Six Feet Under

Suddenly, I found myself in a field of golden grain. The sky was blue, streaked with long streaks of white clouds. The sun shone from my left, blinding my eyes. Summer? August? I guessed so.

The sea of ​​grain rippled in gusts of wind. Every time I tried to touch the ears of grain with my hands, they bent as low as possible. The wind was strong, very strong. It bent even the trees visible on the horizon. But I didn't feel it. I saw only its force. I watched it play violently with my hair.

A sting in my eyes. I looked, hiding my eyes under my hand, in the direction of the glint.

In the distance, ahead of me, at the edge of the field, I saw something white. It took my eyes a long time to adjust to the distance.

Far ahead stood a long, white house.

One of its windows seemed ajar, and as it moved in the wind, the sun reflected off the glass. Or was someone standing there?

I started walking toward the house. The grain opened before me as if on command. The earth was dry; I could see its light brown color as the ears of corn parted sideways. But I couldn't hear the rustle of their movement. Just as I couldn't hear the wind that forced them to do so.

A dead silence reigned everywhere.

The house was already a dozen or so meters ahead of me. It was made entirely of wood, giving the impression of being dried out by the wind and the summer sun. On the white, scratched gazebo stood a faded armchair, upholstered with gray cushions, springs sticking out here and there. A long, dark green scarf lay on the back, its fringes touching the floor. Nothing else stood on the landing. And the door to the house was wide open.

I climbed the stairs and stood before the entrance. I examined the window, which was moving in the wind. It had no glass. The other one was also there. I looked around for some kind of mirror that might have lured me here, but I found none. All I could see was a green beaded bracelet on the seat of the armchair. A familiar bracelet. I picked it up, but it immediately fell apart in my hand. The beads scattered to the floor, some rolling toward the entrance and disappearing into the house.

I sighed softly and slowly stepped over the threshold.

I found myself in a large living room, crisscrossed by strange, elongated streaks of light spilling from the enormous windows that formed almost the entire left wall. The wind stirred the torn, flowing curtains that were still attached to the curtain rods. There was a strange, pale gray glow. I looked around and noticed several wicker chairs lying overturned on the ground. I'd had similar ones in my room once when I was younger. But they weren't as worn as these. A table, also wicker, stood against the right wall, right next to a dark bookcase. I walked over to it. An old radio, dating back to the 1920s, sat on it. I turned the knob, but no sound came from it. Perhaps it was broken, or perhaps it was just an empty replica.

I went to the window. The panes were broken, and shards of glass littered the area. I cautiously stepped past, but after a moment I noticed I was leaving a wide trail of blood behind me, which immediately soaked into the dried, gray floorboards.

I continued walking.

I found myself in a short hallway, with doors on either side. I pushed them gently, and they swung open soundlessly.

The faded blue wallpaper hanging sadly from the walls was covered with images of teddy bears, bees, and pots of honey. In the center of the small room stood an empty cradle. Just wires and springs. Only the mattress lining the bottom was intact. On top of it lay another green bracelet, smaller than the one in the gazebo. As if intended for a child who had once slept in that cradle. Or was about to dream in it.

Otherwise, the room was empty. No toys, shelves, or pictures. The large window didn't even have curtains.

Suddenly, I felt something step on my foot. I heard small footsteps in the hallway, but when I emerged, I saw no one. I closed the door to my room and tried to open the one opposite, but it was locked. I continued down the hallway.

At the end of it was another door. Different from the previous one.

The doorframe was covered with small, floral motifs, coated in a light stain, and the door itself gleamed with new, dark brown paint. The knob gleamed gold. It tempted me to turn it and step inside.

The patter of small footsteps. I turned toward the hallway, but again, I saw no one.

I slowly placed my hand on the doorknob. It was icy, prickly with cold. I turned it slowly.

The door opened. It was dark inside. I entered.

My eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. The room was small, windowless. I made out the outline of a chair in the center.

And a figure sitting on it.

I approached it. It was small, wrapped in a thick cloth, like a mummy. The material resembled a scarf that had been draped over a chair in the gazebo. The fringes flowed down to the soft carpeted floor. I touched the figure. It didn't move.

Slowly, I began to unwind it from the material. It took a long time. A very long time.

Finally, the last layer remained. The figure was tiny, just visible, the top of her fair head. Blond hair covered the last layer of the scarf. I slowly unwrapped the cloth.

I froze.

A girl, dressed in a green dress, sat on a chair. Her fair hair flowed over her slender shoulders. Her eyes were closed, set in a round, pale face. Her upper lip was slightly parted, revealing her upper teeth. Her neck was slightly asymmetrical, with an ugly scar running along the left side, reaching down to her collarbone.

The girl seemed to be sleeping.

I knelt before her and stroked her face.

Suddenly, she opened her large, gray-yellow eyes and looked at me. She quickly grabbed my hand and tightened her long, thin fingers around it. Silently, she smiled mysteriously. I sighed.

The little girl was a reflection of me. A reflection from many, many years ago. This was me, back when I was still…

alive.

Suddenly, the girl's face began to wrinkle and turn an increasingly sallow color. Her eyes grew unnaturally large, her cheekbones beginning to poke through her skin. Her hair began to fall to the floor in handfuls. I tried to wriggle free from her grip, but the already white bones of her fingers dug deeper into my skin. Her eyes instantly dried up, leaving only dry, black sockets in their place.

I screamed. I clutched my stomach, trying to calm the life fluttering there.

I froze again. My womb was empty.

The clattering in the hallway repeated itself. I turned from the gruesome sight toward the door, but it was closed.

Instead, I saw the pool of blood around me growing faster and faster. I felt its warmth. I felt myself growing cold. Colder and colder.

I looked down at myself again. A skeleton was already sitting in the chair, draped in the scraps of a green dress. I saw that the bracelet on its wrist was gone. I looked at my hand, still gripped by long, white fingers, and sighed.

The bracelet tightened around my wrist. I screamed.

My hand burned with fire. Then it began to unravel. I began to fall apart.

When I woke up, it was still night. My shirt was damp with sweat, as were the sheets that had fallen to the floor. I screamed, but no one appeared. Not even my father, who at such moments would come to me and dance with me in the middle of the room. When I was little, he always did.

I got out of bed and went out into the hallway.

Across from my door was my son's room. But I didn't go in. I headed toward the exit.

The radio played softly in the living room. I'd forgotten to turn it off before bed. I went to the bookshelf where it sat and stood for a moment, listening to the peaceful nighttime program, then turned the knob on the World War I-era device. Silence fell over the house. I headed for the door, knocking over a wicker armchair in the darkness. I nearly knocked it to the floor.

I stepped out onto the gazebo.

The night was quiet. Warm and still. The grain stood still, bathed in the cold moonlight. I loved those summer nights. I always slept with the window open then, and sometimes woke up around four in the morning, listening in bed to the birds awakening from their sleep. They should have been singing by now; it was just past five.

I headed toward the armchair on the gazebo. I was barefoot, feeling every imperfection in the freshly planed floor.

I felt a prick. I bent down and picked up a small green bead from a board. I sighed.

It wasn't a dream.

I was still six feet underground.