Horror stories.

The backrooms.

Theatre critic. Every hour Dove spent studying, every time she opened a word document to write something that wasn’t school-related, every time their DnD squad would talk about dreams and aspirations, Dove would mention, she’ll be a theatre critic someday. Grace? Theatre critics are not graceful. Grace is surrounded by pastel colors and Dove was as rich in pigment as Indian ink.

Why didn’t the priest mention that instead? That her biggest passion was writing and that she had more drive than quicksilver in a sauna? Why didn’t anybody point out that only four of Dove’s seven cousins showed up? Why did Dove, of all people, have to die? Why was the world so unfair? Why was it raining?!

There were too many people crying just for show and Casey didn’t want to contribute to the masquerade. Either way, the tears wouldn’t come. Casey felt too uneasy to cry. There was something about the noise around him…

It wasn’t the sobbing, nor the priest straining his voice over the wrath of mother nature. Casey kept telling himself, that it was the hard raindrops against the lid of the coffin.

That had to have been it – that had to be what sounded like scratching.

* * * * * *

Scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch

Three weeks have passed since Dove’s funeral and the nightmares just got worse and worse. Casey still couldn’t see anything, but Dove’s voice reverberated within the confines of his mind, louder than it would have if she were right next to him.

“Hello?”

Dream-Casey was set on not responding this time around.

“Hello?! Is anybody there?”

Casey felt his temperature rise, but he managed to keep the dream version of himself quiet. He was not going to interact with his dead friend. Not tonight. Casey was sick and tired of feeling like he hadn’t slept in years. He was sick and tired of dreading nightfall, knowing full well that the torment will start anew once he lowered his head on the cool pillow.

“Can anybody hear me?! Please! Please, get me out of here!”

Scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch

“Case!”

Dove was crying.

“Casey, please… please talk to me! I’m so scared, Casey, I’m begging you… “

Something was tickling Casey at the temples. Sweat or tears, he couldn’t tell. That sensation should have been enough to wake anybody up, but, as always, Dove’s calling from the other realm, had no mercy.

“I need you, Casey! Please! Please get me out of here!”

He knew he shouldn’t give in to his mind playing tricks on him. The real Dove was six feet under, feeding maggots and fertilizing the soil around her. Even so, Casey’s will was hanging by a thread as fragile as spider webs.

“I thought you loved me…”

The thread broke.

“Don’t you love me, Casey?”

“Of course I do…”

“Then get me out of here. Say you’ll get me out of the Backrooms.”

Casey woke up drenched in sweat again. Not only that, but he was also crying and shaking from the top of his head to the tips of his fingers.

* * * * * *

The school cafeteria was pretty empty. Casey’s friends were all sitting at their usual spot alongside the elephant in the room, which was Dove’s unoccupied seat.