Talk To Me

Chapter two

Five years ago

Oliver stayed at his grandma's home since his winter vacation started. Nana's house was more like home than his father's residence. And James never protested much about Oliver's decision to settle at Mary's house anyway. The room looked gloomy, just a pale light peeked from the unsealed part of the window. The chambers held colossal sizes, accommodated with black furniture, a bed and nightstand on each side, a wardrobe, a desk, and a chair.

That deceitful night, Oliver slept in his bed. Soon he felt a chill and a familiar sense taking over his body. The feeling he described as a tickle in his belly. He immediately sat on his bed, looking around.

"Sleep, my boy. You're going to need a rest," Marry said, standing by Oliver's bed in her white nightgown.

"Nana," Oliver acknowledged, glancing at the digital clock on the nightstand. "It's the middle of the night." He rubbed his left eye while lifting his upper body to a seated position.

"I know, honey, sleep. I will wait until the morning," Mary said as Oliver turned on the night light.

Realization dawned on Oliver as he observed his grandmother, he blindly stared at her. She seemed silvery, her long hair twisted into a loose braid hanging on the right side of her body.

"No—Nana, no—," his voice crumbled. He placed his hands on his head, burying his long finger into his brown curls.

"Oh, honey. It's okay." She stroked Oliver's frizzy hair. But her grandson didn't feel her touch. She knew that, but tried to console him, anyway.

He rocked himself back and forth while still sitting on the bed. With each move, his old bed squeaked. Mary couldn't do anything for him, and for her, it felt heartbreaking to see how sad Oliver seemed.

He remained the most beloved, alive person to Mary. She knew her death would be devastating for him. She intended to watch her grandson while he slept. But Oliver's senses appeared stronger than Mary expected them to be.

"It's not too late," Oliver said, jumping off his bed and running towards the bedroom door.

"It is Oly," Mary declared. But he didn't hear her as he had already moved into the corridor. "Oly!"

Mary Smith had an enormous house, as she and her late husband John planned to have an extensive family. But Mary became a widow before she could have more children than her only daughter, Sophia. As her precious grandson rushed down a long corridor to reach her room, Mary followed him.

"I'm here Oly, it's too late." She appeared beside him as he ran through the passage, toward the main stairs.

"You—don't know—that," he said, panting.

Cold marble floors stung Oliver's bare feet, but he seemed determined to reach his target as fast as possible. His entire body shivered. He felt unsure if the reaction was because of the cold, fear, or his gift.

The old wooden stairs creaked every few steps as he passed the wall with family portraits. He needed to save his Nana and he didn't care about the icy floors or the lack of light in his path. As he reached the first floor, he soon turned to the right and ran further.

Oliver slammed the door open. They reached the wall, and the doorknob made a slight dent in the green surface of the wall. The door bounced back from the impact and made a small creaking sound as Oliver observed the room.

He rushed towards Mary's bed. She looked peaceful, lying under the red blanket, her head tilted to the right side. She seemed slightly paler than usual, but when Oliver touched her hand, it still felt warm to his touch. He started CPR and expected that would work.