As night settles, I climb in bed, turning away from Alex and curl my legs tight against my stomach. I drift off to sleep, entering a world where Ryan lies beside me. His fingers stroke my round hip, making me feel like he’s relishing every moment he’s near enough to touch me. His hands smooth my hair and graze my bare shoulders before pulling me closer for a kiss — a kiss I don’t feel.

Somehow Ryan’s gone, and I’m in a cramped, dingy room cradling a baby girl in my arms. Bringing the baby’s smooth cheek to mine, I kiss the infant’s fingers, inhaling the fragrance of new life and wondering why I’m taking care of this precious child. I scan the room for the baby’s parents, but see no one. My bundle feels lighter so I look down into my blanket-filled arms. There’s no baby. I scream, but the air is void of sound.

Gasping for air, I wake and glance at the red 2:30 glowing from my alarm clock. A feeling of weightlessness washes over me as my arms stretch above my head, my body rising effortlessly and floating to a tall stool sitting in front of my dresser — a stool I’ve never seen before. As soon as I realize it shouldn’t be there, I’m sitting on it and watching a fog form around my dresser.

I’m not dreaming anymore — I’m really on this stool even though I don’t understand how I got here. My body doesn’t look or feel human. The solid, earthly consistency of my familiar physical body is now a transparent spirit form — a fluid motion of iridescent energy with swirls of light coursing throughout and radiating from within.

I stare at my hands, turning my palms over and over again, and watch the aura around them glow like the bioluminescent bay I kayaked through in Puerto Rico, awestruck that I control such extremities and that a single thought sets them into motion.

I am the aura. I am the light, yet I’m still me and I know I’m the observer of a truth not visible unless the veil between worlds is parted — like now. This is unreal, yet more real than any experience I’ve ever had in the third dimension.

I shudder — I’m not alone. Keeping my head bowed, I peer into the peripheral space to my left and right where sparkling white entities surround me. Somehow I know they are angels.

Without any physical contact or audible command, the angel directly in front of me insists that I raise my head and look into my dresser mirror. I sense the angel can read my thoughts as I silently plead with him to spare me the sight. I know what I will see — the most horrific me I’ve ever seen –– my true self, but my will is irrelevant — I must obey.

My head begins tilting upward. I strain to stop it, but I can’t regain control and within seconds I’m fixated on my reflection. My entire face looks crispy — carved like a pumpkin and deep-fried with charcoal black scars disfiguring my cheeks and forehead. The crown of my elongated head sways to the left and waves into a tapered point.

My eyes are locked into the windows to my soul, but my blue eyes aren’t the only ones staring back at me in the mirror — a demon’s gaze is boring through me. I want to escape — to scream and run, but I’m paralyzed as I stare at the grotesque face that’s fused to mine. My face is a demon’s face — pure evil.

I’m unable to bear the macabre vision another second and suddenly crash back into my physical body that’s still lying on the bed. I jerk my head off the pillow and snap on the lamp feeling like I’ve just snorted an ammonia capsule for a record-breaking squat in a power-lifting meet. I scour the room for any remnant of evil emanating from my mirror, ready to scream at the first sight of any spirit, good or bad.

The stool I just sat in is gone. There are no angels or fog. Everything in the room is the same as before.

Everything — except me.

Have gone mad like Ophelia in Hamlet or did I really just see a demon in my reflection. And if a demon’s in my mirror does that mean it’s taken up residence in my soul or do demons just pop in people’s mirrors on a whim? If it’s really in here — inside of me, how long’s it been here and how the hell do I get rid of it? I wonder if it can hear my thoughts right now and try to prevent me from making it leave.

I shake Alex’s shoulder. “Alex! Did you hear me get out of bed?”

“Huh?” he mumbles.

“You hear me get up?” I ask, still shaking him. I need someone to snap me out of this nightmare or trance, whatever it is, even if that someone is Alex.

“What? I’m asleep.” He says, brushing my hand away.

“I walked to the dresser — but not with my feet. Something evil is here,” I say, leaning against the headboard, realizing I sound as insane as I feel.

Alex drapes his arm over my leg. “Oh, Sav. You’re dreaming.”

I remain silent, hoping it was just a dream, but it seemed real — as real to me as the purple tulips embroidered on the quilt beneath my hand.