Counting Black Sheep, (Phase 3)

The next morning, I decided to see my grandmother, Etta Wardell. She's lived in Hollow Falls much longer than Dad and me, and she's the only person I trust as much as him. Maybe even a little more, since she understands stuff that a boy often can't. I can always rely on her, when I need advice.
It's just a short walk, so I knock on her door with my good hand and wait. She answers the door wearing a grey skirt and a nice, white blouse, with her long, gray hair neatly twirled up in a bun. Despite her age, she's always looked pretty youthful, with barely any wrinkles besides crow's feet.
  "Bianca?" she says, frowning. "Shouldn't you be in school, love?"
  "No, I can't go," I say. "Grammy, I need to talk to you about Grandpa."
  "Alright. Come in, I'll make you a cup of tea."
She leads me through her house, and I follow like an obedient puppy, closing the front door behind us. The place is lush, and well-kept, her lounge room full of photographs and little figurines of animals and dominated by a grandfather clock that ticks along reliably. We head into her cosy, little kitchen, and she puts a kettle on the stove, as I wait, staring.
  "What did you do to your hand?" asks Grammy, pointing to my bandaged hand. I'd wrapped it up with some gauze from the bathroom cupboard.
  "Oh, it's... I got it from a, uh... a sheep bite," I say.
  "Oof... nasty things, them." say Grammy, walking over to sit at the kitchen table. "You're lucky you didn't lose s finger. Sit down, sit down."
  "Sorry," I mumble, and I pull out the chair and drop into it. "I'm a bit out of it."
  "You look tired, Bianca. What's the matter?"
  "I can't sleep," I say. "I haven't slept in five days."
  "Five days?" says Grammy, concerned. "How are you still standing?"
I don't know what to say, so I just shrug.
  "Grammy, I want to ask you something. I know it's weird, but..." I trail off, as I try to find the words. "am I cursed?"
  "Cursed?" she asks, frowning so deeply, you can actually see her subtle wrinkles on her forehead. "What are you talking about?"
  "Like... I dunno," I say, gesturing with my hands to try to show what I'm trying to say, but I just end up waving them around like an idiot. "Like, my Mum died, and Grandpa died, so what about me? Is our family... doomed to die in our sleep?"
  "No, it's not a curse," says Grammy.
  "But, what did Grandpa see?" I ask. "Were you with him in the end? Did he see anything?"
  "I don't know, Bianca, he died in his sleep. I don't think he saw it coming, but we'll never know."
  "But, before," I insist. "Did he see anything weird before he died? Like visions of a reaper, or black sheep?"
  "No, he never saw anyone comign after him, if that's what you mean. But, as for sheep, he definitely saw a black sheep." The sound of the kettle whistling interrupts before I can speak, and my grandmother gets up to fetch the pot. "Cup of tea?"
  "Uh, yeah..." I say. "Grammy, what do you mean, he definitely saw a black sheep?"
  "When your grandfather was alive, we owned a sheep farm, dear. Ten-twenty-two Eureka Highway," she says.
  "Oh, right," I mumble. I remember Mum telling me that my grandfather was a sheep farmer. It was so long ago, I must have forgotten about it. "And they were black?"
  "Not all of them, but quite a few. He thought they were good luck, since it meant they had good stock, a nice mix of genes." Granny puts a cup of milky tea in front of me, and sits across from me again, this time holding a steaming mug.
  "But when he died, he didn't talk about... I mean, did he have trouble sleeping?"
  "Your Grandpa kept to himself, Bianca. If you want to know what he was going through, you'd have to ask him."
  "But he's dead, Grammy!" I say. "That's why I'm asking you."
  "Just because he's dead, doesn't mean he's gone," she says, reaching over a hand to squeeze mine. "When I'm feeling lost, looking for answers, I sometimes go and talk to him."
  "Talk to him? How?"
  "I go and visit him, at the churchyard," says Grammy. "I tell him what I'm going through."
  "Visit him?" I say. I slowly pick up the warm mug of tea and take a sip. It's warm, and although it tastes a little bland, my stomach grumbles instead of retching, so I gladly drink it down.
  "If you want answers, maybe you should talk to him as well. It can help..."

Even though it was still early morning, the cloud cover made it look late and dreary in the afternoon as I head through the open gates of Hollow Falls Cemetery. There are gravestones cluttered closely together, plots outlined in concrete and headstones of all shapes and sizes, from squat, little plaques, to large statues of angels, and I can even see two mausoleums, those little houses for dead people. I stumble around on my unsteady feet. How do they organize graveyards? Chronologically? Alphabetically? I look from one headstone to another, looking for 'Henry Wardell', but I don't even know where to even start. That's when I see those familiar, red eyes. There are several of them, waiting deeper within the cemetery, standing amidts the gravestones. I head over, careful to walk around each plot as I make my way over. There are four of them waiting for me in a little group, all facing towards me, all as black as smoke, with eerie, dark faces and eyes like blazing rubies.
As I get near enough, I see that they're standing close together, on a grave, and as I get close enough to touch them, they step aside, two on the left, two on the right, flanking the grave. Sure enough, the epitaph on the gravestone reads: 'John Harrod - 1925-1991'
The sheep are staring at me, but otherwise just standing there. Maybe they're waiting for something. Well, my grandmother said I should talk to him, so...
  "Hey, Grandpa," I mumble. "I've never spoken to you before, but I know what you look like from your pictures. I'm your granddaughter, Bianca. I'm, like, your only granddaughter..."
I feel stupid, but I trust my grandmother. She said it helps her, so maybe it can help me.
  "What did you see before you died? Do you know what killed you?" I ask. "Was it... uh... was it the reaper that I see in my dreams?"
I wait quietly, staring at the grave, swaying slightly from standing up so long on tired legs. But, I don't hear any answers, or see anything. I'm not sure what I was expecting.
One of the black sheep to the left of me moves closer towards me, and reaches out its face towards my bandaged, left hand.
  "No!" I snap, yanking my hand away. The sheep backs away, scared, and bumps into the sheep behind it, and the two move to the side. I notice that they were standing on a grave that was right next to Grandpa's, with just half a foot between each headstone. I recognize the name.
  "Mum?" I say, stepping closer. I didn't realize they were buried so close together. But, sure enough, it says "Rachel Elise Wardell 1975-2002"
Maybe I should have talked to her, instead. I never even knew my grandfather...
  "Mum, what should I do?" I ask. But now I just feel silly. I know she can't hear me. This is stupid. I look over at the sheep, still standing around on top of the graves. Surely that must be disrespectful.
  "Shoo!" I say, stepping forward. "Get off! Get out of here!" I yell. The sheep back away, still staring at me. That's when I see the headstone on the other side, and stop dead still. I recognize a third name: 'Michael Wardell 1971-2002'
  "Dad?" I walk over, staring at the stone. That doesn't make any sense, my father is alive!
Then I see the gravestone right next to it: 'Bianca Wardell 1992-2007'
No... no, this is impossible. I stand over my own grave, staring at the untended grass. This is a dream. But how can this be a dream? I woke up, didn't I?
The bony fingers of a skeleton burst out of the grave, and wrap around my leg.
  "Aaagh!" I shriek. I try to kick it off, but it quickly pulls into the grave, and drags my leg with it. I feel the cold dirt drag me up to my knee. "NO! Let Go!"
I fall over as it drags me deeper, pulling me up to my waist, and I feel the dirt scraping my skin as it spills under my shirt, the cold earth clinging to me. The black sheep surround me, as it covers up to my waist, and the sheep look down at me, staring that thousand-mile stare.
  "Please, help!" I call out, pawing at the dirt around their hooves, but they just watch coldly as dirt spills over my shoulders. Then my chin, then I'm dragged into the darkness.

  "AAAAGH!" I scream, sitting up on the couch.
  "No, it's okay, it's okay. You're in my office," says Dr Jacobs.
  "What's going on?" I say, glancing around. I'm in the psychiatric clinic again, sitting on the couch.
  "You fell asleep," says Dr Jacobs. "I didn't want to wake you."
  "How did I get here?" I ask.
  "I think your father brought you by car," she says.
I look at my hands. The bandage is gone, and there's not a scratch on me.
  "How long was I asleep?" I ask.
  "Only a few minutes," says Dr Jacobs.
  "That's impossible," I say. "I dreamed that... I mean, it felt like so long."
  "It can be hard to keep track of time in our dreams," says Dr Jacobs. "Can I ask what you were dreaming about?"
  "I don't know, I... I don't know when it started."
  "Well, why don't you tell me about the last thing you remember, and we'll go from there."
  "Okay..." I say, readjusting myself on the couch. "Well, I was at the cemetery, at my grandfather's grave, and I saw my Mum's grave. Then my Dad's - then mine."
  "You saw your own grave?" says Dr Jacobs.
  "Yeah, and then a hand came up and grabbed me, and dragged me down. That's what woke me up."
  "That's pretty intense," says Dr Jacobs. "And, what do you think it means?"
  "That I'm gonna die," I say. "I mean, pulled into my grave isn't exactly 'subtle metaphor', is it?"
  "And how many sheep were there?" asks Dr Jacobs.
  "Four. There were four this time," I say. "But I don't know what it means. My grandmother said that they're good luck."
  "Well, that's possible," says Dr Jacobs. "What we see in dreams can mean a lot of things. Sheep can mean good fortune, but some people believe that black sheep represent in dreams someone close to you that you can't trust. In Scottish folklore, they represent the devil, but it might just represent that you feel like a black sheep in your family... like you don't fit in."
  "I think I can trust them, though. They lead me to the graves in the first place."
  "But, one of them bit your hand, earlier. Isn't that a sign of aggression?"
  "I don't know, I, uh..." I look at my hands again. "Wait, how did you know it bit my hand?"
  "Because you told me about that before."
  "Before what?" I say. "That was the same dream."
  "No, that was on Tuesday, Bianca."
  "It is Tuesday!" I say, annoyed.
  "No, Bianca. It's Thursday, your follow-up appointment. I think your memory problems are getting worse. You've been awake for seven days, now."
  "No no no... no, that's impossible, I've only been awake for five days."
  "But, your appointment is on Thursday. If it was still Tuesday, then why are you in my office?"
  "Because this isn't real... this is a dream," I say.
  "No, Bianca, we talked about this."
  "No, we didn't! I never talked to you about my dreams!"
  "You did, Bianca, you just don't remember..." says Dr Jacobs, with a look of concern. "I know this is confusing, honey. Try to remember. But, it's okay if you can't."
I put both my hands on either side of my head. I feel so tired... what's going on?
  "This can't be real... how can I forget two whole days?"
  "It's been known to happen."
  "But then, when was I dreaming? And, how did you know about the black sheep?"
  "You mentioned you first started seeing black sheep, in your first session," says Dr Jacobs.
  "My first session?"
  "Yes, last Friday." says Dr Jacobs.
  "My last..." I try to remember. "No... no, you're lying. I didn't see black sheep until the next day, after I tried the meditation!"
  "No, I'm not confused. This... this is a dream. Nothing else makes sense."
Dr Jacobs sighs.
  "Alright, let's say for just a moment that this is a dream. Then what?"
  "Well, then, I should wake up," I say.
  "And how are you going to do that?" asks Dr Jacobs.
  "I don't know," I say. "Usually, something comes and grabs me."
  "Well, nobody is going to come grab you in here," says Dr Jacobs. "Like I said in our first session, this is a safe place. Nobody is allowed in here, without my say so."
  "Okay..." I say. "Well, how can I wake up?"
  "Bianca, why would you want to wake up? You haven't slept in a week. If this truly was a dream, and you believe that you're asleep, shouldn't you stay asleep? Wouldn't that be best for you, at this stage?"
  "No!" I say.
  "Why not?" asks Dr Jacobs. "I thought you wanted to sleep."
  "Because..." I shrug. "Because I can't tell what's real."
  "Okay, well, we talked about this... if you want to tell what's real from what's not, you need to ground yourself, meditate on this reality, in this moment in time."
  "I don't want to ground myself in this reality, I want to wake up."
  "Bianca, you're not asleep."
  "Doctor, you told me that it's up to me what my goal is in therapy, right?"
  "Yes..." says Dr Jacobs, frowning. "That is true."
  "Well, my goal is to wake up."
Dr Jacobs sighs.
  "Okay... well, it's goot to have a firm goal. But it should also be achievable."
  "Then let's say this is a dream. How do I wake up?"
  "Well, if you were sleeping, I know of three ways that you can wake up from a dream. But I should say, this isn't psychiatry, we're talking about lucid dreaming, here."
  "Okay, well, how do I wake up?"
  "Well, some people try reading," says Dr Jacobs
  "Reading what?"
  "Anything. If you're dreaming, then it's more difficult to read, because your mind has to write the words and read them at the same time, even though the speech centres of your brain are switched off. But, reading can sometimes turn it back on, and that wakes you up."
  "Okay, do you have a book I can read?" I ask.
Dr Jacobs takes one of the books from her desk and hands it to me. It's a book about something called 'cognitive behavioural therapy'. I open to a random page and read the words. It's pretty dry, but I can read most of the words fine, so long as they're not big, sciencey words.
  "Okay, that didn't work. What else?" I say.
  "Well, some people pinch themselves," says Dr Jacobs.
I grab some skin on my forearm between my fingers and squeeze.
  "Ow! Shit... that hurt."
  "Well, of course it hurt... this is real, Bianca! Please, I don't want you to hurt yourself."
  "What's the third one?" I say.
  "Blink," says Dr Jacobs, with an exasperated sigh.
  "Blink?" I say. I blink my eyes a few times.
  "No, you have to really shut your eyes tight," says Dr Jacobs. "See, when we're asleep, our eyes are closed. Most people don't blink in dreams at all. But, if you shut your eyes tight, then open them, it can force your body to open your actual eyes."
  "Okay," I say, closing my eyes tight. I squeeze them shut.
  "Bianca, I think it's time you admitted to yourself that this isn't a dream," says Dr Jacobs. "I know you've gone through a lot, in the past week, but-"
I open my eyes. I'm staring at the ceiling, which is being lit by the sun streaming in through the window. I try to sit up, but I still feel a but fuzzy from the dream. I slowly push myself up against the headboard, and look at the window. The curtains are open, but there's a thin, white, lacy curtain, letting light spill into the room. I hear a familiar, soft ticking sound. It takes me a second to realize that it's a grandfather clock, like in my grandmother's house.
  "Grammy...?" I say, but my throat is so dry, it sounds like a whisper. I roll my tongue around my mouth and swallow. "Grammy?"
After a few seconds, I head footsteps on the other side of the wall. A door off to the side opens, and I see Grammy come in, her dark hair hanging around her shoulders, over her white blouse.
  "Bianca, you're awake?" she says.
  "Yeah," I say. "How long was I asleep?"
  "Three days," says Grammy. "I was worried after the last time you woke up, how are you feeling?"
  "I'm okay... my throat's a little dry," I say.
  "I'll get you a cup of herbal tea," says Grammy. "Wait here."
She stands up and heads out of the room, walking past the tall post on the corner of the bed. It's then that I realize I'm in a big, old-fashioned bed, with four tall poles on each corner, and I'm covered with a lush, warm blanket, cream-coloured with pink flowers patterned all over it. After a minute, Grammy comes back with a cup and saucer.
  "Here you are, dear. Drink up," she says. I shakily take the cup and saucer, and take a sip. It's very sweet, but it's warm and helps wet my dry throat, so I gulp a mouthful.
  "Thank you," I say.
Granny takes the cup from me, and places it on the wooden, bedside table.
  "Where am I?" I ask.
  "This is my guest room," says Grammy.
  "It looks just like my dream," I say.
  "What dream?" asks Grammy.
  "It was weird..." I say. "I couldn't sleep for days, because I'd had this nightmare that this dark figure, a reaper, came and strangled me in my dreams. It was in a room just like this."
  "I am sorry about that," says Grammy.
  "It's not your fault," I say.
  "I'm afraid it is, my dear," says Grammy. "The last time you got out of bed, I panicked. I had to stop you. So, I strangled you, until you fell unconscious."
  "What?" I say, giggling. "What are you talking about?"
Grammy's face looks stone-cold serious.
  "I couldn't let you leave, after all this time..." says Granny. "But I'm sorry that I had to choke you. That must have been terrifying."
  "But you..." I lift my arm to point at her, but my hand weakly falls on the bed and shivers. "What's happening?"
  "Good, the tea is working," says Grammy. "If you're paralyzed, hopefully you won't go waking up anymore."
  "Paralyzed? But, I have to go home."
  "This is your home." says Grammy. "You've lived with me for ten years now. After I killed your parents..."
I feel a cold shiver down my spine.
  "Buh... why?" I stammer. As I speak, my mouth is starting to go numb, and I can barely move.
  "When I killed your grandfather, it was a mercy. Alzheimer's - terrible way to die - so I saved him from those last few years of misery, and took them for myself," says Granny, pulling me down into bed like a ragdoll, and tucking me under the covers. "There we are... but, I didn't know that along with his life, I'd taken his death as well. I started to lose my memory. So, I was forced to kill Rachel, take her years, to put off that death for a while. But, I was still losing my mind. Magic is a fickle thing, child..."
As she fluffs up my pillow and fixes my hair, I feel her cold, thin fingers on my face, and as she leans over me, I see the shadow of her hair against the sunlight, it looks like a black hood... it really was her. She was the reaper I saw, in my nightmare. You've already lost your mind... I want to say - but I can't. I can't speak. I can't move my mouth.
  "I realized that the only way to slow the disease wasn't just to take years from someone's life, but their life force, and their mind as well. Your father tried to stop me... he died slowly."
I want to scream, I want to jump out of bed, slap her and run out of this house, but my body won't co-operate. I'm as stiff as a corpse. My grandmother keeps talking, enjoying her captive audience.
  "I'm sorry to do this to you, but I had no other choice," says Grammy. "But don't worry, I won't strangle you again. I truly am sorry about that. This time I'll do the spell properly. I promise, this time the dream will seem as real as before. Now, close your eyes..."
I stare at her, stunned. Frozen still, and terrified.
  "Oh, sorry, I forgot. Paralyzed - you can't blink..." says Grammy. she touches my face with a cold hand, and pushes my eyelids closed. "Goodnight, Bianca. Sweet dreams..."

THE END