Murtha

Suddenly, something grasps my throat. I cannot breathe. I jolt upward thrashing and gasping for air. Then, my breath returns. Everything is normal.

It is mid-fall and the air is crisp. I sit in math class thinking about the night before. It must have been a dream because that’s always how the movies end. “Bethany?” Mrs. Williams says while tapping a pen on my desk. “Yes?” I answer. “This is the last time I’m going to remind you to pay attention in class. The next time it will be a detention,” she says sternly. She goes back to teaching and I go right back to daydreaming.

I jump as the bell rings signaling the end of the day. I throw my books in my bag and bolt to my bus. I quickly finish my homework with time to spare. Then the bus jerks to a stop and I drag my feet through my yard to my old victorian house. “Hey mom, I say, giving her a hug. “Hi Honey, how was school?” she asks. “Good,” I call down flatly as I run upstairs and survey my small room. Nothing unusual, I hope I am imagining what happened last night.

A few hours pass slowly and I have a late dinner with my mom. She divorced a few years back. I haven’t spoken to or about my dad since. My mom really hates talking about it.

It is late and we finally finished dinner, so I slowly trudge upstairs to get ready for bed. It is Friday and I can stay up, but I don’t particularly feel like it. I brush my teeth, pull down my covers, and hop into bed. My mom pops in and kisses me goodnight. “Do you feel OK?” she asked. “Yeah, I’m just tired,” I reply adding in a fake yawn. Hoping for some protection, I snuggled into my warm blankets. I lie there awake for many hours thinking. When I finally drift to sleep, I am awakened for a second time. This time it is in a different way though.

“Bethany!” said a deep, grumbling voice. “Bethany” it repeats. Then I hear a high pitched scream and nails scraping my wall. Sitting straight up in bed with the covers close to my chin, I franticly look around the room, and tense up. My pupils dilate to adjust to the dark room. “Who are you?” I quiver. I lick my lips, scrunch up my face, and wait. No reply.

The next day things are even stranger. My mom is acting weird and all of a sudden we have a dog. “A dog?” I question my mom. “Yes, sweetie, he showed up at the door this morning and seems to be a stray,” she said.

I shove a piece of toast with some butter on my plate. Then I watch TV for an hour or so, get dressed, and brush my teeth. Just to get away for a while I scramble outside, run down my backyard, and venture into the woods. There is a path but I never really follow it. The leaves

crunch under my feet with every step. The sky is blue with big, white, puffy clouds. The warmth of the sun hits my skin as I walk. Traveling farther into the woods, I look up, and notice the warm sun is fading quickly.

After a while of walking I decide to turn back. I have never been this far out before. The sky darkens again and raindrops start splattering the ground. I start running. The rain falls harder and my feet beet the ground faster. I start gasping for air, clutch my throat, and feel my body hit the ground. The clutch on my throat recedes. I’m now face to face with a headstone. Moss droops over the gray, dull, porous surface. I look around and realized I am in an open grave. The earth under me is damp and soft. The body is gone. The ancient headstone reads...

Murtha Garner

1716-1798

R.I.P.

Not sure what to think I get up and start sprinting, but I only get a few feet when my body is frozen. An invisible force is holding me in place. Straining my arms and legs I try to fight it without prevail. Letters scrawl out in front of me in scraggily writing.

“Long ago my body was taken from me.

I cannot rest peacefully until I get it back.

Beneath your room my corpse lies.

When you find it, bury it in the open grave.

But beware, if you break any part of my brittle bones,

I will never be able to go to eternal rest.

I fly forward; I’m free. Scared and panting, I realize this is reality not some stupid nightmare. My adrenalin kicks in and I dash home faster than ever. I grab the crowbar from my shed, slow my breath, and look around. My mom and the dog are nowhere in sight. I shuffle up to my room, squat down on my hands and knees, and fit the crowbar between a gap in the floor. I’m shaking uncontrollably, fumbling with the tool, and asking myself...”Should I do it?”