Greetings at Midnight

I said prayers at dinner, still firmly believing that if I didn’t, my food might poison me or God would hate me. I sit on my bed now and pray with my sister. I stare at her marine aura swirling with whiffs of iris. She is speaking the words out loud while I repeatedly ask God, in my head, to take away the visions of ghosts and monsters. He never answers me, though. 

“Bianca, how do you know you’re still in Jesus’s light?” I ask as she finishes. My sister looks at me strangely, and I start to regret asking. I hope she doesn’t ask questions about the ghosts. 

“Are you worried you’re not in Jesus’s light?” she asks, giving away nothing. I swallow hard and nod. I am a bit surprised when she leans in to hug me. “Jesus still loves you. You’re doing just fine. You can talk to him, you know.” 

She pulls away as she says this, and I look at her incredulously. 

“Like prayers? He never answers,” I admit. My sister smiles at me. 

“Are you sure? Maybe you are just missing his messages,” Bianca replies. She looks mischievous, and I can’t tell if she’s being serious. 

“How could I miss the answers?”

“Well, when Jesus answers, it’s not like how I answer you. Sometimes it’s in signs, dreams, or things you feel. Talk to him again and see what happens. Now go to sleep.” Bianca kisses my forehead and moves over to her own bed. 

I lay down and close my eyes. I do feel better, though I'm not sure I fully understand what my sister is saying. I put up no resistance and let sleep take me. 

…

“Lydia!” 

My eyes shoot open, stinging from sleep, and my heart is pounding now. It’s still dark and noiseless outside. I glance at my Little Mermaid clock on the wall. 2:34 am. 

“Lydia!” The voice is more sing-songy this time. I recognize it immediately. I close my eyes tightly. “I know you’re awake, and I know you can hear me. Why won’t you answer me?” 

I feel an indentation on the bed and a hand trace along my foot up to my knee. I want to scream, but I won’t risk waking my sister like that - not again. I try praying again, asking God for help, but I get no response. Nothing changes. The hand on my knee starts to pinch, and I whimper in uncomfortable pain. I threw off the blanket, thus moving his hand, to find him sitting on the edge of my bed, smiling. He looks as if the wounds on his cheek have been patched up a bit more now, but there is still blood trickling down the side of his mouth. 

Only two people are standing behind him now, but neither of them is looking at me. The woman with him seems to be concerned about the surroundings, like someone lost, trying to get her bearings. I don’t blame her. The child is more disturbing. They seem to shift constantly, creating a haunting and genderless appearance. They dart around with playful laughter, threatening to knock things down. Only a hard stare from the man on the bed makes the child pause and behave. 

“What do you want?” I whisper. I didn’t mean my voice to sound so harsh, and I feel guilty as I watch him flinch, looking pained. 

“I thought we were friends,” he says quietly. “I thought we could hang out and talk.” 

“It’s the middle of the night. I want to sleep,” I whine. It isnt’a lie, but it isn’t the entire truth either. I just don’t want to be forced to acknowledge them. I don’t want to take any more steps into the dark side. “I can’t talk to you right now.” 

He narrows his eyes as I wipe the sleep from mine. 

“You don’t talk to me at all, even when you’re awake. You’d rather pretend I don’t exist,” he snarls. I sigh, and my guilt grows. 

“I’m the only one who can see you! If I talk to you, everyone thinks I’m crazy!” I bark, throwing up my hands. I glance at my sister and try to calm my nerves. “Who knows? Maybe I am crazy.” 

Instantly at my words, the child crawls on top of me and shoves their hollow face in mine. Their eyes are like black pools of beckoning abyss. Their smile is rotted, with chalky teeth filled with dirt and pieces of bugs. It seems as if their dirty blonde hair is in constant flux, growing shorter and longer. 

“Maybe you are,” the child growls. They press their tiny fingers deep into my shoulders and their knees into my legs. I can feel the whole weight of the child and swallow hard. It isn’t difficult to see the point they are making. Behind the child, the man starts to smile. 

“Fine, alright. What do you expect me to do?” I ask, feeling defeated. The child crawls down and under my bed using their feet and hands. This causes their elbows and knees to stick out abnormally, and they look more like a spider than a child. I shiver. 

The man pinches my knee again with a smile. 

“Talk to us, play with us,” he answers. I throw up my hands half-heartedly again, gesturing my surrender. I think back to Bianca’s words, and my fear grows. How could I possibly be in Jesus’s light and see ghosts and monsters like this?

“I can’t do anything that would make too much noise. I don’t want to wake up my sister,” I answer. At once all the ghostly faces in the room glance over at my sister’s unconscious body. 

“Bianca!” the child cries out in a sort of sing-song voice. I eye the kid instantly, and they shut their mouth. 

“What are your names?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Since you all already know so much about me.” I want to ask more questions. I have so many questions if we were all going to start talking, but I figure it might be best not ot overwhelm them. 

“This is Danny; he’s known as the nightmare man,” the man on the bed said, guestiering ot the woman glancing around. I raise a curious eyebrow. “He’s able to take many shapes and forms. I’m sure when he’s comfortable you’ll see his true form. The child is Emily.” 

Again, I look at him curiously. The man smiles, revealing his broken and rotted mouth. 

“You’ll find that in death things are not as black and white. Well, they aren’t actually so black and white in the land of the living either, but you are all so well adapted to seeing things how you want to see them and not as they actually are.” 

“And you? What’s your time?” I ask hesitantly. His smile becomes sinister and drips with what looks like muddy goo. 

“My name is Jason.”