Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
Irace away, the woods a blur. Branches slap my face. My foot catches, and I stumble, then stumble again, so hard my neck jerks. My knees slam to the ground. Grit cuts my palms, but I shove myself up, keep running, hurtling toward each bend in the path like it might save my life.
Spirits travel in straight lines.
Is that true? Are there more ghosts here? Are they dangerous? Was that a ghost? I wasn’t really scared when I saw the ghost in my room. Why is this different?
Lungs burning, mind racing, I force myself to slow down. I replay our exchange. He’d touched things. Swept away dirt. Ghosts can’t do that…can they?
Maybe he wasn’t a ghost. Maybe he didn’t disappear—he just left really quickly.
How long was I staring at that grave, anyway?
I press on, convinced I’m heading back to the inn, until too much time passes and I finally admit it. I’m lost.
Apparently, my sense of direction is so bad I can’t even find a loch so big they write songs about it.
I should’ve paid closer attention. Una said go right at the fork, then take the twisty path. Or was it take the fork after the twisty path? I let instinct guide me, and just when I start to feel like I’m on the right track, something shifts.
The ground changes, soggy and squishing under my feet, with rust-colored water seeping through the moss. There are bogs out here. Deep ones. The kind people drown in. Could anything be worse than sinking into a peat bog and getting sucked under in a slow, suffocating death?
I stop short. “Nope.”
Spinning on my heel, I double back. This time, I take the other fork and quicken my pace. My hope is so strong that when I finally break through the trees, it takes a second to process. The loch isn’t there.
A wide-open glen unfurls before me. But instead of green, the landscape is cast in steel-gray shadows.
I suddenly remember Una’s warning. Watch the sky. I look up, and my stomach drops. The sky is a silver bowl overhead—only it’s tarnishing to black, flipped upside down, trapping me. A cold raindrop hits my eye. I swipe it away with a muttered, “Crap.”
I hike up my dress and jog down into the valley. The ground is dense with rocks and tangled clumps of heather, forcing me into a heavy, awkward stride. Then—because that’s just how my day is going—my foot catches, wrenching my ankle. I go down and hit the ground hard.
I stay there, hands and knees dug into the dirt, gulping for breath. The air sharpens on my tongue. The wind shifts, temperature plummeting on a sudden gust. The sky darkens even more, and like some invisible crank has opened the heavens, rain dumps down, soaking my hair, my back, my everything.
I’m pretty sure even Poppa’s army buddies would be impressed by the string of curses that rolls off my tongue.
I teeter to my feet, and with one final curse for good measure, I fumble to button my sopping-wet sweater with stiff fingers, not that it helps.
Shielding my eyes from the downpour, I scan my surroundings, but it’s no use.
I’m completely turned around. My teeth chatter, as much from panic as from the cold.
“It’s just rain,” I scold out loud. I’ll find my way. I just need shelter to think.
Gritting my teeth, I force a limping jog back up to the tree line. From there, I’ll backtrack to the trail, find the road, and throw myself—soggy and grateful—into the postman’s truck. Or lorry. Or whatever he calls it. Because screw walking.
The moment I hobble into the woods, the sound shifts, becoming quieter, muffled. Lush ferns and dense underbrush dull the storm’s thrum, and the rich scent of earth and green settles me.
I sink onto a fallen log and rub my ankle.
Adventures suck.
There’s a lot to appreciate in my predictable, hardworking life. I have routines. Plans. And I have freaking maps.
I was impressed with myself navigating without GPS—look at me, all self-sufficient! But now? I’d sell my soul for my stupid phone. A map, a compass…
Poppa’s voice.
I rake a hand through my hair, exhaling hard. Okay. Focus.
But my brain doesn’t listen. Instead, it latches onto everything else unraveling.
My classes. Oh man, my classes. A whole week, gone? Physics isn’t the kind of major you just catch up in. What if I can’t make it up? What if I have to take an incomplete? What will that do to my GPA? I need good grades if I want to transfer.
And my student loan? Even with in-state tuition and community college, I had to borrow just to get this far. If I fail, do I have to pay it back?
Everything suddenly feels impossible. My limbs go heavy with exhaustion and I slide from the log onto a soft carpet of moss and lean back. Beneath the trees, only the faintest mist brushes my skin. Overhead, rain snaps against the canopy, distant and rhythmic. For a moment, it lulls me.
Poppa’s voice echoes in my head: You don’t stop when you’re tired, girl. You stop when you’re safe.
No more stalling. I need to move. Now.
Nobody is coming. Nobody is here to help me but me.
As usual.
I heave myself up and limp forward, following a wispy trail through the trees. Then I glimpse a patch of white. Knowing my luck, it’s probably some rusted-out murder van.
But I have no choice. I’ll take my chances with a psycho over spending the night shivering in the woods.
I stack a few dead branches to mark my place, then make my way along a thin path snaking through the forest floor.
Of course. Another zigzag.
“Yeah, no thanks,” I mutter, about to turn back—then I see it. A slanted roof, thatched and weathered. Beneath it, whitewashed stone.
A house.
Someone actually lives out here.
Then a thick, smoky tang of burning peat hits me. The scent tugs at something deep in my bones. Whoever they are, they’ve got a fire going. Which means warmth. And dryness.
I don’t have a choice. I’m completely lost. I need directions back to the inn. Better yet, maybe I can use their phone to call a taxi. I’m blowing through my funds, but screw it. This is an emergency.
But you can’t take the New York out of the girl. Just in case these people are shifty, I double-check that my mom’s ring is secure under my shirt. Sadly, that and two soggy five-pound notes stuffed in my sweater pocket are all I’ve got worth stealing.
I shake out my filthy dress, square my shoulders, and step toward the door.
But as I lift my hand to knock, doubt stops me cold.
The place is barely a house—it’s more of a shack.
The thatched roof sags with damp, and the door is so low I’ll have to duck to enter.
The whitewash, long faded, is a dingy shade of gray.
Mildew traces intricate patterns along the stone, marking years of leaks.
Black patches cling to places the sun has never touched.
It’s not too late. My fingers uncurl, ready to pull back.
Then—a sheep bleats. The sudden sound startles me, but it’s so familiar, so absurdly normal, that I let out a breathy laugh.
This is just some farmer. Just like Poppa.
That settles it. I knock.
I’ll tell them I come from a farming family, too. They’ll take me inside, fuss over me, probably insist I sit by the fire. I can almost feel the weight of a scratchy plaid blanket settling over my shoulders.
They’ll almost certainly offer me tea. Or whisky.
No, tea with whisky. For once, I won’t argue. I can feel the burn of it already, heat unfurling from my throat down to my toes.
As I wait for them to answer, I shuffle backward for another look. It’s not a shack, just a cottage. Quaint, almost storybook.
The knob turns. Smiling, I step closer.
The door creaks open. For a moment, nothing happens. Then a gust of air lashes out, cold and wrong. A shiver races up my spine. It’s dark in there. My smile falters.
I don’t want this anymore.
I try to turn, but my legs are numb. A chill rolls through me, like my heart is pumping ice water instead of blood. The world tilts, and my vision doubles, warping at the edges. The doorway splits. Re-forms. Splits again. Sound becomes hollow, like my skull is a vast, empty cavern.
Is this fainting?
Terror seizes me, bringing a last, sharp shot of awareness.
I gulp for air, but it’s like breathing through wet cloth.
Fractured images come to me: an opening door, low-burning flames, shadows stretching across walls, a man looming in the doorway.
Firelight flickers behind him, the only glow in the darkness.
Instead of feeling warm, the thick, smoky air catches in my throat.
Time stutters and slows as I pitch forward, black spots blooming in my vision. I catch myself on the doorjamb. Splinters gouge my palms as I slide down, the wood dragging past in slow motion.
My knees slam into the floor, the jolt sparking one last ember of awareness. I flail, try to turn, but my body is dead weight.
My hip hits next. Then my shoulder.
My head—I’m going to crack my skull. Panic spirals through me, dredging up a long-forgotten memory. Ice skating on frozen lakes. Tuck your chin, girl.
I try, but my body has gone slack. I hold my breath and brace for impact—
A hand catches me. Warm. Steady.
It cradles the back of my head as the darkness swallows me.