I hide both of the notes into the opening of my boot, stuffing them down. Then I reach into my jacket pocket and grab my rings to put them on my fingers. As I do, I notice spots of red glinting off the rings. Trace’s blood.
My body heats at the memory. Pushing him up against the tree, pressing the spikes of my rings into his neck, and making him taste his own blood.
I yank myself from the thoughts. I need to find Alli. I need to find her and ask her where she was that night. Ask her what the argument was about. And I need to figure out who Seren was afraid of; who the boys werein the vision. I have a feeling they might have to do with her death.
The house is taped up with caution tape and by looking at the state of the house, even in the dim amber glow of the sun setting, I can’t tell if the tape is a warning for real danger or if it’s just for decoration. It could be for both but I decide the latter seems to be more ideal given the other decorations that are scattered across the surrounding outside area.
The wind whistles against the trees, causing the hanging skeletons to sway and the gobs of white spider webs to shake. Leaves kick up and swirl about as a light layer of snow starts to cover the ground.
I love this time of year. Halloween. I love the air, the look, the feel. But for the past few years, my favorite time of year has felt like nothing more than the looming hunger of death. It’s hard to feel excited about dressing up in cute costumes, hanging out at bonfires with your friends, telling ghost stories and whatever else the holiday has to offer. It’s why I’ve stayed away for as long as I have. It’s why I don’t even want to think about Halloween weekend or the Pines.
But part of me feels the reminiscent pull, the nostalgia of what it was like to once feel the freedom of not having a care in the world. To remember how easy everything felt even if just for a moment.
I hear a twig snap behind me, pulling me from my thoughts. I twist around, cautious of what I might find. I grind the little spikes of my rings against one another, trying to keep myself calm. But when I spin back around, I swear I catch a glimpse of what looks like red hair blazing through one of the trees in the distance. I take a step forward, my heart speeding with adrenaline. And then I hear another twig snap.
“Help me!” I flinch, my body freezing up as I hear the drag of feet through the crunching leaves and a low groan begging for help; a tone that sounds painful.
I turn and shock courses through my veins. Broden is behind me, only about a yard away. He looks pale and beaten badly, blood dried on his face and his eye puffed up and swollen. I can see his clothes covered in blood and he’s dragging his leg as he hobbles toward me.
I back up, fear licking my gut as I analyze the torture someone inflicted on him. I wanted to find him, but not like this.
“Please, help me.” He drags out his words, almost as if it’s hard for him to breathe.
I can see a gash on his head the closer he gets. That’s where most of the blood on his head must have come from. But I also notice that his nose is crooked, and dried blood stains the top of his lip as well. And then as I watch him favoring his limp leg, I notice the very large gash above his knee as well. Suddenly the air turns to ice, and the sky darkens a bit.
He stops at a tree and lazily leans up against it, groaning in agony as he looks down at the ground. Who the fuck did this to him?
“Wha- what happened to you?” I ask, feeling safe enough to take a few steps closer, but still apprehensive enough to keep my distance.
He lets out a satanic chuckle, or maybe he’s crying. His voice sounds raspy and broken, cracking as he tries to speak.
“That fucking psycho,” he gasps. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he fucking killed everyone. I’m going to fucking die out here.” His cries, his words, send chills down my spine. But I pinch my brows in, an overwhelming feeling of confusion and disbelief tangle in my chest as I take short but slow breaths.
“Who are you talking about?” I ask, hoping he’ll give me a name. Could I really be this close to finding out who my brother’s killer is?
My heart races at the thought, wondering if what he’s saying might have some truth to it. But clearly, whoever did this to him had to have a reason, right? Who would do this to someone for fun?
“Who did this tome?” Broden looks up at me, smiling a toothy, bloodstained grin. He looks sinister in what little glow is left of the sun, peeking through the cracks of tree branches. Seeing him like this, battered and broken down with gashes in his flesh and red staining nearly every surface of his skin, provides me with a simple sense of fear.
But the situation doesn’t evade me; Broden is the only person that I thought I could get answers from at first, knowing the tiny bit of history I do between him and my brother and him and Seren. Not to mention Banks’ very vague warning to stay away from him. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to picture him as the boy in the truth or dare memory. Was he who Seren wasafraid of? But regardless, here he is, standing—barely—in front of me, an inch away from losing his damn life, or so it looks.
I look over at the haunted house, the eeriness now starting to get to me. It’s settling into my bones, taking root and spreading over my skin in the form of goosebumps. A warning.
“Listen, are you going to help me or not? I’m fucking dying here.” Broden’s plea doesn’t necessarily greet me in an urgent way, my brain telling me that saving him is the least of my worries, even though I know I’m not the type to enjoy letting anyone suffer. But something tells me that tangling with him will be a danger I don’t want to get involved with. That he’s guilty of something and he deserved what he got.
But still, the curiosity ofwhodid this berates me, begging me to find the answer.
“Tell me who did this to you. And why,” I barter, forcing him to unveil his hand before I offer any help to him. “Or actually, I wanna know what your problem was with my brother.” I decide that if he truly doesn’t have long to live, I want to know the answer to the latter more, needing to piece together the information I already have rather than gain new information.
“You’re just as fucking insane, you know that? What does that have to do with anything?” he asks, gasping on every breath, wheezing through his broken nose.
“Maybe nothing,” I state. “Maybe everything. Just answer the fucking question,” I demand, stepping up to him.
“Fine, you wanna know?” He attempts to stand straighter against the tree, hissing as he guides his leg with him before turning up to look at me. “Yourbrother was pissed off because he found out that I got to deflower your sweet ass little friend before he had the chance to fuck her first.” His smile is proud, too proud for someone who is quite literally bleeding out. And his tone is just as gnarly, wicked and filled with pride.
But his words sink into my stomach and bloom into something vile, nauseating.
“Don’t fucking lie to me,” I say, aggression and anger dripping from my tone now, but he just laughs at me. Only he starts coughing up blood, causing worry to caress his battered face.
