“Did it say anything toyoupersonally?” she asks, leaning in like she’s about to uncover the Roswell incident. “Sometimes, in traumatic events, victims report… messages. Voices.”
“No,” I say. “Nothing that made sense. Just… gibbering. It felt like it wasinsidemy head, like it wanted to break my brain open and crawl inside.”
“Fascinating,” Trish says, glancing at the camera again. “And when you say it was ‘rotting,’ could that have been… an effect of the light? Or fear?”
I grit my teeth. “Its skin was falling off in ribbons. There weremaggots, Trish.”
She doesn’t flinch. “Could that have been your mind trying to process trauma through symbolic imagery?”
“Lady, I’ve read Carl Jung. I know what projection is. That thing wasn’t a symbol. It was amonster.”
Trish softens her tone, just a hair. “It’s just important we explore all angles. You know how things like this can take on a life of their own. And we want to be fair.”
“Fair?” I scoff. “Is that why your cameraman’s zooming in every time I blink too hard? You’re not here for the truth. You’re here for theclip.”
Trish’s smile tightens into something colder. “You reached out to the station, Olivia.”
“No. I called thepolice. You showed up with a spotlight and a smirk.”
A long pause.
“Are you sure you want to keep this interview going?” she asks, still smiling. Still rolling.
I yank the mic off and shove it into her hands. “No. We’re done.”
I hear the words come out and instantly want to suck them back in. Becauseof coursethat’s what the crazy lady says. That’s the soundbite they’ll use. Overlay it with eerie music and stock footage of shadows moving behind trees.
I yank off the clip mic and shove it into Trish’s hands. “We’re done.”
I don’t wait for a reply. I head to my truck, heart pounding, skin buzzing with the echo of that… thing’s sounds. The way it had looked at me. Like itknewme. Like it had picked me for something.
The drive home is a blur. Trees flash past in my headlights like ghost arms reaching out to grab me. I check the rearviewmirror three times. At one point, I swear I hear the chittering again—but it’s just my seatbelt buckle rattling against the door.
I pull up to the cabin, slam the truck into park, and nearly trip getting out. I run to the door with my keys already in hand, heart galloping, every shadow stretching longer than it should.
Inside, it’s still.
I lock every bolt, drop the blinds, and grab the flashlight and that same damn fire extinguisher from the library. I check under the bed. In the closets. Behind the shower curtain.
There’s nothing.
Just me.
And the memory of its face.
I sit on the couch, legs pulled up, flashlight pointed at the front door.
I don’t sleep.
Ican’t.
Because it’s out there. Somewhere. And now it knows me. It knows what I look like. Smell like.
And if it hated cold, I wonder what it feels about revenge.
CHAPTER 3
OLIVIA
