Page 27 of The Stranger

Walker, where are you?

I push open the lobby door and step inside the quiet room, surprised to find it empty. The buzzing from the lights overhead instantly amplifies my headache.

“Ernest?” I call, keeping my voice low. “Walker?” Everything in this silent space feels like shouting. I lean forward over the desk, like I might find him crouching there ready to jump out and surprise me.

Though I don’t see him, something else does catch my eye.

Something dark red, nearly black.

My body goes instantly cold as I struggle to make sense of what I’m looking at.

That can’t be what I think it is. It’s impossible. Isn’t it?

I glance up, staring around the room and hoping someone will come out. That Ernest will appear from around the corner with a rag and cleaner and say he just spilled some barbecue sauce and was in the process of cleaning it up.

“Ernest? Ernest’s wife? Walker? Is anyone there?” I ring the bell, waiting and listening. My heart picks up speed in my chest, racing as I stand there in total and complete silence.

Finally done waiting, I walk around the desk against my better judgment, bending down behind it with trembling hands as I take in what I’m seeing. A small, red puddle of what looks like smeared blood covers the floor, with splatters along the wood of the backside of the desk.

I cover my mouth, trying to catch my breath.

No.

No.

No.

No.

No.

It can’t be this. It has to be something else. It has to be…Jell-O. Ketchup. Jam. Literally anything else. But it isn’t.

It just isn’t.

I swallow, following the thin trail of blood with my eyes to where it leads. Behind the desk, there’s just a small amount of space and a wall with a single metal door. The trail of blood goes directly to it.

I don’t want to open the door. I shouldn’t open it.

Whatever I find in there will only make everything worse. I should go look for Walker. Or the other people staying here. Ask them to help me. Ask them to call the police.

But that’s not an option. It can’t be.

I hate asking for help. Refuse to do it. I’m a strong, capable, independent woman, and I can open creepy closets all on my own, thank you.

I step toward the door in a sort of half-aware state. None of this makes sense. Maybe I’m still dreaming. Maybe I never actually woke up. That’s possible, isn’t it?

Sure it is. It’s likely, even. More likely than this. I could still be safe in my bed. It could be that none of this is happening. It’s probably not happening, in fact.

I mean, what are the odds that any of this could be real? No, it has to be a dream. I fell asleep thinking about my bloody shin, and now I’m dreaming about seeing blood where it quite literally cannot be.

Wake up, Tibby.

Wake up.

But even as I try to convince myself I’m wrong or delusional or dreaming, I know I’m not. I know from the chill on my skin, the odd buzzing in my ears, and the yellowish glow…I know that this is real. That it’s happening and that I’ll never be the same.

Briefly, as I reach out to open the door, I consider walking away. Pretending none of this happened, that I never saw the blood. Going back to bed and letting this be someone else’s problem. But I can’t.