Fear

• Arav Ahuja, Grade 5
• Short Story
• 2014

The lake closed over his nose and mouth as Morden sucked in a lung-full of cold, black water. On his next breath, he opened his eyes and saw the red LCD shining: 12:02 AM. Again. Three nights in a row, same dream, same time. Sweat dripped from his hair and drenched his nightshirt. Morden stumbled to the bathroom, turning on all of the lights to shake off the aura of the dream that still clung to him.
Steam from the shower filled the bathroom and Morden breathed it in deeply. He could still smell the darkness of his dream. he dropped his head and closed his eyes. They snapped back open as a hissing vortex suddenly sucked all of the steam into the drain at his feet. In the same instant, a fish-dead hand slid across his shoulder. he screamed in horror and threw his body against the shower wall, turning the showerhead to the left. The water scalded his neck, shoulder and hand as he battled to stop the flow.
Adrenaline, pain and fear drove him stiffly from the shower. The room was bright. Normal. His body shook convulsively and he reached for a towel to warm himself. The towel brushed his badly burned shoulder and he hissed in pain. It sobered him and he headed to the kitchen where he kept the emergency burn salve.
In the kitchen, the salve was already laid out, with fresh gauze, waiting for him. Normal went away again. The old woman spoke warmly, “Here, let me get that for you. It was my fault – so sorry – but it IS awfully difficult to get your attention!” Morden was frozen in shock. The woman placed a cup in his hand. Here drink this. Coffee. You need it.” Morden sipped wordlessly, numb to the un-reality.
“I can’t stay long,” said the old woman. “Manifestation takes sooo much energy. Easier to show up in a little boy’s dream, but you kept drowning on me!” She let out a little chortle.
Shock and disbelief turned to annoyance and the very-real pain in his shoulder made him angry. “Well, you’ve got my attention now – what do you WANT?”
“It’s not what I want, but what you want, my dear.”
“I want you to go leave me alone.”
“That’s one option. You’ve been given a choice. You are due to die.” The old woman let it sink in. “I’m here to prove that we do go on, after we die.”
“That’s supposed to be reassuring?” The hair on Morden’s arms stood up.
“For many people it is. Your choice is this: tell people what you’ve experienced here tonight – give them hope, or die at 12:02 tomorrow.” As the last word left her lips, the woman started to fade.
“It’s up to you, dear. . .”
For the first time in days, Morden felt calm and kind of relaxed. He placed a terry-cloth robe gingerly on his freshly-bandaged shoulder, took a sip of hot flavorful coffee and dialed the phone.