Chapter 1
I sit up straight in bed.
There are hornets in my lungs. Every breath stings but I’m breathing.
Only…I’m dead. So how can I be breathing?
I reach for my face, for the space between my eyes. It’s slick with sweat but the skin isn’t broken like it should be, because I was stabbed there. Because I was killed. Because I’m dead.
There’s light streaming in through the windows and I’m dead.
Is the afterlife my studio apartment?
Is this hell?
“Archie!” I say, kicking off the covers. “Archimedes!”
I hear him grunting.
I roll off the mattress onto the floor, crawl toward his food bowl, the only thing that will get him to come to me—the promise of food.
He trots out of the closet, and I’m on him. He’s in my arms. He squawks, makes an ungodly sound. He tries to wriggle free, but I’ve got him. He’s how I know that I’m not in hell. Hell would be existing without him. I set him down. “I’m sorry.”
He scampers back to the closet.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. I yawn, get my legs under me and stand up. “You want a treat? You want…”
A sudden spell of dizziness dissolves the floor beneath me. I cling to the counter but it’s no use and I land hard on my ass.
An eruption inside my skull—this pressure unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. A splitting headache. Literally. I feel like my head is being split open.
It’s excruciating and then it’s gone.
My fingers trace my face, the bridge of my nose, my forehead, my eyes, cheeks, lips. Again. Again. Am I real? Is any of this real?
I scramble for my phone, which is plugged in next to my bed as always. My hands are trembling so badly. It’s 7:13 a.m. It’s morning. I blink. It’s morning. It’s the morning. I’m alive. Why don’t I feel any relief? Why do I not trust it?
Wait. It’s…it’s the morning.
It’s this morning. It’s…
It’s Friday. The twenty-fifth.
It’s the morning of the wedding.
It’s a day I’ve already lived.
I call Cassie.
It rings. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Willa,” she says. “Gimme a sec.”
I hear screaming in the background. Theo.
“Luke? Luke, the bottle. No, not that one…in the…yeah.” She sighs. “Sorry, Wills. What’s up? Luke! Yes…thank you. Jesus Christ. Sorry.”
“I’m, um…I’m kind of freaking out.”
She’s quiet.
“I…It was today, it was the wedding, and I was there, we were there, and it was the cabins and the reception hall and the ceremony and…and there was this figure, this man, and he…he killed me. He stabbed me in the head with a, um, a bowie knife. And I…I died.”
“Soooo…you had a nightmare? You’re telling me about a nightmare?” I can hear in her voice that her patience is threadbare.
A nightmare. A dream. Right. Obviously.
“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, I guess,” I say. “But it was so real, Cass. So vivid. And long. It was the whole day of the wedding. I got up, I did work, I drove, listened to my playlists. And you were there. And Evan. Steph. Wyatt. Luke. Jace…and, and Danny. Jace’s friend, Danny. I’ve never met him before. Have you?”
“No,” she says. “Luke! That one. No, not that one. That one. Sorry. Listen, Wills. It sounds like a stress dream. Which makes sense. Was Ravi in the dream?”
“Yeah, but…but it wasn’t really about him.” Only now I’m not certain. Was it? “We all got murdered by this giant mystery man in a mask covered in duct tape and zippers and eyeballs. He had a utility belt with all sorts of weapons and, like, tools. Hammers and—”
“I’m just going to stop you there and own up to the fact I might have been wrong to get you hooked on horror in your current vulnerable state. That’s on me. My bad.”
“The dream was so visceral, Cass. Every conversation. Every…every second of it. My senses. Touch, taste, sight, smell…It was…I watched Steph bleed out in front of me. Her eyes were gone.”
“Willa. Take a deep breath. First of all, do you think that the bride dying is your subconscious trying to work some shit out? Second, the eye thing, while also probably worth some subconscious examination, that’s definitely a kill from Farm Possession 3.
A lot of gouging in the third one. Some would say excessive. ”
“I haven’t even seen that one.” Or have I?
I don’t remember. I’ve been such a zombie lately, spent far too many hours with my brain off, mouth open, drooling in front of my laptop streaming movies to escape reality.
Maybe I did see it. Maybe I was half asleep watching, and it seeped into my subliminal mind.
“Then congratulations, you’re fucked-up all on your own.”
“I am, Cass. I’m fucked-up.” And I’m clammy and I’m nauseous and I’m exhausted, like I haven’t slept.
I use the wall to help me stand and then hobble toward the bathroom.
Flip on the light. Stare at myself in the mirror.
There are dark circles under my eyes but there’s no knife wound in my head. So, there’s that.
I open my mouth as if I’m screaming but don’t make a sound.
I scrunch my nose. Stick my tongue out. Raise an eyebrow.
I make crazy faces, just to prove to myself that I can, that I’m here and in control.
Just to make sure that I’m in sync with my reflection.
That I’m me. In this body. Behind these eyes. Alive.
“Willa Ann?”
“I’m here.”
“I’m sorry you had a bad dream. It’s your head exorcising its demons. Culling your fears ahead of the wedding.”
“How come we never talk about how our subconscious basically exists just to fuck with us?”
“Who is we? Everyone talks about it. Are you familiar with the concept of therapy? Go search dream dictionary on—”
“Oof. All right. Fair.”
“Dreams can be hard to shake, but try to just let it go, Wills. It’s going to be a fun weekend. Buck up, honey! If not for yourself, for Steph and Jace.”
“Yeah.” She wants me—needs me—to be fine, to get my shit together, because she doesn’t have the capacity to carry me through this. She has a million other things to deal with, and I feel selfish and stupid for wanting and needing more from her.
“I should go. I have to write a list for Luke’s mom for the weekend.
A whole baby Theo instruction manual. And then check to make sure that Luke has packed his suit like he’s promised me a thousand times he has but I’m willing to bet he has not.
” There’s a crash in the background. Theo’s crying again.
“Go, go, go,” I tell her. “I’ll see you soon. Love you.”
“Love you.” She hangs up.
I set my phone down next to the sink and lean closer to the mirror, my hips pressing against the vanity.
My eyes are glassy and scary bloodshot. I let them close.
I touch them behind the soft curtains of my lids, feel them shift around.
I press. Gently, at first. Then a little harder. A little harder.
A dream. It was just a dream.
The most insanely detailed, epically horrific stress-induced nightmare.
Only…I’ve never had a dream like that before. I had no idea it was even possible. The experience of it, of the dream, of what had to have been a dream because I’m here and awake and alive…It’s still with me. Still so real.
Try to just let it go.
I ball my hands into fists and pound my forehead.
“It wasn’t real,” I tell myself, my voice breaking. “Just a dream. Just a nightmare. Move on. Move on. Move on.”
Good morning to you, too, Evan replies to my “I love you” text.
Do you love me back?
So desperate, he says. Then, Yes.
He’s alive. I didn’t leave him for dead. Run away.
I take a cold shower. Make some coffee. Finish packing my suitcase.
It all feels so familiar. Yeah, it’s my morning routine.
And yeah, I have a packing list, and I’ve put excessive thought into what I will wear this weekend.
But still. Did I not just carefully fold these clothes into these packing cubes?
Did the zipper not get stuck in this exact place, requiring patience and elbow grease?
And did I not already answer these emails?
Did I not already finish this deck that’s due next week for a new client—an actor’s tequila brand, an obvious cash grab that doubles as a subtle indicator we’re living in a dystopia.
The rich slap their names on whatever to get richer, and the rest of us wonder if we can please have a sip, a taste of what it must be like to exist in luxury.
I am so. Fucking. Grumpy. Ugh!
The dream lingers, replaying in my head, curdling every positive thought, casting ugly shadows. I feel hungover even though I didn’t drink last night. I’m beyond tired even though I slept.
I close my laptop and stare at the wall for a good fifteen minutes before finding the motivation to get up.
I make sure Archimedes has enough food and water.
Scoop his litter. Leave him entirely too many treats.
I text my landlord to tell them that I’m going out of town for the weekend and will be back on Sunday, because what if I die like in my dream and no one knows I’m gone?
“Who would take care of you, little guy?” I ask Archimedes. He pushes the closet door open with his paw, just a crack, wondering what I’m going on about. “I’m looking after you. Give me some sugar.”
He declines.
He was never this way with Ravi. Ravi always got sugar.
Ravi didn’t die in my dream. Neither did Tanya. At least, I didn’t see them die. I wonder if that means something.
Wait.
Tanya doesn’t even exist. She was just part of the dream, a manifestation of my subconscious. Ravi wouldn’t bring a date to Steph and Jace’s wedding. That’s crazy behavior. That’s nightmare behavior.
It occurs to me now that Danny isn’t real, either. My version of him, anyway. A good-looking rich dude that I seemed to genuinely connect with who offered to whisk me off to Tokyo in our final moments. Of course, that’s fucking fiction.
It’s too early to leave, but I don’t want to just hang around here stewing in my gloomy mood. I want to get to the venue and see all the ways it’s different than it was in my dream. As the day plays out, I’ll feel better.
I check that I didn’t leave the faucets running, that the burners on the stove are off. I wheel my suitcase into the hall and take a video of me locking the door so later when I inevitably wonder if I locked the door, I’ll have hard evidence.
I struggle with my suitcase down the stairs, out to my car.
Struggle to lift it into the trunk. It’s embarrassing, this lack of upper-body strength.
My arms are noodles. I haven’t been to the gym in months, but my whole body is inexplicably sore, muscles tense, calves aching.
I must have been tossing and turning through the night or something.
I sink into the driver’s seat and take a minute to massage my neck.
My car sputters to a start, and I hold my breath until I’m able to successfully pull out onto the road.
It’s about a two-hour drive north up to the Hudson Valley, to the venue.
I put on my stupid pop playlist and sing along at the top of my lungs, until my voice goes hoarse, until I’m off the highway and my view out the windshield transforms, the landscape necessitating quiet.
It’s just so beautiful up here that it feels sacred. The sky is so blue, the river wide and shimmering under the sun. The mountains, the trees, the…the inescapable feeling that I’ve already been here.
I’m pretty sure.
Maybe?
I consider calling Cassie again, begging for her reassurance, because my own is proving inadequate. I’m reaching for something, anything solid I can brace myself against.
Didn’t I hit a squirrel, in the dream? Another gnarly contribution from my subconscious. This journey has been notably roadkill free. That could be something.
I think about what Ravi would say, if I told him about the dream.
Sometimes we’d exchange dreams over coffee.
He could always remember his, articulate them better.
Sometimes I’d notice his eyes glaze over when I was attempting to explain mine; he’d subtly check his phone, and I’d give up, tell him never mind and let him change the subject.
I guess it’s easy to forget when there’s no one sitting across the table, but sometimes being with someone feels the same as being alone.
“Shit.” I almost miss the turn. I make the right, tires screeching as I pull onto the dirt road.
“You have arrived at your destination,” the GPS says.
I know. I recognize it.