Dracula’s Summer Home: Rushsylvania?

Part 8 The End

This time when Bo opened her eyes, it was the sheriff. When he realized she was awake, he pointed, “this is Mini from the diner. She’s studying to be a physical therapist. We are going to get you up.”

Gently, Mini moved Bo’s feet toward the floor. The sheriff put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her up. She screamed from the pain. Chad swung the door open. “Good, you might need to help.” The sheriff calmly spoke. “Little lady, walk to the door and we will leave you alone for today.”

Every move she made invoked a scream. Mini was on one side, the sheriff on the other and Chad was in front of her. Each step shot needles from the bottom of her feet, up her legs. Each step brought a scream from her lungs and tears to her eyes. Chad locked eyes with her. His black eye wasn’t shining quite as brightly. But his eyes had filled with moisture listening to her screams.

She collapsed at the door. He caught her carting her to bed. “5 more minutes NuNu,” she hissed.

“How’d she know that?” The sheriff asked.

Bo focused on the yellow ring under Chad’s eye. Her arm burnt as she tried to raise it. I.v’s had been attached to her. “You’ve been out for days now.” He held up a tablet, “I’ve been learning about you. 5 MINUTE PLAN is the title of a poem you’ve written where you just want 5 more minutes of sleep.” He paused. She just blinked. “Your blog wasn’t hard to find.” He laid the tablet on his lap, “how did you know my sister used to call me NuNu?”

With great effort she squeaked out, “I didn’t.”

“How do you know that song you keep humming?”

Bo whispered, “what song?”

As she closed her eyes, Chad screamed “don’t pass out on me again!” But she was gone.

Voices filled her head, “she’s been speaking Spanish, French, and Russian according to the internet.” That voice was the sheriff

“This bullshit all started with a visit to the cemetery.” That was Chad.

“She wasn’t like this when you first met her?” That was Dan.

Chad sighed, “no.”

“How do we fix this?” The sheriff spoke, maybe.

She heard the door open or close? The voices were too muffled to hear what was being said. Was she trying to get up? She needed to hear what was being said. A desperate pull was urging her out of bed. She thought she saw her hand wrap around the i.v. pole. It struggled against her as the carpet grabbed at its wheels. She kept telling herself she had to hear. Had to know what was being said. This force that was pulling her to the door felt like it was outside of her. Invisible yet strong. Pushing her to the door. A glance at her feet set off alarm bells inside her mind. Her toes were curled inward; to her eyes, her feet were blue. Swollen ankles protruded from under the hospital gown someone had dressed her in. ‘Must hear!’ Raced over and over in her mind.

Her hand was shaking wildly as it reached for the knob; it was absent of her presents. The door knob was blurry. She wasn’t sure it existed. ‘Open it!’ Her mind screamed.

The knob wiggled with her finger tips only centimeters from it. Light poured through the crack blinding her.

Chad was standing; with a bewildered look on his face, in the bright glow of the door. He caught her as she fell.

Bo was dreaming?

Chad, the sheriff and Dan were standing by the gravestone. The sheriff started digging in top of the grave. A perfect ditch. “Normally, I don’t condone the destruction of graves.” He wiped his brow, “I’ll make an exception in this case.”

All three men pushed the stone in the ditch.

Dan started beating it with a sledgehammer. Screaming and sobbing as he pounded away at the stone. Chad too was crying. His tears paled in comparison to the heartbreak Dan was pouring out.

Bo felt herself scream. She felt the fall. The pounding on the gravestone. As if it was happening to her body. Each thrust felt like a bone breaking; blood vessels busting. Her skin burnt. As they covered the rubble with dirt, she couldn’t breathe. The weight of all that soil was crushing her chest. She wanted to scream but couldn’t.

Something was happening to her. A smile danced across her lips. Wet, a little coarse, what was rubbing against her cheek? Warm puffs. As she pulled her hand to her face, it touched something soft and furry. “You’re soft.” She muttered opening her eyes. A bone shaped tag danced before her, “Van Helsing?” A giggle tried to escape her raw throat, “Chico isn’t short for Van Helsing.”

Chad laced his fingers through hers, “hi. His name is Van when the sheriff calls for him. But for whatever reason he will only answer to Chico for me.”

Dracula’s Summer Home: Rushsylvania?