Making Spirits Bright by H. P. Mallory

Author:H. P. Mallory [Mallory, H. P.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rain Press
Published: 2021-08-21T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

I’ve experienced prolonged moments of pain in my life. I broke my leg in high school, and I’ve had countless mishaps, which ended up with stitches. I’ve even had migraines that made me wish the end were near.

Nothing compared to the way I felt when I woke up. It wasn’t the light or the sound that nearly caused me to rip my hair out; it was simply existing. The knowledge that I was being controlled by someone else—and that my will was no longer my own gnawed at me.

I opened my eyes and wished I hadn’t. I was encased in darkness and the pressure behind my eyelids thrummed down my face and invaded the rest of my body.

I went to sit up and bashed my head on something. At the same time, I was overtaken by a sickening wave of nausea. I brought my hands up to touch whatever surrounded me. All I could feel was a soft fabric. Velvet maybe? My elbows brushed against it, making goosebumps rise on my skin as I perceived the cold material. It enveloped me, and I lay flat on my back, pointing my feet downwards.

It was then that I realized what I was encased in: a coffin.

The lid opened and I sat up. Now, I was back in the hotel room at the Place D’Armes. Less than five feet away from me was the veiled woman, a cigar illuminating the embroidery in the dark veil shielding her face. There was a stand with an attached microphone in front of her. I blinked to clear my vision, trying to understand where I was and how I got there. The woman looked over at me and released a cloud of smoke through her lips.

I noticed with irritation that I could not make out her features. They were always obscured by something—the cigar smoke, the veil…

When she opened her mouth, a loud wail issued forth. The sound careened through my head, banging inside my brain. I fought against the exhaustion that overtook my physical body and struggled to bring myself out of the vision.

I had to open my eyes.

For four whole seconds, I was forced to withstand the woman’s banshee cry, fearing my head would explode before I could leave the vision.

With a sharp, breathless gasp, I started searching the room—my room. My eyes caught the familiar headboard, and I lay back, my breath panting. Something swept across me, a gray veil of drowsiness. It drained my strength and left me so tired, I could barely breathe.

Then I saw the image of Lizzie, the doll. She began to push through the blackness. I could see her sitting on the couch in my living room and she smiled at me. I could hear her voice in my head, telling me everything would be okay.

Something scratched at the door, pounding on the frame, then came a dog bark.

Daschel.

I heard feet stamping and Maggie’s voice. “Do you think she’s awake?”

I blinked and found myself lying face down on my bed with my arms sprawled out, one hand hanging over the edge of the bed.

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