For a moment, William had a weightless sensation as though he floated in the dark, held up by nothingness. His phone slipped free of his pocket, tumbling away from him. He heard it crack against stone – no, that wasn’t his phone.
It was his skull that hit the unrelenting cement floor.
There was no pain, there was no panic – only relief.
Then, the peace and quiet he’d longed for, came swiftly, devouringeverything.
The darkness spat William out as though it was disgusted by his taste.
He bolted upright, squinting against a single beam of light that threatened to blind him. His head spun, foggy and thick. Attempting to lift a hand to the back of his skull, he found he couldn’t move it. Blinking away the light, he discovered why.
He was back in bed, his arm tucked neatly beneath rumpled bedsheets. The stiff sheets clung to his sweat slick body like an unwanted embrace.
Beside him, a person groaned. Looking, he found Edward peering at him through squinted eyes, his brown hair ruffled like the feathers of a bird – the signs of good sleep.
“Good morning,” Edward grumbled, lifting his head briefly before flopping back on the pillow.
Was it? “I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.”
“A bus?” Edward exhaled with a smile. “No buses this far out…”
“Make that three buses.” The pain was insufferable, and well deserved. William Thorn was experiencing one hell of a hangover, that’s what it had to be.
The rest of William’s words failed him. As much as he wanted to explain what had happened –thoughthad happened – he couldn’t bring himself to mention it. His chest ached from the rapid beat of his heart, the burn of his lungs trying desperately to fill with breath. All he could think about was his last memory. The shadows, the scratching of nails and the impossible scene of Robert Thomas climbing out of the portrait. Nothing else seemed to matter. Finally, he freed his hand and lifted it to the back of his head. He frantically searched for a lump or wound – something to prove that last night was more than some nightmare. But there was no pain – besides that offered by the amount of wine he’d drunk. His hair wasn’t plastered with dried blood, only sweat, and his body wasn’t bruised.
Apparently, Edward had asked him something, but the question went over William’s head. After a few more moments of unbeknownst ignoring, Edward spoke again.
“Are you giving me the silent treatment because I snored or something? I do tend to do that when I drink…”
William didn’t let him finish. “I think I know where Teddy’s journal is.”
With that admission, they kicked out of the bed. Edward chased after William, eyes fixed to his back. A loud thump sounded beside William’s shaky feet as he stood. Looking down, he saw Robert’s journal, face down, on the floor. Even if he wanted to, he didn’t pick it up.
“Will, hold up for a second,” Edward panted breathlessly. “I’m… going to need an explanation or something…”
Edward’s request fell on oblivious ears as William moved for the barricaded door to the room – barricades he remembered moving last night. And yet it was as if he’d never touched them. Had it really all been a bad dream? There was both relief at the thought and panic. On one hand, he didn’t want last night to be real, because then he could continue pretending ghosts weren’t real. But on the other, it meant he really was losing his mind.
William dragged the furniture away from the door, making it to the landing beyond the room before Edward managed to grab hold of him.
“Calmdown,” Edward said, cheeks flushed red. His grip on William’s arms was firm but equally light. “Just give me a second to wake up, tell me what’s going on.”
William could’ve fought his way free, but something in the very real, grounding touch forced his body to pause. “I had a dream, I think.”
“That’s pretty normal, Will. What makes you think you know where Teddy’s journal is?”
William closed his eyes, aware his headache seemed like it was from more than just the wine. The pain was suddenly electric, splitting his spine in half and filling with inch of his body. “I do.” He tipped his head towards the bedroom where Robert’s journal was. “I was reading another entry from Robert last night, and it said something about where Teddy’s journal might be.”
It was all coming back to him in quick succession. The portrait, the journal in the frame, and the horror after he took it free.
“It was –isin the portrait downstairs.” William was holding Edward now, knuckles white as he clutched onto his broad shoulders. “I found it and then… and then…”
William forced his lips to seal, hoping it was enough for the rush of bile not to erupt out of him.
“It’s just another nightmare, okay?”
“It can’t be.” William shook his head. “It felt so real.”
And yet the bedroom was untouched, the barricade by the door unmoved…
