H A U N T E D

t w e n t y - f o u r

t w e n t y - f o u r

It is like film moved in front of my vision, because the world now looks mystical and warped. I feel my mind disconnect from my ability to think, and it's like I'm taking the back seat in my own head. My movements seem automatic, and the slow beat of my heart sings a harmony with steady breaths.

I sweep the soft blanket off of my legs, and turn to let my feet touch the cold hardwood floor. Usually, I'd hiss at the sudden drop in temperature, but no noise escapes my lips. I stand up, stretching my limbs and feeling my muscles twist and turn from the inactive few hours that's passed. On the nightstand, a digital clock shows its only 04:34 AM. The sun won't come up for a few hours, at least. The Alaskan cold won't allow it.

I press my forehead against the hard wood of the room's door, listening for any sounds in the house that might travel up, but the house is silent and there's not a single that noise that lets me know anyone is up. I pull the door open, letting it swing into the room. I step out of the room, letting my head turn to search for any signs that anyone might catch me, but I am in the all-clear.

Within me, something travels through my skin and presses against my bones. My movements are automatic and familiar, almost as if I know where I'm going. I glide along the hallway, to the end, where a large floor-to-ceiling window lets the moon glare in. The bright light makes me hiss quietly, but I walk to the window, staring up at the moon.

The feeling within me is almost ancient, as if I've walked the earth before. And it is angry, it is vengeful. It seeks to spill out secrets, that will lead to my death.

But I have no control over it.

I turn to my left, where an enormous oak door stands bearing over me. I know that no one is behind it, it is almost instinctive and like a gut-feeling that lures me into the room. I place my hand over the doorknob, slowly turning it. A 'click' sound follows, and the door jumps open. I enter the door, and inhale the scent of wood and books, mixed with something that I can't place my finger on. Ginger?

'Forward.'

It is a whisper that comes from within, and I obey it almost instinctively. I am in a poorly-lit study, and I know it is Dr Cullen's study. I should leave, this is his private study, but I cannot help but feel something that is brooding and waiting to overspill.

'Turn.'

I should turn now. At the far-end of the study, a significant case stands, holding artifices, plaques, and awards. I move closer to this case, my arm reaching out to touch the cold glass that keeps the ornaments out of reach. The icy surface freezes my fingertip the longer I keep it there, and I take time to lower my hand. In the pale moonlight, I am able to make out the name tags on the awards. The one award, with the largest font, grabs my attention first.

Yale University awards this award to
Doctor Carlisle Cullen
1884

With the lowering of my brows, I take a step forward to press my nose against the glass case, squinting my eyes to make sure I'm reading correctly. Doctor Carlisle Cullen...awarded...200 years ago? No, it must be a mistake, it's most likely an admin mistake, or a typo.

My gaze moves to the trophy right next to the certificate, reading the engraving on the trophy.

Most Promising Academic
Rosalie Whitlock
UCT
Class of 2009

What? Rosalie Whitlock?? That must be a distant family member, right? Right?! My heart starts to race in my best as I desperately start to read each award, each prize, each plague, hoping that my eyes are deceiving me. I don't want to be right, I don't want to be involved if my suspicions are correct.