Dust to Dust Read Online Free

when I see the cursor move on the page—right to the center, as if someone has hit a tab. Then, the typing starts:
    No more pills. Clear your mind.
    I look over my shoulder quickly, heart starting to race. No one’s there. Stay calm, Callie. Could someone be logged into my network somehow, like with a shared screen? The letters are in bold italics, strong and urgent.
    What if it’s him?
    Thatcher . I feel my mind start to spin, whirling with excited panic. Could he talk to me this way? Can he reach me across worlds? Is he real, and really here? And if he’s here . . . were they here? My “dear friends” from the other side? Whoever they were?
    Glancing back at the window, I reach over to open the shade. Slowly, my hand shaking, I pull back the bottom corner. It’s there. I see it. A long, jagged crack.
    I drop the shade quickly and slam my laptop closed, hurrying into the bathroom that’s attached to my room, where I turn on all the lights and run the faucet, splashing my face with water. Wake up wake up wake up.
    I stare at myself in the mirror, wild-eyed and wet. These pills are turning me into a crazy person. Ghosts, poltergeists, another world. Maybe I’m hallucinating because of the meds.
    I take a deep breath and dry my face, still flushed. My dark-blond curls are wild, so I pull them into a knotted bun.
    After another moment of willing my heartbeat to slow down, I walk back into my room and open the laptop. The blank page is gone—there’s no evidence of it ever existing.
    I walk over to the window and throw up the shade. I wince. The crack is there, clear as day. I take a deep breath. It’s probably from a bird that hit the window or expansion from humidity or something, but I must have seen it and created a nightmare around it, complete with ominous voices.
    I shake my head and pull on a sweater to deal with my father’s over-air-conditioning habit. It’s comforting, in a way, that my dad still keeps our house as cold as a morgue. Consistency is nice, even if it means I have to wear long sleeves inside at the end of summer.
    I start to make my bed, pulling up the comforter and fluffing the pillow back into place. When I pick it up, for a moment, I catch a whiff of something familiar. Thatcher. He had a smell, like fresh-cut grass, and I inhale to find it there, in my pillowcase. God, I really am insane.
    On my nightstand, the bottle of pills seems to stand out, like there’s a spotlight on it. If the pills are what’s making me so confused, what’s creating these crazy dreams, I don’t want to take them anymore. I don’t want to keep wondering what’s real and what isn’t. There’s too much uncertainty: Weirdness with Nick. The nightmares. Wisps of another world.
    Enough of this.
    I grab the painkiller bottle and go downstairs to the dining room, where my father is eating a sandwich. I tell him that I want to go see the doctor.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, Callie May? Is the pain getting worse?”
    â€œNo,” I say, placing the pills on the table in front of him. “I need to get off the meds.”
    â€œIt’s too soon,” Dad says immediately, not even considering my request. “Your body’s been through a great deal of trauma.”
    I knew he’d object.
    â€œI want my mind to be clear.” I hold on to the edge of a wooden dining room chair, my grip tight with determination.
    â€œClear of what?”
    â€œI’ve been seeing more of those visions,” I say. And it’s not a lie. I have. I tried to talk to a bird yesterday, for goodness’ sake. Not to mention today’s radio and laptop incidents. And after last night, I’m more worried about why I’m so confused about Nick—and why I’m sniffing my sheets for a whiff of a boy who isn’t real. While the phantom pains I feel when I don’t take my pill on time are unpleasant, the phantom brain activity