Putting words to paper is easy for me; it’s just making stuff up and I must admit, I’m a talented liar; although my father would call me a writer. And yet as I sit in front of my computer, staring at the flashing cursor I can’t think of a single thing to write.

“Stupid college essay,” I mumble to myself. I type in a title and quickly erase it, questioning what I was thinking. This shouldn’t be as hard as it is. It’s only an essay on myself, and I know me pretty damn well.

That’s what you think, the voice in my head says. You don’t know you at all.

“Shut up,” I say. “I need to concentrate.”

From across the room my father calls, “I didn’t say anything. Talking to yourself again?”

“Just the voice in my head that reminds me I know nothing about anything,” I tell him. He perks up right away, dropping his newspaper on the table. I immediately flinch, squeezing my eyes shut. Any mention of disembodied voices puts him on high alert. Quickly I add, “You know, the one I know isn’t real?”

His lips purse. I peek over and see him physically forcing the words down his throat as his Adam’s apple bobs. I make my escape, slamming my laptop shut. “I gotta get to school; Mr. Diaz is a stickler for anyone that shows up late. Bye Dad!”

I grab my backpack and rush for the front door, knocking into Dad’s glass case of old war knives. The table is way too far from the corner, and after hitting it every time I leave I’ve yet to learn my lesson. Dad yells to me, “Be careful, Willa. Remember I’m working late tonight!”

The September air is sticky as I step outside, the summer heat refusing to leave. A few clouds blow by overhead, reminding me I really need to buy an umbrella. Maybe I can go today after school.

Walking down the street I pull out my phone and text Beth to make sure she’s still meeting me in front of the graveyard. She would pick me up in front of my house but Dad always says something about it being too dangerous to get in the car with her. Apparently teen girls are a safety hazard when in a confined space. I roll my eyes at the thought as my phone beeps with her reply. She’s already there.

I quicken my pace, only a block away.

I don’t like that girl, the voice says. She wears a cross. The last word dances a chill across my skin, settling in my bones.

“Too bad; I’ve known her longer than you,” I tell the voice. “Ithinara, you need to get over it.”

I turn the corner to find Beth and Delilah parked in the driveway of the cemetery, convertible top down and engine running. I can’t help but smile; they’ve been my friends forever and know my darkest secrets.

I know your secrets, Ithinara says, what do you need them for?

“To remind me I’m sane,” I say. “And that the demon in my head can’t take control of me.”

Ithinara harrumphs at me.

Demons are so touchy.