I turned to run back to my room, to put distance between myself and this manifestation of grief and desperation—and stumbled to a halt. The woman now stood directly before me, mere inches away, close enough that I could see her face clearly for the first time.
Her eyes were not hollow pits of darkness as I had feared. They were her own eyes—green, like mine, shot through with red veins and swimming with tears. Her mouth quivered, blood-stained lips parting to speak. She reached for me with both hands, her fingers stretching toward my face.
“Help me,” she pleaded, the scent of rot and decay clinging to her. “Please, help me. I cannot get out.”
I backed away slowly, watching as her hand trailed up to her throat. She squeezed, eyes going round and wide as blood spilled from a gaping wound that appeared beneath her palm. One by one, vines slithered out between her fingers, spilling from her neck.
My own throat seized tight, my fingers gliding over the ribbon there as something squirmed beneath. I pressed hard against it, desperate to still whatever had climbed beneath my skin. I clawed at it, unable to pinpoint the parasite.
Look what he’s done,the voice said, watching the scene unfold through my eyes.
The movement beneath my palm stopped suddenly, and I scrambled back, shaking my head as the ghost reached for me again. A scream tore from my lungs before I could stop it. I squeezed my eyes closed, unable to look at her face any longer, unable to bear the desperate pleading in those eyes that were so much like my own.
Somewhere behind me, a door creaked open.
Heavy footsteps hurried toward me.
Warm, firm hands slid around my waist, and my body was being spun around, pulled away from the ghost—and into the arms of a monster.
I opened my eyes to find Dr. Ambrose staring down at me with concern etched deep into his features. His hair was disheveled from sleep, his bare chest peeking out beneath a robe he had pulled on in haste.
“What is it?” he demanded, his hands gripping my arms to anchor me to reality. His eyes searched my face, thenswept down my body, assessing me for injuries. “What happened?”
I tried to speak, but no words came out. My mouth opened and closed uselessly, my throat too tight with fear and shock to form coherent sounds. My whole body began to shake so violently my teeth chattered.
“Camellia!” he said firmly, his hands moving to my shoulders, shaking me gently, but with enough force to break through the paralysis that had seized me. “Answer me! What happened?”
I stuttered incoherently, my words tumbling over themselves in my panic. “Y-your wife… you…”
I struggled free from his grasp, backing away, my hand raised as if to ward him off. “I k-know what you did to her.”
He stared at me, genuine bewilderment in his features. “What are you talking about?”
I shook my head violently, the words spewing from my lips like venom. “You killed her!”
His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. Something dangerous flashed in their amber depths as he stalked forward. He reached me before I could think clearly, caging me against the wall, bracing his hands on either side of my head. I shoved at his chest with both hands, trying to push him away, but he caught my wrists.
“I did not kill my wife,” he said, his voice dropping low, taking on a menacing quality I had never heard from him before.
I stilled, my struggles ceasing as I searched his eyes, looking for any sign of deception, for guilt or malice or some confirmation of what I had accused him of, but there was nothing, no hint of deceit within them, only grief—desperate and bleeding—and hurt so profound it made my chest ache to witness it.
He's lying, the voice said, pressing forward against my skull.He killed her. You saw the blood. He put the vine in her!
I wrenched my hands free with a forceful twist and tried to duck under his arm, but he simply moved with me, his hands trapping me more effectively than any physical restraint ever could.
“Let me go!” I shouted, fighting against him with renewed panic. I had to get away. I had to leave. I could not stay a moment longer in a house with a man who had experimented on his own wife.
“Calm down,” he commanded, pressing his body against mine to stop my furious movements. The full length of him pinned me to the wall, immobilizing me completely.
I breathed deeply, and it caught halfway down, my lungs briefly reconsidering their obligation. The warmth of him was suffocating. He was too close. It was too much. My mind screamed in warning, but my body ached to press against him, to peel back his flesh and dissect his insides until I learned how he made so much warmth.
“Look at me,” he said firmly.
I refused, squeezing my eyes shut, turning my face away.
His hand came up, fingers gentle but firm as they guided my face back toward his. “I had nothing to do with her death. Do you understand?”
I forced my eyes open and glared at him, my teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached.
