I don’t know if I drift off for a minute or an hour, but when I wake again, rain is hammering the window. I need to close it, or Mom will be angry. Water damage. Like she cares about the house.

I rub my face and untangle myself from the blankets to sit up. I’m momentarily dizzy, but that’s always the case when I first sit up, so I just close my eyes until the wave passes. But then I hear an unfamiliar rustle, followed by the window giving way as it’s pushed closed.

Confused, I open my eyes and almost jump out of my skin at the sight that greets me.

There at the window is a figure. Tall and dark and wearing a robe like the Grim Reaper.

But the Grim Reaper wouldn’t be worried about a little rain getting into the house.

I almost scream as it—he—straightens and turns toward me. I push my back to the wall.

The figure is in a black cloak with a wide hood pulled up over his head so the little bit of light coming in from outside doesn’t illuminate his face. The cloak reaches the floor, and he’s tall. Well over six feet.

I want to scream. I want to open my mouth and scream for help, but when I do, nothing comes. No, a sound more pathetic than nothing.

Am I dreaming? Is this a dream, a nightmare I’m trapped in?

But some part of my brain remembers that it knows these robes. Ceremonial. My father had worn one once. I’d been terrified when I’d seen him too.

We remain like that—neither he nor I moving, me not even breathing. He has an advantage. He can see my face. See my terror. I can’t see his.

Him.

It’s a man. His height and build give that away. More reason to scream if only sound would come. Where is my brother now when I need him?

I stare wide-eyed as he takes a step toward me, and when he does, the light just touches his face. But it’s even more terrifying then because he’s wearing a black half-mask, and what I glimpse of his face is impossible.

“Wh…what—”

“Ivy Moreno.”

Cold, bony fingers seem to crawl along my spine at the deep tenor of his voice, and I visibly shudder. The devil's touch. It’s what Sister Mary Anthony used to say when that happened. I make the sign of the cross out of habit.

That makes him laugh. It’s an ugly laugh. Short and unamused and hard.

I rub my eyes, wanting to wake up, but he's still there when I open them again. Closer even.

“How do you know my name?”

“You don’t remember me, Ivy? I didn’t make an impression? I’m offended.”

“I...I don’t—”