The sun was quickly setting, but I could still make out a shadowy figure nestled between the roots. I glanced again. It was Rosalyn, her party dress shimmering in the weak light. Bile rose in my throat. How could she be here? She was buried, her body six feet underground at the Mystic Falls cemetery. As I walked closer, steeling my courage and grasping the knife in my pocket, I noticed her lifeless eyes reflecting the verdant leaves above. Her dark curls stuck to her clammy forehead. And her neck wasn’t torn out at all. Instead, her neck displayed only two neat little holes, the size of shodding nails. As if guided by an unseen hand, I fell to my knees next to her body. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, staring at the cracked earth below. Then I raised my eyes and froze in horror. Because it wasn’t Rosalyn’s body at all. It was Katherine’s. A small smile curved her rosebud lips, as if she were simply dreaming. I fought the urge to scream. I would not let Katherine die! But as I reached toward her wounds, she sat straight up.
