OFF-CUTS!

Metem

Ms. Cartwright emerged from the waves looking as if no time had passed between then and her passing.

My jaw slackened as I saw her bare feet touch the sands.

At first, I thought her a hallucination, a wicked daydream brought on by my overactive heat-stroked imagination.

I asked a passing group of surfers if they saw her, and they murmured a definitive yes before passing her by the water's edge.

My body froze as she slowly approached me.

The oversized blue one-piece hung awkwardly from her waifish frame; her thin lips parted, and she flashed me that infamous crooked smile, the same she'd scare us with whenever we acted up in class.

After what felt like moonless weeks, she stood in front of me, her expression still the same, and she fell forward onto my chest.

Once her flesh touched mine, I blacked out.

The doctors told me later that I passed out, but I don't remember anything after that until I woke in the hospital; they asked me so many stupid questions that most of them have since flurried in my head.

Only one sticks out, "who is she?"

I tried explaining as well as I could without coming off as loony, but when you talk about a chance meeting with a dead woman, there's no escaping it.

When I explained that I watched her drown years before, they audibly sniggered.

They left my room and came back in moments later looking whiter than paper; after a quick search, they'd seen a picture of the deceased Miriam Cartwright on the internet, as well as a scan of her obituary.

Although they were near as spooked as I, they tried calming me by spouting that this mute phantom might be one of Ms. Cartwright's relatives.

Not one hour later, alarms blared, and an army of orderlies and nurses sped by my doorway.

Instinctively, I knew it had to do with her, so I got up and gave chase.

The run was short and ended in the maternity ward, where we saw her standing in the locked nursery amid dozens of tiny cots, each housing a newborn.

A nurse fumbled with a large ring of keys while we watched through the window.

She stood perfectly still, not moving until the door unlocked, her head fell back, and she let loose a piercing squeal before once more collapsing.

Every baby in the room cried at once.

For a moment, she deafened me, although when my hearing returned, I noticed that the babies' cries were eerily synchronized, creating an irritating symphony of tears.

The mystery woman died right there, I later learned she'd drowned, just like Ms. Cartwright had.

Almost a fortnight later, we held a funeral for her; Miriam Cartwright's second funeral wasn't as lavish as her first, nor were there nearly as many people in attendance.

I remember counting the attendees with one hand, and I recognized even less.

These memories lurked in the dark corners of my subconscious for almost ten years; buried deep enough that they couldn't trouble my day-to-day life.

Last week, I started seeing her again.

Dressed in that same pair of blue bathers, she stood at a bus stop by the side of the road; my hand turned, and I nearly crashed when I saw her.

I pulled into a small diner parking lot and tried shaking all thought of her, but wouldn't you know it?

She was there too, bathers and all.

The fiend stood in the middle of the diner and stared out at me.

Horrified, I flew out of the parking lot and drove home as fast as my old ford could go.

My wife, Linda, met me at the door and asked me where the fire was.

I broke.

Everything about Ms. Cartwright spilled out of me; how she tortured me through elementary school, how I watched her drown when I was a junior lifeguard, the return, her second death, everything.

When I recovered, we further discussed what happened over coffee until we heard the school bus pull up.

Linda opened the front door and screamed.

I ran over and saw Ms. Cartwright bending over, talking to our six-year-old son, Billy, across the street from our house.

My wife and I broke out into a sprint as we saw the undead hellion take our little boy by the hand, and lead him through the treeline, into the wooded beyond, where they disappeared.

We've scoured the woods with police and neighbors, but have found nothing more than children's footprints, hundreds of them walking in nonsensical circular paths through the underbrush.

It's been seven days since we've seen either of them, and we're beginning to lose hope of ever bringing our precious Billy home again.

Today though, I've noticed a strange gathering.

A horde of ominous-looking adolescents wearing black hooded sweatshirts stand side by side behind the pine trees across from our house.

They all look around the same age, eight maybe nine, and they're all staring at our front door.

Something inexplicable tugs at my stomach, compelling me to go out and meet with them.

I know I shouldn't, but I must.

They've come for me, and I ought to submit to her as they have; a fitting transaction, my life, my soul in exchange for Billy's.

Maybe I can end this hell for both of us, and save Ms. Cartwright from drowning back to life again.