Mateo pulled the brim of his baseball cap down over his eyes. Wake up, asshole. Wake up wake up wake up. Wake the hell up RIGHT NOW!

He tripped over his sneaker and fell to the ground, scrambling backward on his elbows. A sharp pain slid up his ankle.

La Llorona began to lift the hem of her long white veil. Her fingers gripped the fabric so tightly he could see the skin straining over her knuckles.

She pulled the veil up to her chest, then higher, showing the deep, dark hollows of her neck. Black veins ran under the cool gray skin.

Somehow, Mateo knew he shouldn’t—couldn’t—see her face. He threw his arm over his eyes, thrust out his leg, and kicked with all the strength he had.

His foot connected with something not quite solid. Not quite human. He kicked again.

“Stay the hell away from me!” he shouted.

This time, his foot swung in the empty air. He opened his eyes.

Nothing. There was nothing there. All he could see was the glassy surface of the still lake.

The waves were gone. So was she.

Mateo stayed motionless on the bank, waiting for his heartbeat to slow.

Was that a dream?

It must’ve been. He must’ve fallen asleep here on the lake-shore.

He couldn’t actually remember waking up, but he must have. He’d had a crazy, stupid nightmare, and that was it.

So why couldn’t he stop shaking?

Mateo pushed himself up slowly. His ankle throbbed. He’d gotten a sprain last year that felt just like this. He’d have to wrap it when he got back to his room. It was lucky soccer season was over.

Lucky. Right. He’d just sprained his ankle while having a dream about getting chased by a fake ghost after hallucinating his dead boyfriend.

Mateo had shitty, shitty luck.

He winced as he stood and climbed the hill back to the house. It looked like it was going to storm again. The grounds were all but deserted, and the house was dark and quiet when he pushed the front door open. The power was out again.

As he started to climb the stairs to his room he heard someone above him. It sounded like heavy fabric rustling up at the top of the steps.

He was on the third floor when he saw her. Lily Boiten was climbing the stairs.

It hurt her. You could tell from the look on her face. But there she was, a floor ahead of him on the steep staircase, straining even more than usual in the flickering candlelight.

“Hey, Lily,” he called after her. He hated her twisted, pained expression. “Hang on a sec. I’ll help you.”

Lily kept walking. He’d have thought she was just being obstinate, but she didn’t even look up when he spoke. She must not have heard.

“Lily, wait up,” he called again.