Dead To Me

1

When the clock hits nine-thirty, I leave the dinner to boil and exit the kitchen. I am twenty-two years old, still sleeping in a room with Thomas the Tank Engine bedsheets and making plain pasta for dinner that I hope someone else will take off the stove for later.

In short, my life is miserable.

I pass dad on my way out of the house. He is asleep on the sofa in his stained tank top, watching the TV. It's a conspiracy theorist channel, all about aliens building the pyramids, and other things that my dad believes. I take a glance at the dishevelled man getting interviewed on the screen before stepping out into the street.

The world outside is cold- it always has been. This town is the worst place in the world, and yet I'm still here. I get this nagging feeling sometimes that wherever I go will be the worst place in the world, that I'll bring the curse with me, even somewhere that the rain doesn't hit. At least it is not cold inside of the Station Hotel, a place that I've recently made my living. My previous jobs since high school have all fallen through, due to my "instabilities."

However, the night shift at the hotel is an easy job for me. I sleep through the days, pack a few red bulls, and watch the monitors at night. The hallways of the Station Hotel are normally empty, long expanses of carpet and occasionally the janitor wandering around with keys in his hand.

This is the case tonight. I am at the monitor at midnight, and nothing at all has happened so far, not even a peep from any employees who may still be lurking.

Easy peasy, I think. I take another sip of my red bull, sitting back in my chair and watching the hallways. The monitor switches its main focus from room to room, so I see the corridors first.

I see an empty corridor, carpeted, with wooden doors on each side. Then, I see another three just like it. Then, the lobby, with the quiet receptionist on the desk. Then, the empty cafeteria. Then, I see the stairs, where the janitor is walking with his keys and a bored expression on his face. Then, I see another corridor. And then-

The screen lights up. At the top of the pop-up, it reads "Cellar", where the kitchen staff keep extra equipment, chairs and tables. However, instead of seeing any of this, I am faced with the bright white glare of a face- a face staring right past me, eyes wide and black.

Hanna.

My heart instantly drops, and I push my chair back, propelling to other side of the room. I do what Doctor Sanchez told me to do- rest my head in my hands, with my elbows on my knees, and breathe. Breathe in, then out. In, then out. In, then-

I look back up, my chest thudding. I am faced with a dark screen, the cellar dull and filled with nothing but tables and chairs. I stare at the screen again for a second, like she might appear again, but she doesn't.

I take a deep breath in, then out, before scooting my chair close to the table again. I push my notebook over the table and open it, recording today's appearance. My dark handwriting scribbles over the paper, shaky and haunted-looking. My handwriting has never been right in this notebook.

After all, I've kept this for ten years, ever since Hanna died. She's been dead for ten years, and this book has more than 2,300 entries- all of the times I have seen her.

Day 3624. 1 appearance. On: monitor in hotel cellar. Only face.

I stare at the book before blowing a breath out, heavily. Then, I stand up. My uniform jumpsuit sticks to my legs, damp with sweat. If this continues, I'm going to lose another job.

*******

When I reach the cellar, the door is unlocked. I try not to let this get to me. Maybe the janitor was as bored as he looked, and decided to go crazy and leave every door unlocked, because that's just so... fun and crazy, on a Friday night. I take a breath.

"Chill, Miles," I murmur, "remember what Doctor Sanchez said. It's not real, it's not real. It's not-"

And as I open the door, it's silent. The darkness around me is empty, a quiet hanging in the air like peace. I put a hand on my chest, the other clutching my torch. It's okay. And, feeling this wave of confidence, I lift the light to face the room.

"Miles!"

I scream. There she is, on the table, looking just like the last day I saw her.

Hanna is twelve. At least, she was. She is small, her dress dirty from the fall, her hair knotted with weeds that seem like they might be growing from her scalp, along with her hair. She looks like I've seen her for ten years- a horrible gaunt version of the girl she was, with this distant horror and accusation in her eyes.

She laughs, kicking her legs, "you scream like a girl!"

I reel backwards, facing my torch back down, and then up. And sure, she is still there, smiling at me, with a missing front tooth and what looks like a moth living just above her ear.

"Hanna!" I say, hoarsely, and then I blink once, and then twice. Both time, she still stays there.

"Are you okay?" She asks, tilting her head to the side. I shake my head, blinking rapidly.

"No!" I cry, almost to myself, "this is it, this is my psychotic breakdown! I always knew it would come, but it could never be far away enough..." I crouch on the ground, clasping my head in horror, "I don't know why it's happening to me, anyway! I didn't even go up that damn tree in the first place!"

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I look up. Hanna's eyes are wide and brown, and she looks completely confused.

"What do you mean?" She asks, fake-innocently. I glare at her, my blood hot in my veins. I'm having a breakdown in the basement, and I'm going to lose my job. It's been ten years since she died, and she's still ruining my life.

I stand up, holding my torch out like a weapon, swallowing. I think through my next words very carefully, before opening my mouth.

"Come to the woods," I say, "we're going to play a game."