I gasp awake from my dream-filled sleep, shivering despite the heat of the summer night. I scramble to a sitting position, surveying the room around me.
It radiates a feeling of familiarity yet I cannot place where I am.
A lamp to the right of the bed I lay in glows a soft peach light, not quite illuminating the stark blackness of an open door to my left.
A rapid whispering emanates from beyond the doorway warning me to stay put, beckoning me to investigate.
It has the deep baritone of my father’s voice with a hint of hoarseness worthy of a black-cloaked ghoul. I strain to hear the exact words but meaningless muttering is all it seems to be.
My thoughts spin like a carousel in my petrified mind and I grip the edges of the bed in anticipation. Without another hesitation, I leap off the bed and pad to the doorway.
I peak my head into the darkness and tilt my head to hear the voice more clearly. Its pace is repetitive yet garbled like a warped record.
It definitely belongs to my father, exhilarating and terrifying me all at once. Tentatively, I call out to him.
Silence. The sudden change makes me frantic, desperate to hear that whispering again. I yell into the abyss, screaming out to him, begging him to say anything. But I am only met with silence.
I wake in my own bed, surrounded by the warmth of my heavy winter comforter and the piercing sound of my alarm. Rolling over, I catch a glimpse at the black outfit that awaits me.
I bury my face in my pillow in an attempt to hide the clothes I’m wearing to my father’s funeral.