Blink once for yes

August 16th, 1991

The first time I laid eyes on her, I thought I was dreaming.

It was a regular summer day. The sun was beaming down hard enough to get me panting like our old golden retriever, so I swiped an orange-flavored popsicle from the freezer and skedaddled to the woods before mum could grab me by the ear and force me to clean up my room. In the forest, I jumped from tree stump to tree stump, using the popsicle stick as a makeshift weapon to swing around in the air.

The woods creaked, buzzed and sang, and with them, I felt right at home.

I kept delving in deeper and deeper, farther than I'd ever gone before, and I could feel the thrill of the unknown thrumming in my veins, making my feet tingle funnily in my gumshoes.

That was when I spotted an opening in the forest, cutting the leaves open and leading right up someone's property. Curiosity, or perhaps the taste of adventure, clouded any doubts I might've had.

The fact remained that I stabbed my popsicle stick into the dirt like I'd seen my dad do with home for sale signs, scratched at the mosquito bite on my elbow and met the edge of the woods in five short strides. In my head, you see, I was an explorer, out to discover as much as I possibly could before the sun would go down and curfew would ring its infamous bells.

The property in question looked like a farm—smaller than those we drove by whenever we went on our yearly trips to Vermont, but big enough to house a handful of barnyard animals, or so I figured. There were a few lines of growing maize crops, a rather small barn to the left, and a house to the right. The house was much, much larger than ours, and piqued my interest right away. At that moment, I constructed a plan in my head—explore the barn, crouch through the corn field, maybe harvest one prematurely if I felt like it, then circle the house for any interesting findings.

So, with my mind made up, I walked over to the barn and pressed my ear against the wooden walls to make sure the coast was clear. As the peeling red paint tickled my ear, I heard no sign of human life, voices or otherwise, only what I assumed to be a horse's sigh. I started moving along the side of the barn, letting my fingertip graze the planks with a sound similar to a car crossing a bridge.

That was when I noticed it. A hole—no, not a hole, a crevice rather, slanting the wood wide enough for me to peek through.

And what I saw inside hogged my attention far more than anything I ever could've possibly found.

It was a girl—not very old, though definitely older than me. She had her back to me, was wearing a thin, nearly see-through summer dress, with her braided brown hair reaching down to her lower back. Thinking back on it now, I don't know what made this girl so special in my eyes... Maybe it was the fact that I wasn't supposed to be looking, that she didn't know I was there, or maybe it was something else entirely.

I watched her brush the horse's neck in gentle strokes. Through the fissure in the wood I could make out her porcelain skin and pink fingertips, as well as the horse's dark mane, but not much else. I stared, eyes wide as the girl began to hum—a melody softer than any of the ballads my mum played during dinner, and felt myself melt faster than the popsicle I'd had for dessert.

A sudden creak coming from the house front door halted the girl's singing as it simultaneously snapped me out of my reverie, and without another thought I fled, right through the trees and across the forest.

I ran and didn't stop until I was back home, downing a large glass of ice water. I listened to mum when she told me to wash my hands, and even agreed to tidy my room without complaint.

When I went to bed, I found myself staring at the ceiling, the excitement of my most recent finding still making my heart pound in my chest.

August 17th, 1991

I endured the day out with my parents as though I was in jail, because I might as well have been. My mind was somewhere else, even as I drowned my pancakes in syrup and plopped a large bite into my mouth, all I could see was the weather-beaten wood of the barn, the girl, and her horse. All I could hear was the melody of her singing voice—beautiful, enchanting.

So when we got back home, I ran to the woods as fast as I could, claiming a sudden need to stretch out my legs. Dad didn't say a word. Mum either bought it, or figured she could use a break from me, too.

The sun was about to set by the time I got to the farmhouse, sweat clinging to the nape of my neck and fingers tingling—I wiped my clammy palms on my shorts and peeped through the bushes. I spotted no one out on the property and hastily headed for the barn, hoping the girl was there even though the odds weren't exactly in my favor.

Turned out, luck would not only find its way to me, but would bless me with the fortune of a lifetime.

The girl was inside the barn, soaking in a copper tub with steam hovering around her thin shoulders, her long hair tied up in a high bun. This time, she was facing me, and I could make out every inch of her face, more beautiful than what my mind had find itself longing for. My eyes trailed down to see her breasts, pinks nipples barely touching the surface of the water—I clung to the image like it was my lifeline, hoping I would never have to look away. The naked women in my dad's magazine suddenly seemed irrelevant in comparison, and I swore to myself never to flick through those pages again.

I stared for what felt like an eternity passed too quickly. When I realized I had made my way back home, I showered, hopped into bed early and, once I was under the covers, let my hand wander down into my pants.

August 22nd, 1991

For the next week or so, the girl became the subject of my near-undivided attention. I turned our unrequited meetings into a routine—sleep very little, rush through dishes at breakfast, slip into my favorite yellow striped t-shirt. I couldn't tell you exactly why I dressed myself up for her, just that I did.

But the seventh time I saw her, everything changed.

Pressing my forehead to the wood to peer inside, I drew a breath of relief as soon as I saw her. Her presence made me smile to myself, but only for a split second.

This time, the girl unexpectedly turned to face me, her clouded, grey eyes staring straight at me with a resolve that tore right through mine. For a while, it felt like I was hallucinating, perhaps because I had grown used to watching her from the safety of my imaginary throne, almost as though I was in a different, untouchable universe.

When reality sunk in, my heart stopped and my stomach dropped lower than whatever surge of confidence had inhabited me earlier. The girl kept so eerily still, for a moment I was convinced she wasn't really alive.

But then she spoke.

"I know you're there."

If I hadn't turned to stone, or if she wouldn't have read my mind, I might've hightailed it faster than a tracked down deer.

"Please, don't leave."

For one reason or another, I listened—didn't move a muscle as the girl approached me with slow, prudent steps. Her eyes hovered in my direction, but never directly landed on me per se. Before I could realize something was off, she put her hands in front of her, feeling for her surroundings and stopping as soon as she reached a column. Her fingers curled around it, and she sighed almost inaudibly.

It became obvious then; the girl was blind.

She smiled softly, as though she could tell I was still there. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I've been wanting to talk for a while now."

I tried to say something, anything, but the words got tangled on my tongue.

The girl cocked her head, and blinked once, twice. "Tell me, what's your name?"

"... Tom."

The crack in my voice betrayed my age, but she didn't seem to mind as much as I did.

"Tom," she echoed, and her smile widened. "I'm Claire, it's nice to meet you—"

Suddenly, the sound of boots skimming through grass reached my ears. I stiffened, and the girl's reaction mirrored mine. The steps paused, then we heard someone fiddling with a lock of some kind—based on the tension on Claire's face, I could only assume someone else was about to walk into the barn. Someone she didn't want in there.

I began to turn away in a moment of self preservation when Claire's gaze latched onto me, one last time before letting go.

"Wait," she hissed, panic painting her voice a shade as grey as her eyes. "Please, I need your help, Tom."

August 23rd, 1991

The next day, I slipped out of the house having ingested nothing more than a burnt piece of toast. Claire's words spiraled in my head, making me so dizzy I knew I wouldn't have the stomach to eat anything else.

"He's going to kill me," her voice whispered like a broken record. "Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but one day, I know he will."

I was nauseous when I entered the forest and stepped over branches—the sound reminded me of the cracking of bones, like I was unsuspectedly walking over a hidden graveyard, or heading towards death myself. I quickened my steps when I felt worry and terror slowly but surely fighting for dominance, and none came out a victor.

If only I had turned around and scurried back home with my tail between my legs, maybe I would've found solace in blissful ignorance.

Alas, I didn't.

I kept on my usual path, blowing each and every thought away as if it would somehow make it all clearer when I suddenly tripped, feeling my ankle twist before I landed on all fours. The ground wasn't anywhere near as hard on my hands as I'd expected it to be, in fact, it felt as though it had absorbed the shock.

I rolled on the side, looked back, and then my eyes widened in horror.

What I assumed had been protruding tree roots was in fact the shaft of a shovel, laying flat on top of a recently dug grave which had been covered in soft soil. Two fingers peeked out of the dirt—fingers far paler than they had once been, and I gasped in horror.

I wanted to scream, but my hearing was muffled, like my ears had been stuffed with cotton balls. I didn't hear my retching as I vomited all over my shirt, or the cries and accusations of Claire's rotting corpse beneath the ground.

I didn't hear what the man said when he appeared from behind a tree and stood in front of me, bloody rope in hand.

I had been handed a poisoned chalice, one that had offered me a dream as much as it had plunged me into a nightmare.

And it was too late to go back.