Page 221 of Ripe
One. Two. Three.
Silence.
The same fucking rhythm.
What the fuck?
I blink.
Gone.
A barn stands there instead.
Then a church.
Then nothing.
The farm can’t decide what year it is. Neither can the people. A woman in a white dress runs past me screaming.
1791?
A man in a vampire costume follows.
2026.
A child stands beside the bonfire.
I stop.
There are no children here. This event was for adults-only.
The little girl can’t be older than six, standing barefoot in the dirt with a white nightgown hanging loosely around her small frame. Dark hair falls around her face, and clutched tightly between both hands is a tiny doll made from dried corn husks.
“Hey.”
She looks at me.
I should keep running but I don’t.
“Are you okay?”
She tilts her head. “Eleanor?”
My blood freezes.
The child smiles.
Oh.
“Oh my God.”
Mercy’s daughter. Not real.
Memory.
A ghost.
Something.
