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table. I got hold of
one and bit into it like a lion would rip the flesh of its prey. I
took a can of coke out the fridge, then hurried back to my
room.
    I closed the door, put the key in the
keyhole and turned it slowly. It clicked lightly, and I exhaled in
relief. Only then did I realize I had a visitor sitting on my
bed.
     

Chapter 8
     
    Entry #30
    August 15
     
    I seem to be an exception
to every rule. When there’s absolutely no way something unlucky or
weird is supposed to happen, it happens, and it happens to
me.
    I don’t care if I come
across Stan Crosby and his freak friends at lunchtime, but I can’t
put up with the fact that no one else can see the dead, except me.
They are here, right next to me. Next to you. I can point my finger
at him or her, but no one would believe me if I told them about my
taciturn visitors.
    Why can’t I be as normal
as everyone else?
    If only they could talk to
me. I may not feel lonely then. But they just look at me, watch me
in total silence.
     
     
    The odor of mold and decay filled my
nostrils. The sandwich stuck in my throat, and for a moment tears
blurred my vision from the lack of oxygen. The can of coke slipped
out of my fingers and rolled across the floor. Not that I was
thirsty anymore. Somehow I managed to swallow, the lump grinding
its way through my gullet.
    I exhaled loudly, then took a breath
of the stale air that turned my stomach. Wrapped in a dark mantle,
the visitor turned his face shrouded by a cowl to me.
    I hurried to unlock the door, but for
some reason, the key wouldn’t turn. Then it flared hot, singeing my
fingertips, and I let go of it yelping like a hurt dog.
    Even in the dark of the room I could
see the bluish streetlight turning gray.
    The Shadow.
    The figure got up from the bed,
tugging at the cowl with rigid fingers.
    I retreated into the farther corner of
the room, my back grazing the wall.
    I knew who it was. Greg.
    He had a noose around his neck, his
bruised fingers trying to remove it without success.
    The pungent stench intensified,
filling the air with a mixture of dampness, mildew, and rotten
leaves.
    When he opened his mouth, static noise
escaped his cracked lips, his words slicing through my brain. “Stop
the pain. He keeps strangling me.”
    Cold snaked its way down my spine as I
looked into his dead eyes. The static grew, his raspy breathing
fogging the air around him.
    “ Who does?” I asked,
freaked out.
    Greg came close to me, titling his
head. His hollow eyes scrutinized me as his fingers pried off the
noose that constricted his neck.
    Static filled my head again. “If I
tell you, he’s going to make me suffer more.” His rancid breath
caressed my cheek. I tried not to breathe as I knew I’d throw
up.
    “ It was you there in the
Swamps watching us from behind the underbrush,” I said. He nodded
and blinked once.
    “ You need my help, but how
can I help you?” I asked, hoping he would step away from
me.
    “ Find him. That is the
only way.” His rotten breath fanned my face, and I gagged, then
stepped through him, which felt like someone had drained a
bucketful of icy water down my body.
    “ Why is he doing this?” I
shivered as the warmth of the room wrapped me up.
    He kept silent, but I needed the
answers. After a few moments Greg exhaled with a shudder, then
repeated, “Find him. Stop my pain.”
    “ Where?” I asked. “Where
can I find him?”
    “ You know,” a distant echo
reached my ears as if from far away. I turned to where he’d stood,
and found him gone. Color faded in, the odor of rotten leaves
receding. My gag reflex subsided, leaving a dull ache and a
hollowness in the pit of my stomach.
    I was shivering all over, cold sweat
trickling down my temples.
    Greg left without giving me a proper
answer. I was too exhausted to wonder what he meant by his last
words.
    As my head hit the pillow, I sincerely
wished for tomorrow to never come. I closed my eyes, hoping to wake
up in a world where the dead would