Chapter 8
Eight
Riley
The bed is empty when I wake. My hand slides over the cold sheets.
Was it a dream? The pain ricocheting through my body said it wasn’t.
So do the marks and red blotches all over my skin.
Running my fingers over each one, my stomach tightens when the tips dip into where a small chunk of skin is missing.
I move my hand away, hissing at the pain, and I slide out of bed.
The room is quiet and so is the bathroom.
I’m the only one here. No one is in the living room, guest bath, or kitchen either.
It was real. It had to be. I can still feel his cold breath on my skin, like it burrowed deep inside me, taking up space everywhere it could.
“Hello,” my voice shakes. “Gareth?”
Mouth dry, I open the fridge and unscrew the cap from the orange juice bottle. I take a swig, my throat making loud noises as the cool liquid wets my mouth.
Glass shatters close by. I swallow the large amount in my mouth, putting the juice back and slamming the fridge shut.
On high alert, I scope out the kitchen and living room again.
I walk through the guest room and garage.
All empty. Empty of people at least but full of memories, and fuck do they feel like they’re happening right in front of me again sometimes, playing like a movie.
My heart aches. He was here. I know he was. How could he be gone already? Is this how it’s supposed to work? I see him one last time and get one more day? That can’t be it.
Another crashing sound has me jolting. Cracking wood this time and a long bellow.
Is someone yelling for help? Gurgling leads me to the basement door.
I stare at it for a long time before twisting the knob, but I can’t pull it open.
I keep turning it from side to side while it remains shut.
Groans and crunching sounds travel up the steps on the opposite side.
It’s jarring, creating an ugly sensation inside me.
It twists and turns to sharp knives. They cut into me as I finally open the door and trudge down the wobbly wooden steps.
My breathing is so loud, and I try to hold it only for it to rush out when my mouth falls open in a gasp from the strong scent of copper stinging my nose.
“Gareth?” I call out.
There are no words. Only more crunching, cracking of bones, and wet sounds.
My skin crawls, and when I reach the bottom of the stairs, my bare foot slides over a dark red puddle of thick .
. . it’s blood. It has that sweet putrid metal smell.
I shake it off, my stomach rolling when my eyes latch onto a dark shadowy figure hunched over in the corner.
Whoever it is isn’t alone. Someone sits on the floor, back half up against the wall as Gareth leans over him, attacking his stomach with his mouth. He’s . . . no . . . this sort of thing only happens in horror movies. I’m having another bad dream. That’s all this is.
Pulling the string in front of me shines a small light on him and it’s hard to deny what he’s doing when it’s as clear as day.
Not noticing me at first, he dives forward, ripping the guy’s chest open so effortlessly.
Blood drips from his mouth, intestines wrapped between his fingers as he swallows what’s in his throat.
I make a high-pitched sound and his eyes lift to mine. He licks his lips, looks down at the body and then back at me, his face holding a gray hue.
I hightail it up the stairs, locking the door behind me and pressing my back to it.
Chest squeezing, I try to fully process what I saw as my body slides to the floor.
What did I suspect? I brought someone back who isn’t supposed to be alive.
Part of me didn’t think it would work, though.
I was hopeful but I’ve also never seen anything like this happen before.
Stomach in knots, I breathe in and out deeply. A chill comes over me, reminding me I’m naked. I forgot. I was too focused on the sounds I heard and figuring out where my husband was. Or the man who resembled him. If I can call whatever that was down there a man. The door rattles, knob twisting.
“Riley,” he says in a rough tone. “What are you doing? Unlock the door, baby.”
“Baby,” I say under my breath. There’s that word again.
“Please, pumpkin bear.” The rough edges round a little. “Let’s talk about this face to face.”
Not saying anything, my teeth grind together and I stare straight ahead. I did this. I unleashed something that wasn’t supposed to be here. He killed someone. I’m not sure who because I didn’t stay long enough to look at the man’s face. He barely had one. It was mauled and bloody.
“Sweetheart?” He leans his weight on the door. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“But you already have,” I say in a soft voice.
“Yes, but I think you liked that.”
My blood goes hot, my face flushing. I did, didn’t I? At first maybe not so much, but then a side of me I didn’t know about before had awoken.
“Okay, let me rephrase. I won’t hurt you enough to kill you,” he says cheekily. He’s not Gareth. He sounds like him but he’s not him. Gareth would be joking, but the ominous sound he made between each word tells me this thing, this creature isn’t him.
“I think I messed up,” I say.
“What makes you say that?”
“What you did down there . . . it’s not . . .” I scrub at my face. “It’s not normal.”
“Open the door, Riley. You’ll see you’ll feel better once you do. Once we talk.”
Heart rate skipping a beat, I get to my feet and press my hand back against the door.
Cool air sticks to my skin, my bones feeling like ice that cut at my insides as I twist the lock and step out of the way.
I keep my back to the door as it snicks open.
Heavy footsteps approach from behind me and the door slams shut.
A hand tugs at my shoulder. “This would be a lot easier if you looked at me.”
“I can’t.” My eyes squeeze tightly together, tears welling.
They spill down my cheeks and I move my feet forward again.
His hand grabs for my arm this time, nails lightly scraping my skin and fingers sticky.
My stomach churns. I wanted him here. I said I didn’t care how he came back.
It doesn’t matter how much I remind myself of the fact, it’s still hard to turn around and face what I have in my home.
“Will it help if I wash it off?”
I nod solemnly and his hand slides away. “Very well, then. Why don’t you start on breakfast and I’ll meet you in the kitchen when I’m done.”
My mouth opens and closes, my head slowly bobbing again.
“I’ll see you in a bit, then.” He presses his wet lips to my cheek, the metallic smell lifting higher into my nose.
He will see me in a bit, and I’ll have no choice but to see him right back.
I can turn away from the truth but I can’t run from it forever.
My feet are heavy as I lift one in front of the other, my ears focusing on his rushed steps to the bedroom.
The door doesn’t close behind him and I can hear as he rummages through the drawers.
He moves like he’s familiar with where everything is.
The shower water splatters against the tub and I hear it the closer I get to the fridge.
I lay everything I need out on the counter, moving on autopilot while completely numb on the inside.
I’m flipping the almost fully cooked bacon when I finally hear footsteps trail from the hallway.
A throat clears behind me and I keep my eyes on the sizzling pan, turning the knob until the stove is off.
“Someone smells delicious.” His stomach makes a low rumble and my back straightens, skin pricking at my neck.
“What?”
He comes closer behind me, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “I said, something smells delicious. Is that bacon?”
That’s not what he said, but I don’t question it any further, swallowing hard as I plate the now overcooked meat. “Yeah. Bacon, eggs, and apple cinnamon pancakes.”
“Apple cinnamon.” He hums in approval. “My favorite.” Closing in on me, he cradles my hips with his hands, resting his chin on my shoulder. “How about you take your food and sit while I make us some coffee.”
He backs up, hands falling away enough for me to turn halfway around.
He has more color in his cheeks, the gray coloring hardly noticeable, and his eyes are bright.
They still don’t look like his, though. I can’t explain it, but Gareth’s had a warmth stemming from them, and this man in my kitchen, well, the way his eyes pierce into me is unsettling.
“You clean up well,” I chirp, squeezing past him with my plate in my hands.
He pats my ass lightly, looking back with a stiff smile. “I’d hoped you’d think so. Thanks for the clothes yesterday. And the hoodie. It was a very cold night. Rainy and wet too. Never was a fan of the rain.”
“I know,” I clip, sitting down at the table, my plate clacking against the wood.
“Some things never change,” he says flatly, walking in front of the small coffee station I had set up to make it easier for him to make in the mornings. “While others . . .” He looks to the basement door. “Do. More than we’re prepared for.”
“That man . . .” I pause. “Who . . . where did he come from?”
He turns to the espresso machine, checking the water level before hitting a button on the front. “He was delivering mail this morning, and I saw an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.” His nose wrinkles when he uses the fork inches away to shovel eggs into his mouth.
“Something wrong with your eggs?” I eye him warily.
“No.” His lips pull into a tight smile. “Nothing a little extra seasoning can’t fix.” Reaching into the front pocket of his hoodie, he pulls something free and sprinkles in on top of his plate.