Nothing stirs.
The only sound comes from the wind scraping through the branches, whistling far across the snowy landscape.
I focus on making it to the front of the curving, sloped drive.
The wrought-iron gate appears ahead, standing tall and sturdy against the stark white landscape. I step up close and peer through the bars, searching the long stretch of road ahead.
There aren’t any headlights in the distance. No sound of tires on packed snow.
My hand fumbles in my coat pocket for my phone. No bars show up on the screen. Not even a flicker of signal, and the battery reads thirty-four percent.
I let out a shallow breath and rattle the bars, testing if I can slide them to the side to open the gate. But to no surprise, it refuses to budge even a little bit.
It’s locked.
Mr. Taylor gave me a ring of keys that he claimed unlocked almost every door on the estate. Surely one of these keys would have to work on the front gate. My numbed fingers fumble with the ring of keys, trying each one to no avail.
Not a single key even fits inside the lock, let alone opens the gate. The remote doesn’t work either.
“Great,” I mutter, scowling. “If he thinks that’ll stop me… he’s wrong. I’ll… I’ll just wait ’til the taxi comes, then try climbing over the gate… somehow.”
But the twenty minutes come and go. I try to dial the number again only to confirm I have no signal out here.
“Even better,” I grumble under my breath.
A new gust of wind rushes up, drawing a deep shudder out of me. I hug myself tighter, edging in closer to the gate and giving it a harder rattle than before. The metal doesn’t budge.
A scream works its way up my throat, but I swallow it down with gritted teeth. I refuse to give in to these conditions; I refuse to surrender to the obvious sabotage.
I’m reformulating a game plan when the air changes. A thick, heavy pause settles in, carried by the bitter-cold winds.
Then I feel the sudden, instinctual awareness I’m being watched. Eyes are on me and I’m no longer alone.
Slowly, my heart flipping inside my chest, I turn my head. I gasp and stumble back, pressing against the tall iron bars.
He’s returned.
He steps from the tree line, moving slowly and silently as ever. The mask looks menacing in the snowdrift, the body of a strapping man and the head of a horned monster.
He’s straight from my nightmares. He’s everything I’ve dreaded about even setting foot outside.
I stand where I am, frozen against the fence, my brain suddenly refusing to work. What do I even do in a situation like this? He’s once again between me and the house. My options are remain where I am, try (and probably fail) to climb the ten-foot high gate, or run for the trees that surround us.
I don’t run so much as bolt. I lunge off the drive and head straight for the trees.
The snow is deeper off the drive—way deeper than I expected. Each step forward feels like several back, my coat so heavy and wet from snow it’s as if I’m making no real progress at all.
But I push on, boots sinking and snow to my shins. I’m panting desperately for air, my lungs burning and aching all at once.
The trees close in fast, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. One catches my sleeve and nearly yanks me backward. Another scrapes across my cheek, needles stinging my skin. I duck and weave half-blind, vision tunneling to only the next few feet in front of me.
I don’t know where I’m going or how long I run. Time stretches and warps—it could be two minutes or it could be twenty. I’m possibly running for two miles or maybe it’s five.
My thoughts are fractured; the panic consuming me whole and making it impossible to think clearly.
But not once does he ever let up. He makes it clear he’s right behind me.
His footsteps pound the snow, his grunting distinct and primal. He wants me to know he’s chasing after me; he’s closing in as I zip through the confusing forest and try desperately to escape.
