The farmhouse stood before me, silhouetted against the grey, overcast sky. It was a stark, imposing structure, now sealed off with yellow police tape, a grim symbol of the tragedy within. The air hung heavy with a palpable sense of loss, a weight I felt pressing down on my chest. I hadn't planned on coming here, not exactly. But the pull, the morbid curiosity, was irresistible. The dream, the vision in the cafeteria – it compelled me.
No cars were parked in the drive, no sign of activity, just the oppressive silence of the deserted property. I circled the perimeter, peering through the windows, searching for any clue, any sign of what had happened inside. The windows were dark, reflecting back only my own haunted face.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows of the porch. A woman, her face etched with grief, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. Maya's mother.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice thick with emotion.
My throat constricted. "I... I was a friend of Maya's," I stammered, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. I had to know more, but I didn't know how to tread lightly.
She looked at me, her gaze searching. "Oh," she said softly, her expression softening slightly. "Come in, dear. You look like you could use a cup of tea."
Inside, the house was filled with the faint scent of lavender and the heavy, stifling atmosphere of recent mourning. We sat at the kitchen table, the only sound the gentle ticking of a grandfather clock. Mrs. Harrison talked about Maya, her laughter, her kindness, her dreams. I listened, offering only sympathetic nods and murmurs of agreement, careful not to reveal the turmoil churning within me.
Finally, I couldn't contain the question any longer. It clawed its way out of me, driven by the need to understand, to connect the threads of my disturbing visions. "How… how did she die?"
Mrs. Harrison went rigid. Her eyes widened, a flicker of confusion passing across her face. "What… what do you mean?" she asked, her voice trembling.
Then, a strange intensity took hold of her, her gaze sharpening, piercing me with an almost unnerving force. "What was Maya's favorite color?" she demanded, her voice rising.
My mind scrambled. I'd never actually known Maya. I was grasping at straws. "Blue?" I offered, the first color that came to mind.
The effect was immediate and devastating. Mrs. Harrison's face contorted in a mask of fury. "Get out!" she shrieked, her voice cracking. "Get out of my house! You weren't her friend! You don't know anything about my daughter!"
I was stunned, paralyzed by her sudden outburst. She pointed towards the door, her finger shaking, her eyes burning with a mixture of grief and rage. The warmth of the tea, the pretense of comfort – all vanished in an instant, replaced by an unbearable tension.
I stumbled out of the house, my heart pounding, my mind reeling. The harsh words echoed in my ears, the look of loathing on Mrs. Harrison's face burned in my memory. I turned to flee, to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the house, the weight of the unspoken tragedy.
That's when I saw it.
Standing just inside the porch, a translucent figure, a faint echo of Maya, her expression haunted, her eyes reflecting a profound sadness. The air shimmered around her.
And then, the shadow.
The same black, amorphous mass that had appeared in my dreams, in the cafeteria, now surged forward, engulfing Maya's spectral form. The light seemed to twist and warp around it, the air crackling with an unseen energy. I watched in horror as Maya's ghost was consumed, swallowed whole by the shadow, her form dissolving into nothingness. I couldn't breathe, couldn't move. I turned and fled, terror a cold, hard knot in my stomach.