Page 6 of The Knucklebone Brothers

"Oh, the wind and rain."

On that line, his voice didn't just sing; it cracked. It was the sound of something brittle and sharp breaking inside him, a high, strained edge that made the hair on my arms stand on end. It wasn't a crack of emotion; it was the sound of a sanity snapping, a psycho about to lose his shit.

"The miller brought her safe to land," he continued, his voice smooth again, but the threat was still there, hanging in the air between us. "Crying, oh, the dreadful wind and rain."

He was closer now, so close I could see the cracked paint on his mask.

"And what did he do with her breastbone?" he crooned, his voice a low, menacing hum.

He paused, his head cocked, waiting. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

"Oh, the wind and rain. He made a fiddle-box of it to roam, crying, oh, the dreadful wind and rain." He finished his song, the last note hanging in the air like a death rattle.

That was it. That was the line. The one that made my breath catch in my throat. This wasn't a prank. This was a threat. I backed up faster; my shoes slipped on something.

"Get the hell away from me," I said, my voice shaking now, the feral defiance starting to crack around the edges. "I mean it."

He just stood there, a silent, grinning specter in the dark, and I knew, with a certainty that settled like a stone in my gut, that I wasn't walking out of these woods.

He took one slow step closer, his hand reaching out. I didn't hesitate. My keys were already in my hand, and I jammed them between my knuckles, the jagged metal of the truck key sticking out like a makeshift claw. I was ready to draw blood.

I tried to shove past him, to make a break for the clearing, but the ground betrayed me. My shoe landed on a loose rock half-buried in the dirt, and it shifted under my weight. I stumbled forward with a sharp cry, my keys flying from my grasp and landing somewhere in the dark, dry leaves.

Before I could even think to scramble for them, his hand shot out, grabbing the back of my shirt and yanking me back so hard I saw stars. I slammed against his chest, the impact knocking the wind out of me. He didn't let go. He just laughed, a sharp, cruel sound that was right next to my ear. He wrapped an arm around my waist, pinning my arms to my sides, holding me tight against him. I could feel his heart beating, a steady, heavy rhythm against my back. I thrashed, trying to stomp on his foot, to elbow him in the gut, but it was like trying to fight a statue.

"Don't run, pretty thing," he whispered, his voice low, menacingly against my ear. "It’s time to come home."

Before I could get my bearings, the air shifted. It grew heavy, thick with a presence that made the hairs on my arms stand up. The Clown Mask loosened his grip just enough for me to twist in his arms, and that's when I saw him. The Burlap Mask. He was standing right there, a massive, silent silhouette blocking out the faint light. It was the same one from the haunted house; the same one I’d seen in the butcher's room.

He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. He just lunged.

His hands, big and rough, wrapped around my waist and thighs, and with a terrifying ease that stole my breath, he lifted me clean off the ground. A scream tore out of my throat, raw and ragged. I thrashed like a wildcat, kicking my legs, swinging my arms, trying to find purchase, trying to find something to hurt. I clawed at his arms, my nails scraping against the rough fabric of his shirt, but it was like trying to fight a mountain. I was completely helpless.

The Clown Mask just laughed, a sharp, delighted sound that echoed through the trees. "Look at her," he said to the monster holding me. "She thinks she's a tigress." He leaned in close, his masked face right next to mine. "She's got teeth."

The Burlap Mask grunted, his grip tightening until I could feel the bruises forming on my skin. "She's loud," he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated right through me.

"Let’s shut her up," the Clown Mask said.

The Burlap Mask shifted his grip, one massive arm locking my legs and arms down. I was bent over him like a damn ragdoll, my face pressed into his shirt.

Then the Clown Mask was in front of me, his gloved hand grabbing my chin, his fingers digging into my cheeks. He forced my head back, my neck straining at the awkward angle. I tried to bite him, to snap my jaw shut, but his grip was like iron.

He produced a rag from his pocket. I thrashed my head, a string of muffled curses building in my throat, but it was no use. He stuffed the rag into my mouth, the rough fibers scraping against my tongue. I gagged, trying to spit it out, but he held my jaw tight, his thumb pressing cruelly against the bone, forcing me to swallow my own panic.

He pulled a strip of leather from his other pocket and tied it behind my head, yanking it tight until my mouth was forced open just enough to gulp in air but not enough to make a sound.

My screams were now useless, desperate whimpers that died in the cloth.

The Burlap Mask shifted his weight, and with a grunt, he dumped me onto the ground. Before I could even think of scrambling away, he was on me, flipping me over onto my stomach like I was nothing more than a sack of feed. A rough hand grabbed my wrists, yanking them behind my back with bruising force. I fought them, my muscles straining, a fresh wave of adrenaline surging through me, but it was useless. They were too strong. I felt the rough bite of rope as they tied my wrists together, cinching it tight.

Then, they grabbed my ankles. I kicked out, trying to connect with something, anything, but they had my legs pinned. They pulled them back toward my head, forcing my knees up and my body into a tight, vulnerable bow. I heard the rope groan as they tied my ankles to my wrists.

I was completely immobilized. Hog-tied. My face was pressed into the dirt and decaying leaves, my body exposed and helpless. I could do nothing but breathe, each ragged gasp a testament to my failure.

They didn't give me a second to get used to the agony of the ropes. The Burlap Mask grabbed the knot where my wrists and ankles were bound, and with a grunt, he hoisted me into the air.

I swung, helpless and dizzy, like a goddamn grocery bag being carried to the truck. Every movement sent a fresh wave of pain through my shoulders and hips. I groaned into the gag, a useless, frustrating sound, my whole body vibrating with a rage so hot it almost burned through the fear. I tried to writhe, to kick, but the ropes held me tight, a humiliating, painful prison.