𝐐𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦?! | 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝟐𝟎. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

orlandosentinel.com

Orlando Haunted? Local power and internet outages this Halloween.

Last updated: 11/01/20 8:26 AM
Chad Moss Jr.

"There is no paranormal activity at work," insists Olivia Underwood, spokesperson for Orlando Utilities Commission. AT&T spokesperson Atticus Tanner echoes, "we [AT&T] are currently investigating the site for pranksters. Please note that willful acts of property damage are not only illegal, but cause fear, stress, and inconvenience for many."

Readers advised to stay calm, stay safe, and conserve energy. 

Sunlight snuck in through gauzy curtains, tickling your sight behind closed eyelids. All around were the sounds of the city waking up, sleepy as you, quieted by quarantine and settled into the slow rhythm of the weekend: the distant rush of few cars, the rare honk; the lull of friendly conversation, the buzz of electricity, wires, heating–the faithful pillars of human society, forgotten in every context but absolute stillness. 

A light sweetness pervaded the air: vanilla. You soaked in the soft languor; you wouldn't mind waking up to this every morning. Rustling the sheets, you tucked your head away from the glare and buried it in a pillow–the sun could try to wake you up, but it was the weekend, and you made your own rules. Your shoulder shifted against a warm weight–reaching, skin brushed skin, and in your drowsy daze, you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began: you, and the comforting presence underneath.

"G'morning," he mumbled. His morning voice overtook you, golden and viscous like honey. No, you wouldn't mind waking up like this at all.

A few more blissful moments of dozing passed before you became conscious of your situation. Your pulse skyrocketed, and the initial atmosphere of peaceful oblivion collapsed. You jerked your head up to face Clay. It was him, of course, but that did little to mitigate your alarm. In a tangle of limbs, you had been sprawled out, facedown, on his chest. He smelled nice. No, he didn't–panic pushed the thought from your mind. Your legs were intertwined, and he had thrown an arm loosely over your back, maintaining a small distance without letting you go.

You... were in his bed. Though mostly warranted, under the fear of a fictional monster, you'd tucked yourself in with him and stayed the whole night–what would society think? What would your mom think?

Judging by his face, he was also starting to come to: heavy-lidded eyes snapped open, and he scrambled up, sitting stiff as the headboard against his back. In his shock, he dislodged you to your proper side of the mattress, and you rolled back to a sitting position. Somewhere, a phone was ringing.

You supposed it was good he was awake, but you wouldn't have minded seeing more sleepy Clay. It had only been a glimpse, but the snapshot was seared in your memory: his hair in fluffy disarray and his eyes shut against the world, he had looked endearingly innocent. You felt a rush of affection: how many people had seen him in this vulnerable state? You were probably one in very few. Pity that would probably be the only time; your heart squeezed, and you added this to your growing list of today's inconveniences.

Insistent, the ringtone repeated, and by some insane cosmic revelation, you were certain of the caller's identity. The split-second unfurled in slow motion, and you watched, throat leaden and unable to speak, horrified but unable to avert calamity: Clay must've been catastrophically sleep-deprived, because not registering the phone's unfamiliar ringtone, foreign shape, or different lock screen, his fingers scrabbled over the nightstand, he swept up the device, and he pressed the green button by reflex.

"Hello?"

"Clay, that's mine!" Finally, your body had allowed you to speak. You cringed with your entire being. You must've been a serial killer in a past life, assassinating JFK, Abraham Lincoln, and Franz Ferdinand in rapid succession, hysterically laughing as you chugged gallon upon gallon of orphan blood, and, as you made your escape, gunning the engine to double the speed limit to pounding bass–that was the only way you could've deserved this.