You dream of teeth.

White. Sharp. Rows of them. They grind against your jaw. You feel the pressure. It is a bad dream. You wake. The room is dark. The air is cold. You are in your cell. The stone is damp. You touch the wall. It is wet. You are Margaret. You are the prisoner. You are the daughter.

The door opens. Light floods in. It is too bright. You shield your eyes. A man stands there. He wears black. He is tall. He is Thomas. He is the Sheriff. He is your enemy. He is also the only one who comes.

"Morning," he says.

His voice is rough. It is like gravel. He does not smile. He looks at the floor. He looks at you. He looks away.

"Good," you say.

Your voice is dry. It cracks. You swallow. It hurts.

He steps inside. The door slams. The lock clicks. It is a loud sound. It echoes. You flinch. You always flinch. He knows you flinch. He does not care.

He brings a cup. It is clay. It is dirty. He holds it out. You take it. Your hands shake. The water is cold. You drink. It is not water. It is wine. It is cheap. It burns. You spit it out.

"Drink it," he says.

"I cannot."

"You must."

He leans in. His face is close. You see the veins in his neck. They are purple. They pulse. He smells of sweat. He smells of iron. He smells of the town.

"Your mother is dead," he says.

The cup slips. It shatters. The wine spills. It soaks into the straw. It is red. It looks like blood. You do not move. You stare at the puddle.

"No," you say.

"Yes."

He is calm. He is too calm. He checks his watch. It is a gold watch. It is bright. It is ugly.

"I have work to do," he says. "You have work to do."

"What work?"

"You know."

He turns. He walks to the door. He pauses. He looks back. His eyes are cold. They are empty.

"Come to the square at noon," he says. "Bring the key."

He leaves. The door closes. The lock clicks. You are alone.

You sit on the straw. You wait. The light moves. The shadows lengthen. You think of your mother. She is in the ground. She is cold. She is gone. You were not there. You were here. You are always here.

You remember the day before. You remember the dream. The teeth. They were your mother’s teeth. You bit them. You felt the crunch. You felt the wetness. You felt the joy. It was a terrible joy. You wanted to stop. You could not stop. You wanted to scream. You could not scream. You just bit.

You stand up. Your legs are weak. You walk to the wall. You press your hand against it. It is solid. It is hard. It is real. You are real. The dream is not real. Or is it?

You go to the square. The town is small. The houses are old. The roofs are slate. They are black. The streets are cobblestone. They are uneven. You walk fast. Your feet hurt. You do not care.

People watch you. They point. They whisper. You do not look. You keep walking. You know the path. You have walked it a thousand times. You are going to the church. You are going to the altar. You are going to the key.

Thomas is there. He stands by the pulpit. He is waiting. He does not look at you. He looks at the congregation. The church is full. They are all there. The old women. The children. The men. They are silent. They are watching.

"Come here," Thomas says.

You walk up. Your feet stop moving. You are frozen. You are a statue. You are a ghost.

He holds the key. It is small. It is silver. It is cold. He holds it out.

"Take it," he says.

You reach out. Your hand is steady. You take it. It is heavy. It feels like a stone. You feel the weight in your palm.

"Open the door," he says.

Which door? You look around. The church has many doors. The main door. The side doors. The back door. You look at Thomas. He is watching you. He is smiling. It is a small smile. It is a sad smile.

"The door in the crypt," he says.

You know the way. You have been there. You have seen the bones. You have seen the dust. You have seen the darkness.

You walk out. The sun is high. It is hot. It beats down on your back. You walk to the back of the church. The door is there. It is iron. It is rusted. It is old.

You put the key in the lock. It fits. You turn it. The lock clicks. It is the same sound. It is the same sound as in the cell. It is the same sound as in your head.

You push the door. It is heavy. It creaks. It opens. The air is cold. It is stale. It smells of death.

You step inside. The darkness is total. You cannot see. You reach out. You touch the wall. It is smooth. It is cold. You walk forward. Your feet hit the ground. It is soft. It is dirt.

You stop. You hear something. It is a sound. It is a breath. It is slow. It is deep.

"Mother?" you say.

Your voice is small. It is lost in the dark.

"Margaret," the voice says.

It is her voice. It is soft. It is kind. It is warm.

"I am here," she says.

You fall to your knees. You cry. You sob. You wail. The sound bounces off the walls. It is loud. It is ugly. It is true.

"I am here," she says again.

You reach out. You find a hand. It is cold. It is dry. It is yours.

You realize the truth. There is no one there. You are alone. You have been alone. You are the one who is dead. You are the one who is in the ground. You are the one who is in the crypt.

You look at your hands. They are blue. They are stiff. They are dead.

You are not the prisoner. You are the ghost.

Thomas is the one who is alive. He is the one who is haunting you. He is the one who is keeping you here. He is the one who is feeding you. He is the one who is using you.

He needs a sacrifice. He needs a sin. He needs a story. He needs you.

You stand up. Your body is heavy. It is like lead. It is like stone.

You turn. You walk back. The door is open. The light is there. It is bright. It is blinding.

Thomas is waiting. He is in the sunlight. He looks at you. He is not surprised. He is not happy. He is not sad. He is empty.

"Did you find it?" he asks.

You look at him. You look at the key in your hand. You look at the ground. You look at the shadow.

"No," you say.

"You must give it to me," he says.

He reaches out. His hand is long. His fingers are thin. He wants the key. He wants the power. He wants the end.

You look at the key. It is silver. It is bright. It is cold.

You think of the teeth. You think of the crunch. You think of the wetness.

You open your hand. The key falls. It hits the stone. It makes a sound. It is small. It is clear.

Thomas reaches for it. He misses. He looks at the ground. He looks at you.

"What are you doing?" he says.

You do not answer. You cannot speak. Your mouth is full. It is full of teeth. They are your teeth. They are your mother’s teeth.

You bite. You bite down. You feel the crunch. You feel the wetness. You feel the joy.

You spit. The teeth fly. They hit Thomas’s face. They stick. They are white. They are sharp.

He screams. He falls. He rolls. He covers his face. He is in pain. He is in horror.

You stand there. You are still. You are calm. You are heavy.

The crowd comes. They push in. They see you. They see Thomas. They see the blood. They see the teeth.

They do not cheer. They do not shout. They whisper. They point. They are afraid.

You look at Thomas. He is on the ground. He is broken. He is bleeding. He is looking at you. His eyes are wide. They are full of fear.

You do not hate him. You do not love him. You are done.

You turn away. You walk into the light. The sun is hot. It burns. It hurts. You do not care.

You walk out of the church. You walk into the square. The town is silent. The air is still. The birds are quiet.

You walk away. You do not look back. You do not remember. You do not feel.

You are free. You are gone. You are dust.

The key lies in the crypt. It is alone. It is cold. It is waiting.

No one comes for it.

The dream ends. The teeth remain.