Page 33 of Don’t Let Him In

My chest coils tight.

The cigarette.

A grisly procession of possibilities invades my mind, their bodies blackened beyond recognition, flesh fused to the floorboards until nothing remains but scorched skin and bone. My skin prickles as my stomach revolts.

I force the images down and look to Manson. His back is still turned, his attention tethered to the violence unfolding before him.

Instinct takes over. Now. This is my chance to run while he’s still distracted.

I turn so fast the room pitches sideways, and bolt.

Manson shouts after me, but I don’t turn. Don’t let his voice slow me down. I reach the front door, rip it open, and race into the chilling air, my vision muddling as I cross the slick grass and vanish into a thicket of spindly trees. Stinging nettles lash my arms and legs.

I don’t know where I’m going. Just that I need to keep moving.

Strips of moonlight are the only markers guiding me deeper into the tangled dark. I push blindly onward until the woods fall away, exposing a narrow stretch of open grass.

I halt.

Ahead, the ditch lies exactly where I remember it. Denial digs into me, brutal and immediate, mangling every thought that dares lead me closer to the truth.

It couldn’t be. It isn’t.

Needles puncture the backs of my eyes, yet uncertainty breeds a treacherous flicker of hope. Every warning in me gnaws louder, urging me to turn around before I see what’s waiting at the bottom.

I don’t listen.

Inch by inch, I surrender the ground between us, each reluctant advance making the lie harder to sustain.

The wind howls. Cold envelops me, burrowing into my bones. I swallow, grit my teeth, and lean forward, shoulders wound tight as I force myself to peer into the ditch.

Devastation sunders my chest.

There I am.

My lifeless body.

A strangled sob breaks from me as I sink to my knees, palms striking the damp earth. My fingers rake into the softened soil, curling around fistfuls of it as my body begins to shake.

The tears come down harder now, blurring the corpse below until its features lose their shape, allowing me to retreat into the fragile delusion that I could be wrong. That the body lying beneath me isn’t mine.

Behind me, leaves rustle.

I freeze.

Then I feel him.

My neck prickles. The fine hairs rise.

“It’s over now,” he says softly, his footsteps drawing closer. “No more running.”

A shudder rips through me. I keep my eyes trained on the ditch, too afraid to turn around. “What do you want from me?”

“What I’ve always wanted.”

He’s closer now.

Every trace of his earlier panic has vanished, his unnerving composure slipping back into place. A quiet finality threads his words, steeped in absolute assurance.