March 2000. I wake up from deep sleep, stricken with the feeling Im being watched. It starts as a tingling on my scalp, lightness at the tips of my fingers, a sensation that spreads to my knuckles, and I tense my fists. My arms and legs feel paralyzed, all the muscles tense and ready to leap out of the bed, but unable to do it. A shadow moves over the floorboards, probably just a tree branch blowing outside, but I gasp anyway, as a cold current caresses my face not exactly like air, a little heavier, like breath. Ever since someone sliced the screen from the window of my old apartment and tried to jump into my bedroom a roll of duct tape in one hand and a knife in the other I have been waking up in these panics. Im never sure whether to trust my instincts or close my eyes again and fight the urge to check the door locks.
My fiancé lies next to me, sleeping deep, his curls spiraling over his cheeks. I pull a piece of hair away from his mouth and draw a blanket around my shoulders before climbing out of the futon to check the kitchen. Its empty. The tiles are cold against my bare heels and toes, and the ticking of our old wind-up clock punctuates each step. I stand at the window for a minute, staring at the security lights of the church next door, waiting for someone to leap out of the bushes.
Thats when the chill creeps over my skin. The color blue rises into my consciousness, floating there, a balloon of color. The blue of cyanosis, my blue lips after a seizure. I twist the radiator dial and smell the old dust that flies off as it heats up.
Ashley is dead, I think.
And just like that, the air is light again. The room is warm, my fear is gone, and I realize I have been visited by a ghost. Ashley is dead. Why did he choose to tell me himself?