by Keir Roopnarine

She pulled me close and hugged me tightly. I was confused, and I didn’t know what any of it meant. I still felt guilty for not telling her about the woman named Rysia Grayson. I never did ask Rysia’s last name.

“William, listen to me,” she said. “You can’t be here when this thing takes me. I’m afraid it will take you, too. Even if it doesn’t, I don’t want you trapped here. It’s horrible, you know. It’s lonely, and sad; I tried to commit suicide a few times. I would always faint just before the act. I never told you. Please, William, don't you understand? You can’t come back here.”

She held me fiercely, in a grip so tight I thought I might suffocate, but it felt good all the same. I looked at her and realized that there were tears in her eyes. One fell silently down her cheek.

“Thank you, William. Thank you for finding me, for staying with me and being there for me.” She gasped suddenly, and her eyes widened. Then her arms were around my neck and her whole body against mine. Our lips touched and I realized how short eternity really is. I don’t know if she kissed me for a second or for a year, but I know the taste of her will linger forever. My brain couldn’t even come to terms with how exquisite it was to have her against me that way. I tried to give the emotion some justice.

But before it happened, before my mind could register what was going on, she broke the kiss and whispered to me. I could barely hear her, but it’s enough.

“I love you too, William.”

And then she gave me a shove and I stumbled out the open door. The last thing I saw was Rysia, standing at the foot of the stairs, surrounded by the morning light, and turning to face . . . something. Then the old door slammed shut.

I was shocked, at first. I laid in a heap against the railing. Then I found my feet and tried the door handle. Nothing.
I lost it. I kicked and screamed and pounded on the door. I didn’t even stop when my fists started to bleed. By the time I found myself on the floor in exhaustion, the entire school day had passed. I decided to try the door one more time.

I didn’t care anymore if I would be trapped. I’ll live a trapped life a thousand years, I thought, if it means I can be with her. I didn’t even care if what took her took me; it was just another chance to be with her. But there was no guarantee. I didn’t know what would happen. I just knew I had to try.

The door opened; I walked in. Immediately, I knew she wasn’t there. She would never be there again.
The silence wasn’t the same, either; that strange cloak was gone, too. I realized could hear the world outside and that I didn’t even have to think about it: it was loud. I went to the balcony and could see and hear the ruckus of after-school activities.
I shook my head in disgust and despair, but before I turned to leave, the clock chimed. It was so shocking that I froze; the school went silent and everyone turned to look at the clock. To look at me. And they could all see.

#

Thank God for Friday. I went home and spent the night questioning life and my sanity. Questioning the girl I fell in love with and my experience with her and the tower.
It was true, the tower hadn’t been accessible for years, and the clock hadn’t sounded since . . . but what did that have to do with the girl named Rysia, and the woman Rysia Grayson? What did it all mean? Did any of it actually happen? Had I gone mad?

#

On Saturday morning there was a newspaper article about Rysia A. Grayson. The woman had been in a coma for fifteen years, and had died yesterday.

I was too confused and too tired to be sick again.

In the end, I gave up. I chose to believe that it had all been a crazy dream; that I had gone insane or watched a bad horror-show that I don’t recall anymore. What else could I do?

#

It’s Sunday night now. I’m packing my bag for the morning. I’ll take some extra study material to make up for the classes I missed while going crazy in the clock tower. A notebook falls out of my bag, and it’s not mine. I flip through the pages, but it’s blank. Who’s is it? The voice I spent the last two days killing is screaming at me, telling me it’s hers. It’s Rysia’s. I want to believe it, but how can I? I flip through the pages again, for good measure, and catch some writing near the end. I look at it, and I know I’m not crazy. If I am, it doesn’t matter. I’ve seen the handwriting before, and I know it’s genuine.

“Don’t forget me!
Love, Rysia.”

* * * THE END * * *