."

She nodded, leaning back in her chair. "So, if we can't do anything, even though this is all a bit freaky, but we're still getting these dreams and weird ... I don't know, premonitions about her ... Where do we go from here?"

I frowned, leaning on the table. "I don't know. I mean, I feel slightly better, knowing it's not just me seeing this weird, melting kid every time I close my eyes. But at the same time, I feel worse, because now other people are seeing it, too."

Sophie nodded, rubbing her temple with a long finger. "Something's up. Something's weird. But ... I don't know what it is."

"Me neither."

"Is there anyway we can find out?"

"I don't see how."

"What about your psychic friend? The coffee guy?"

"Chip, but what could he do?"

Soph sighed, shaking her head. "I don't know. If this all has to do with weird paranormal stuff, wouldn't he be the one to ask? I mean, right after you, of course. No offense."

"It's a solid lead," I agreed. "I mean, I know enough about premonitions, but I don't know everything about them. Chip would be a great starting point."

Sophie nodded. "Ask him what he thinks this is all about. I mean, we've got no other options at this point. If Lo is biting anyone's head off anytime they mention a bad dream, I feel like our best bet is not continuously harassing her about it. But if a multitude of people are seeing essentially the same thing every time they try and go to sleep, and we can really point the meaning of it to Harlow ... Well, that can't be normal. This can't be a good thing. Something must be happening."

I ran a hand over my face, but realized the bleakness I'd been feeling since this whole dream mess started had faltered. I don't know why I hadn't thought of it myself ... How many experts in the Paranormal did I actually know? Dozens, that's for sure, all of whom had dedicated their lives to studying, understanding and defining the paranormal. I knew a decent amount, that's for sure - but compared to people like Chip Coffey, Michelle Belanger, people who'd spent decades researching the unresearchable? I was just a newbie. They'd have insight in this that far surpassed any of my own theories.

"You're right, you know," I said, peering up at that cold profile across the table.

She gave a subtle smirk, shrugged her thin shoulder. "I generally am."

"I'll go try and contact them now," I said, grabbing my bag and flinging it over my shoulder.

I moved to turn and walk away, but I felt a cold, albeit slightly comforting hand grasp my forearm. I glanced over, and saw Sophie holding my gaze intensely with her brilliantly blue pupils.

"Keep me updated, alright?" she said quietly.

She looked stricken, sort of like a sad little child. I'd never really noticed how similar she looked to Harlow. I'd seen subtle differences and similarities in their features, but never a lot more past that. But I saw things, things that were lined in her face, set deep in her eyes, that sparked the same twinge in my heart that Harlow did. Sadness, exhaustion and age hollowed out her eyes. Her skin was pale, smooth as a pearl, but pinched from years of seclusion. She was beautiful, but that beauty had come with a price - the hard contours and lines in her face could tell you that much.

She grasped my arm a little harder, cold and slightly broken eyes narrowing.

I nodded, resting my own hand on hers. "Of course I will, Sophie."

She let me keep my hand there for a few seconds, before shaking off mine and her own. Her face set back to the hard edge, the indifferent sheen hazing over once more.

"Appreciate it, Ghost Boy."

(Harlow)

"You know I hate it when you fly."

He grinned from the doorway. "Flying is a million times safer than driving is. It'll take two hours to get there - would've taken me two days just to drive."

I sighed, rubbing the lotion evenly into my cheeks. "I know. And I know you'll be fine. I just worry, that's all."

He nodded, taking four small strides across the tiled floor and meeting me at the sink. He curled an arm around my waist, nuzzled his nose into my hair.

"Quit your worrying, woman," he murmured, hand snaking further around my waist, down to my stomach. "And quit your moisturizin'. Bed!"

I giggled, giving him a light slap on the hand. "I'm a hag if I don't moisturize. Go to bed, I'll be there in a minute."

He sighed, quite dramatically, may I add, before turning on his heel and making his way back to the bedroom.

"You have two minutes, or I'm coming to bring you to bed by force."

"Is that a threat?"

"Promise."

I smiled. What a loon. I peered over my shoulder, watching his tall shadow disappear into the adjacent doorway. I heard the creak of the mattress, the ruffle of the sheets, and the low hum of the television turning on. Great - I'd never get any if he started watching 'My Strange Addiction' again ...

Slightly amused, I turned back to finish the fixin' of my face in the mirror - and felt a small gasp explode through my throat. I blinked, once, twice, looked back over my shoulder, and looked back at the mirror - I swear, I'd just seen a flash of black.

I rubbed my eyes - was it a piece of mascara? An eyelash? Must have been. I looked back around the bathroom, noticed no bizarre specks of black or fuzziness in the air. God. I was going insane.

"Hurryyyy, Harlow!"

I rolled my eyes. "Beautifying, cannot be bothered please and thanks."

"Can't beautify perfection, Lo. Come on."

Another flash.

"I'll .. I'll be right there, gotta tinkle," I mumbled, slamming the bathroom door.

"Oh honestly," I heard him mumble through the door.

I whipped back around, taking in every corner, every cabinet and every space in the room around me. Nothing was out of place. Nothing out of the ordinary. But I was positive this time - I'd seen a flash of black.

I moved slowly towards the toilet, careful not to blink, careful to make a note of everything in it's place. I pulled the cover down slowly, sat down on the top even more slowly - crossed my legs ..

And waited.

The few times I'd met with Chip the last couple of months, he'd spent time training me on how to hone in on certain senses. I still hadn't been able to completely close off the Inbetween, but I'd learned to distribute the energy and spirits more evenly throughout my brain. Their constant chatter and screams and yells and whispers had lessened dramatically - nowhere close to gone, but I was able to bring them down a level.

But now, I wanted to do the opposite. I didn't want to ignore, not right now. I needed to hone in. I needed to open my mind, let go of my control. I needed to see.

Rooms always got a little fuzzy whenever I tried to see a spirit - like bad picture quality on a television, everything waved, everything slightly distorted. Not to the point where I couldn't see, but to the point where everything was more blurry than clear. Like taking your glasses off. The room, my surroundings, were evident. The exact detailing and specific objects though - blurred.

I relaxed my fingers, my hands, let my legs flop loosely in front of me. I closed my eyes, pictured the bathroom just as I had always known it. Sink to my right, bathtub in the front, right corner. Towel rack to my left. White tiles. Robin's egg blue paint. White ceiling. Dark blue towels. Strawberry Kiwi hand-soap. Three drawers on each side of the vanity. Drawer number two on the right side's handle was slightly broken, clanged every time I shut another drawer. Left faucet on the tub minorly squeaky. Tap unceasingly drippy.

I opened my eyes.

Girl on the edge of the tub.

This was new.

But ... she wasn't.

"Brody," I whispered.

She said nothing, but stared back at me, a mirror image of myself.

Lungs no longer working, stomach tied in one giant knot, I slid slowly onto the porcelain tiles, a mere 10 feet away from my long deceased big sister. But she was the same - the exact same as I remembered her. Every hair in the same place, long eyelashes fanned above her brilliant eyes. Pale, heart shaped face, crescent shaped scar along the left of her hairline. Thin, too thin, always too thin. Hands, longer than they should've been for a ten year old. It was her.

"Brody," I said again, trying to find the right pitch of my voice but failing.

She blinked, but again, said nothing. Her eyes, the same green as mine, were wet with tears, wide with terror. Her skin was pale as the moon, hair waved down her back, the brown of it much lighter than my own. She made no move to come closer - she just sat rigidly and firmly on the edge of the tub.

My heart was beating a mile a minute, I swear if it ripped through my chest I wouldn't have been surprised - but I was frozen where I was, just a few steps away from the ten year old entity of Bee, my big sister, my one love, my confidante ...

I reached a hand out, willing her to grab it. Hoping. Begging, to feel her skin, just one last time ...

"Brody," I whispered, my voice strained. "Bee ... Are you okay?"

She stared at me, those eyes as big as globes, and slowly - with barely any movement - began to shake her head. My heart ceased it's beating, came to a full stop.

"Brody," I said again. "Do you need help?"

She continued to shake her head, eyes unmoving and unblinking from my own.

"Why are you here?" I whispered, so quietly, I swear it made no sound.

"Warning," she said, in a voice equally quiet, equally hoarse - but equally recognizable.

A hard pain split through my chest, like a dull blade being slashed through skin. That voice - her voice. I hadn't heard it in nearly twenty years - was positive I'd never hear it again. But here it was - light as air, sweet as syrup, high as the tinkling of a bell.

And dead ... dead as dirt.

"Warning," I repeated, but the word meant nothing to me - I couldn't look away - what if she disappeared?

"Danger," she said softly, eyes widening. "You're in danger."

"From who?" I asked, noticing with terror that her body was beginning to fade.

"I can't," she said, her voice squeaky, hands now gripping the edge of the tub as firmly as would allow. "Can't say. Save yourself. Save him."

"Save who?" I managed to mouth, my arms prickling as the air around dropped to a staggering chill.

"Kingston," she said.

"Kingston?"

"He's next."

"Next?"

"Save him, Harlow!"

And with an ear-splitting, gut-wrenching howl, the floor opened up beneath her - black as oil, pyres of inky flames bursting through the abyss. The porcelain tiles cracked and shattered, the chill in the air turning to frigid rushes of ice. Brody opened her mouth, wider and wider in a soundless shriek. It fell open, more and more, looser and looser, until the skin at the corner of her lips began to tear, to split. Blood, red as the freshest rose, poured down her cheeks, down her white shirt, pooled in the deep wells of her neck. The split continued, jagged down her face, her neck, onto her chest and down her stomach - ripping and tearing, chunks of flesh rolling off of her like dead petals.

The black abyss opened wider, dark as death and even darker against the peeping white of her ragged bones, now evident beneath the rotted strips of muscle beneath. She dropped to her knees, or whatever was left of them, and keeled over, down deep into the horrific hole of jet black murk.

All I saw was a glint of green -

And she was gone once more, as suddenly as she'd come.

Author's Note:

My beautiful, beautiful readers! Happy Friday!

Imagine my surprise when I post an author's note, recheck my emails twenty minutes later, and already have three new reviews! My heart was aflutter the second I saw these glorious pen names, ones I remember so well! Surri, Ferret, Alexis! Marina, Haha and Mama! (L) Your patience and your loyalty made me melt into a piddly puddle of love, and I cannot possibly thank you enough :)

Welcome back to the world of Harlow - so glad you could make it! There are (approximately) 19 chapters left, and while I'm older than I was when this first started (the dreaded 24, shudder), I plan to place my University career on the back burner for a handful more weeks, just so I can get a solid couple of chapters and concrete plot in check. This time around, you have my word that I won't up and disappear for another two years - I'm determined as I am full of love and affection. The next chapter, if all goes well, should go up in the next couple of days, and they should be followed steadily by the remaining. I wish I could leave a more significant note, but this time around I've got a grown up job that unfortunately does not lend a tremendous amount of time for gleeful squealing and air hugs ...

But you're all my one true loves, and I'll return! Shortly this time, I promise!

Forever yours, even through the 730 days I remained absent .. xo

love; ellah!