GENRE: YA Fantasy
I wasn’t afraid of nightmares, because the real nightmares were people. Folks like Will’s father or my old neighbor or the person who cut Paige’s face. But this nightmare looked real, like they all do.
Every line of her body was solid, down to the unusually deep curve between her jutting ribcage and her scrawny hips. When she moved up my bed, her bones cracked, and when I moved back against my headboard, she crawled halfway up my torso. Nose-to-nose, she smelled like rain, and water dripped off her hair onto my sternum. This woman had horns. Three horns as black as night and as difficult to decipher from the shadows as her inky, stringy hair.
I told myself what I always told myself, what my mother told me, what my doctor promised me, what my father used to say.
She was not real.
But she grinned when our eyes met, and I couldn’t help it. I screamed.
My mother burst into my bedroom on cue, as if she’d been anticipating another one of my midnight episodes, and as much as I wanted to tell her that I was fine now—that I understood my diagnosis—I secretly loved what happened every time she came. The hypnopompic hallucination disappeared, a side effect of my narcolepsy. A reoccurring, paralyzing side effect. They happened between sleep and wakefulness, and lasted anywhere from a few seconds to a minute.