“Yeah, what was the word? Cherry?” I scream, my voice trembling but defiant. “That was a long-term bet though, right? It lasted over eight months. Eight months, Jonathan!”
Jonathan spins around, his face twisted with rage. “Shut up!” he roars, his eyes wild. He crosses the room in two quick strides and shoves me hard, sending me sprawling backward. I lose my balance and crash to the floor, my head slamming down. Painexplodes behind my eyes. “It should have been you, not Marissa. You’re the one who should be dead!”
The room tilts, the edges of my vision blurring with black spots. As my head throbs, I swear I see a shadowy figure—a woman in a flowing gown, her presence cold and haunting. Liliana. Her whisper is like a breath against my ear, “Shhhh…” before everything goes dark.
Pitch fucking black.
Chapter
Eighteen
I’m lying on the cold, sticky floor, my head pounding. I try to push myself up, but my arms are too shaky to hold my weight. My heartbeat throbs wildly in my throat, erratic and loud. Something’s wrong. I feel nauseous, dizzy. What happened?
I reach up and touch the back of my head, my fingers trembling. A sharp pain makes me wince. There’s a swollen knot, and my hair is matted and wet. Blood.
I don’t know where I am, why I’m here. I scan the room, waiting for my head to clear. I must have had more whiskey than I thought. Sometimes after a few drinks it takes a while to remember, sometimes it just stays a blurry shadow that never fully forms.
As my vision sharpens, the room comes into horrifying focus. The walls are a sickly, peeling white, streaked with brown stains and splatters that look like blood and shit. Rusted metal bed frames line one wall, their mattresses torn open, yellowed stuffing spilling out like entrails. Chains dangle from the bedposts, ending in heavy, iron cuffs. A single, flickering fluorescent light buzzes overhead.
In the far corner, a sink sits stained with dark, congealed streaks of crimson. The tap drips slowly, each drop like a heartbeat in the silence. Above the sink, a shattered mirror reflects distorted images of the room.
What the fuck?
Just a few feet away, a body lies curled on a yellowed mattress. Its face dark and bruised, with skin tightly stretched over protruding cheekbones and deep, sunken eyes. From one eye socket, a bright blue wire protrudes, ending in a perfectly round eyeball. It’s lit, glowing softly like a lamp.
It's a freaking Halloween decoration.
My mind races, trying to piece together where I am. I slowly climb to my feet, leaning heavily on a metal bed frame. My skull aches, my head reels. I force myself to stand still until the feeling returns to my limbs. I stretch my fingers, clench them into fists, willing my thoughts to clear.
An escape room. Jonathan shouting at me. Tessa rocking in a corner.Marissa.
Panic seizes me as I remember Marissa’s lifeless eyes, and the sharp, metallic taste of fear coats my tongue. I press myself into the nearest wall, my heart hammering in my chest. “Tessa?” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “Jonathan?”
Memories flood back, each one more terrifying than the last. Jonathan’s angry words, Tessa’s broken sobs, Marissa’s vacant stare. I shake my head, trying to dispel the images, but they cling like a second skin, slowly tightening around my chest, making it hard to breathe.
Across the room is a door that looks like an emergency room door, its paint chipped and peeling. I rush to it and push through, pulse pounding in my ears. The room beyond is bathed in a sickly, greenish light, casting everything in a ghastly pallor. Nausea rolls low in my belly. I need to get the hell out of here.
Then I see him—Jonathan, slumped against the far wall. He’s unnaturally still. I rush to his side, dread knotting in my chest. “Jonathan,” I whisper, my voice tight with fear.
He doesn’t respond. His eyes are open, staring blankly at the ceiling. A thin trickle of blood runs from his nose, cutting a crimson path down his face, pooling in his open mouth. His lips are parted, as if he had been about to speak. The sight is grotesque, the blood stark against his pale skin.
“Oh, God, no. No, no, no,” I mutter, pressing my fingers to his neck. Nothing. His skin is too cold. “No! Please, no!” I choke out, my voice cracking as I grab his arms, trying to drag him upright, desperate for any sign of life. “Come on, wake up! You have to wake up!” My fingers tremble as I shake him, his body limp and unresponsive. Tears blur my vision, spilling down my cheeks, and I sob as I pound his chest in a frantic attempt to revive him.
He’s dead. Jonathan’s dead, and I’m next. Fire rises up my throat. I turn away, clamping a hand over my mouth, but it’s no use. My stomach empties in a wet splash across the floor. I stay bent over, spitting until the bitter taste of whiskey and bile fades.
How long will it be before Lyle finds me again? What if he found Hayes?
A sudden, loud crash echoes from somewhere, followed by a guttural scream that turns my blood to ice. The sound is raw, filled with unrelenting agony. "Griffin?" I call out, my voice cracking with fear. The scream feels close. I whirl around, eyes wide, searching desperately for any sign of him.
I run through another door. “Griff?” I whisper.
He’s not here.
Instead, I find a room filled with dolls. Creepy dolls in all shapes and sizes, wearing prom dresses, arranged in macabre disarray around a tea party set. Their glassy eyes stare blankly ahead, each one more lifeless and terrifying than the next. Thetea party set is in front of a fake window, with shutters painted in a twisted Alice in Wonderland theme, the characters contorted into grotesque, nightmarish illustrations. Scrawled in a spidery handwriting across the top are the words:We’re all mad here in these halls, to leave you must use the ancient invention that lets you see through walls. The room is suffocatingly still, the air heavy with dust and a sour scent that I can only describe as microwaved pickles.
Desperation claws at me. I rush to the nearest doll and sweep it off the table, sending it crashing to the floor. The porcelain head shatters. My panic intensifies. I tear through the room, smashing dolls left and right, their delicate bodies breaking apart with sickening cracks. Heads roll across the floor, limbs scatter, and still, there’s no sign of Griffin or a way out of the room.
I reach for another doll, a large one with a cracked face and matted hair. As I lift it, its head lolls to the side, and to my horror, its mouth opens. “Momma,” it whispers, its voice mechanical and eerie, filled with a chilling innocence that freezes my blood. I drop the doll in shock, and it lands with a hollow thud, its glassy eyes still fixed on me.
