I pulled at the opening, making it big enough for me, and with a slight struggle, as my arms were not as strong as my legs, I hoisted myself up, pulling it closed behind me as he rounded the corner.
I dropped as he came into view of the window. I pulled open a cupboard door, praying the space would be big enough for me to hide as he said the words, “Where are you, little doll? I know you’re close; I can smell your fear.”
And I knew he wasn’t fucking lying.
Time had passed, but I had no idea how much.
My scrunched-up body was starting to cramp, my bent neck aching. The space wasn’t as hot as earlier, but the rancid stench of bad meat was still thick.
I realized I couldn’t hide in here forever. . . but it must have been hours, and I still hadn’tfound the courage to leave my little nook, not even after half a bottle of red wine—the only liquid in here aside from detergent. I didn’t doubt Wynter would be mad, assuming she was around to actually get mad, as she’d clearly been hiding this bottle from Ville.
It wasn’t my intention to upset her.
The passing hours had made me thirsty. . . so I took a sip and then a swig, and then another, hoping it would give me the Dutch courage to leave the small space. It didn’t. And I was running out of wine from the bottle that was already half empty when I found it.
I pushed the door slightly, cringing when the hinges squeaked. I stopped dead and waited, praying it hadn’t been heard. I hadn’t heard Hell come back inside, though I hadn’t heard anything, I’d slipped into a daydream for what felt like hours, and I’d blocked out the sounds of reality.
Losing myself to images of Woodrow’s room, his bed, his arms, bodies wrapped around each other. . . kissing, touching, giving each other all we could. And it gave me comfort.
I shouldn’t have been thinking of that, not during my situation, but stress zoned me out, and the reveries that I had little control over came at random.
But like all dreams, it faded away.
My mouth was no longer lip-syncing words; my face no longer contorted in expressions. I was alone here, my daydreams replaced by the fears they had previously chased away.
I pushed the door again, my fingers trembling on the dark wood. The kitchen sat in darkness, just like I had. I crawled out from the space, staying low to the ground as I headed to the table. Breakfast was cold and still dwelling atop as evening shades claimed the sky outside.
I made the same mistake again as I slipped beneath the tablecloth. My stupid limb brushed the heavy chain belonging to the family’s invisible dog, and it made a noise. I could barely make out the silver spikes, standing large and proud around a thick black collar, in such poor lighting.
I crouched into a ball, lowered enough to see beneath the sheet and into the dark hallway.
Moonlight twinkled amongst fallen glass on the porch. Hell had broken the door on his exit.
There wasn’t a sound in the house. . . nothing.
I forced myself out, knees shifting over the hard floor. Fallen mush from breakfast had made it to the ground and was now squelching between my fingers. I stood, quietly, and with disgust on my face, I wiped my hands in my pajama shorts, staining the satin with a smudge of grease.
I crept through the hallway, alcohol hazing my vision and delaying my reactions, should I need to use them. I moved slowly, not bothering to look at the photos of the false smiles of the unhappy family lining the walls.
I peeked into the den.
The tv, as usual, was on, muted on a show I didn’t recognize. The light glow of the screen shone into the otherwise dusky room, skulking over dark and dated furniture.
I continued on, my hazy eyes probing the outside before I swallowed my fear and shifted to the stairs.
“Nessie,” I whispered, praying she was close by.
She wasn’t, and her absence called me forward.
I placed my foot on the first step and moved up, cringing as I waited for a creak as I got closer to the top. Nothing. I had learned where not to step.
I rounded the corner. The dark and gloaming hallway appeared longer. Shadows moved without a warrant, making the house act like the leading prop of an old horror movie—very fitting for its image.
My breathing stilled as I reached the first door. Wynter and Ville’s bedroom was exposed. The bed unmade from Ville’s laziness this morning.
I looked to the door opposite. My breathing dawdled in my lungs, and no rubbing or coaxing did anything to free it until I moved by Woodrow’s closed door.
It was open during breakfast, which meant. . .
