By: Stephanie Fu

It was almost 12 am on a Tuesday. I had just finished my late-night job at the hospital as a nurse, and I got on my bicycle and started riding down the deserted road.

I was halfway to my apartment when a shadow suddenly appeared out of the mist. I yelled in surprise and swerved off the road onto the curb. My bike tipped, and I fell off, hitting the concrete floor with a grunt. My head smacked the edge of the sidewalk, and I momentarily blacked out.

When I regained consciousness, I could see a shadow over my head, blotting out the hazy light from the streetlamps. I dimly made out a face that shouldn’t have been alive. It was the small, 5-year-old boy that had died of pneumonia a month ago at the hospital. It was my fault; I had accidentally given him a high dose of the wrong medications, and he had died after a brief time in the hospital. I immediately felt guilt welling up inside me.

His face was plump and round, with large eyes and black hair. He looked at me mournfully and whispered in an eerie voice, “Why did you let me die?”

His unnaturally pale face suddenly turned dark purple, and his eyes caved in and hollowed out. His entire face melted into what looked like the zombies I had seen before in horror movies. I wanted to scream, but I felt my lungs filling with water. I gasped and choked on something in the back of my throat. My entire world spun, and I sunk into endless darkness.

I awoke in the hospital, my head on my desk and notes scattered everywhere. I looked around, heart pounding, and saw light was streaming from the hospital window. I glanced at the clock hanging from the wall. It read 9 am. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had fallen asleep on my shift and had a nightmare. I’d probably been watching too many horror movies.

I started walking toward the front entrance of the building and was bewildered to find the entire hospital deserted. I happened to glance at the calendar on one of the desks and my heart stopped short. Friday. That couldn’t be right; it was a Thursday, right.

I looked at one of the computers. An email had been left on the screen. My hands started trembling as I read it. I barely registered the whole email. My eyes were fixed on the words “Sofia Jackson’s funeral.”

That was my name. My thoughts were jumbled. What was going on?

I ran to the town graveyard where the funeral was supposed to take place, which was not far from the hospital. What I saw made me start to hyperventilate.

Rows of people stood in black dresses and suits, their heads bowed. I recognized my coworkers and doctors. My mom and dad were both there as well. A dark brown coffin stood in the middle of the field.

I ran through the rows of people, but none seemed to notice me. I waved my hands in front of their faces and even started screaming in their ears, but they didn’t even flinch. Tears streamed down my face.

Something in the very back of the crowd caught my eye. A familiar face belonging to a small, five-year-old boy with plump cheeks, large eyes, and black hair. He smiled at me sweetly and disappeared into the wind.

My coffin was lowered into the ground. I felt something tugging me towards it. I stumbled, against my will toward the coffin. I was sucked in, and I felt the coffin thumping down into the ground. My lungs seemed to fill with dirt. I pounded on the top of the coffin trying to break out. I screamed and thrashed in the small space. I uttered a last scream before I choked on dirt and fell limp.

“No!”