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Nightmare

|BLAKELY POV

I slammed my fist against the door. Once, twice—still no answer. The silence was maddening. This stupid door was the only thing between me and… something. Another room, maybe? Knowing this place, I wouldn’t be surprised. The door itself looked like someone’s drunk idea of “vintage.” Strange symbols, intricate carvings… more creepy than anything I’d call art. Like something straight out of a messed-up history lesson.

I didn’t care about the weird designs—I just needed to get out of here.

After what felt like hours of indecision, I raised my heel and slammed it against the door. The impact echoed back at me, like the door was mocking my effort. Irritated, I threw my shoe at it, hitting the wood again with my palm. Big mistake. Pain shot through my hand, and I pulled back instantly, a fresh sting in my skin. Blood dotted the door where my hand had been.

“Stupid shit,” I muttered, crouching to pick up my shoe and trying to ignore the throbbing in my palm.

Then I heard it—a tiny creak, almost too quiet to notice. Then another, louder this time. The door groaned, and before I could react, a cloud of dust hit me square in the face.

I blinked through the haze, coughing, eyes watering as I tried to make sense of what was in front of me. And then I saw it. The sight was so jarring I couldn’t stop the shriek that tore out of my throat.

What the hell was that?!

A statue—a freaking gargoyle, perched right there.

It clung to a tall, ornate column, with a curled tail wrapped around the pillar. Pointed ears, mouth twisted in a roar that showed off its sharp fangs, hunched like it was about to pounce. It looked more cat than monster, clawed hands gripping the column as if it might actually move.

Terrifying. But also, in some strange way, almost cute.

That was until its eyes rolled around and settled right on me.

I screamed, louder this time, panicked. Its eyes weren’t supposed to move. It was a damn statue!

---

I jolted awake, the sound of my own voice still echoing in my head. My heart was racing as I tried to catch my breath, body stiff from the sudden movement. My eyes darted around, half-expecting that freaky gargoyle to be sitting in my room, watching me.

But it was just my room. My regular, everyday room. The clock read 3 a.m., the little red numbers glowing in the dark. I sighed and flicked on my lamp, the soft light spilling across my bed.

What the hell was that dream? It had felt way too real. Like I was actually there. Every detail, every moment—it was almost like I’d lived it.

I muttered, “Blanche must be a witch or something. She does wants me dead.”

I lifted my hand, half-expecting to see some new cut or bruise. But all I saw was the same old scar, long and faded. I’d had it for ages. Weird coincidence, sure, but no way that dream actually meant anything. Right?

No big deal. Just my brain playing tricks on me.

I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and connected to the Wi-Fi. My fingers automatically swiped to the school cheer group chat—being head cheerleader meant I always kept an eye on things. For now, at least. Not that it’d matter if things kept going the way they were. A few of the girls were online, but I didn’t bother saying anything. What was the point? We’d all see each other in a few hours anyway.

I turned off my phone and pressed my palm to my forehead. If the rumors kept spreading, it was only a matter of time before I got asked to leave. Transferring right before graduation? That would be a nightmare. What the hell did I even do to deserve this?

I flopped back onto the bed with a heavy sigh, staring up at the ceiling. It’d probably take an hour or two to fall asleep again, but I had to at least try.

---

I watched the clock count down: 7:59:58… I hit the alarm button just before it struck eight.

Yeah, I hadn’t slept. One minute, I was stressing about school, and the next, I couldn’t stop thinking about that scar on my palm. I couldn’t even remember how I got it. That was what bothered me the most. How could I forget something like that?

The thought of it was almost scarier than the dream itself.

The smell of breakfast drifted into my room, and a few moments later, there was a knock at the door. I ran my fingers through my tangled hair, hoping to look halfway decent.

“Come in,” I called.

The door opened, and in walked one of Mrs. Wilkins’ relatives—a girl probably around my age, maybe a bit older. She carefully placed today’s outfit on the vanity and gave a small bow.

“Good morning, Miss Elizabeth—”

"Blakely," I corrected quickly.

She flushed and gave another bow. "Apologies. Good morning, Miss Blakely."

“Run my bath,” I said, barely glancing at her.

She nodded and disappeared into the bathroom. I could hear the water running as I stretched, glancing at the outfit she’d left. A red Stray Kids merch hoodie sat on top of the vanity, paired with a short black mini skirt. Perfect.

Once the bath was ready, I stepped into the bathroom, letting the warm water ease some of the tension from my muscles. I soaked for a while, trying to clear my head. The water was comforting, and for a few moments, I actually managed to forget about all the stress waiting for me.

After drying off, I stood in front of the mirror, a towel wrapped around me, staring at the scar on my palm again. The memory, or lack of it, nagged at me. But I shook it off, grabbing my clothes.

The red hoodie went on first, soft and oversized, followed by the mini skirt. I adjusted it until it fit just right, then slipped into my black heels, the extra height adding that little bit of confidence I needed.

A quick glance in the mirror, and I felt ready—at least on the outside. Inside, though? A complete mess.

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