14
Rayne
Terrors in the Dark
S alem had been gone far too long.
My eyes were glued to the clock, my leg jiggling faster with every minute that passed without her walking in that door.
I’d sat in the foyer for hours, sorting through files that didn’t need sorting and playing solitaire on the ancient desktop.
Loki had gone up the stairs to lie on the landing in protest, staring at me as if it was my fault we weren’t in bed yet.
It wasn’t my business what guests did with their time. Salem, Martin, and George were the last visitors remaining for the season, and I trusted that the hunters knew how to take care of themselves out in the forest.
Salem’s bike was missing from the shed. I knew because I’d checked, after stalking outside her room for thirty minutes and hearing nothing within. With winter curfew looming over us and paranoid whispers among the townsfolk, I regretted ever accepting Salem’s last-minute booking in the first place.
The missing girl, Andrea, had yet to be found. I feared her disappearance wouldn’t be the last.
“Goddamn it, where are you?” I paced across the foyer, staring at the door, trying to convince myself not to get on the ATV to go look for her. I hated having my emotions tied up with someone else. The chaos in my brain wouldn’t let me rest.
Creeeak.
I flinched, whirling around to face the stairway. Loki’s head was up, ears pricked, his attention focused on the upper floor.
Creeeak.
A low growl rumbled in the dog’s chest. I stormed up the stairway, heart in my throat and fury making my hands shake.
When I reached the landing, I stared up to the dark second floor.
Except, it shouldn’t have been dark. I kept those lights on for guests, always, and we had a backup generator in case the electricity went out.
But it was black as night. My breath fogged in the air, a shiver running up my spine. Jamming my hand into my pocket, I grasped the tiny earbuds I always kept on me, fighting the urge to stuff them in my ears and make it all go away.
“What do you want?” I shouted, as if I could intimidate the darkness into retreating. Loki whimpered, nuzzled against my leg, and quickly retreated to the lower floor. It made my stomach sink not to have him beside me, but even he knew better than to indulge my madness.
I heard nothing, but it felt as if someone had sharply sucked in their breath, drawing all the oxygen out of the room.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT?!” My voice broke with fury, my hands balled into fists. There was no answer. No footsteps. Just the cold, stagnant air and the scent of mold. Tightness swelled in my chest as I thought of the long winter ahead, the dark days when I had no choice but to wander these halls alone.
I couldn’t bear to stay. But I wasn’t allowed to leave, and God, I’d tried.
After twenty-four hours off the island, the whispers would begin. Incessant, hissing cold breath that tickled my neck and wouldn’t let me sleep. The island’s roots were in me, and they might stretch, but they would never break.
The whispers were my warden; this house was my prison.
There was only one place I could find peace. The conservatory was almost as old as the manor itself, built by Grandpa Henry for my grandmother, his wife. The plants within had been collected and nurtured through the decades, creating a diverse jungle of flora.
When my father would rage, this was where my mom would send me.
She showed me how to propagate plants with simple cuttings and jars of water, how to care for seeds until they were ready for soil, how to pot, plant, and prune.
It relaxed me to work with my hands, to set my mind to a quiet task.
That was why I spent so many hours tending these grounds, despite it being beyond my capacity to care for.
If nothing else, I’d kept my mom’s plants alive when my father would have let them wither and die. I was proud of that.
Despite the rain and cold weather, the greenhouse was pleasantly warm. I lit up a joint and wandered among the plants, touching the leaves like I was greeting old friends. My phone automatically connected to the Bluetooth speaker on my workbench, and Siouxsie’s “Love Crime” began to play.
No more whispers. No creaking footsteps and oppressive sadness.
I sank into an old wicker chair and propped my feet up on a bucket as I smoked. Beside me, tucked between the clay pots of several propagated monsteras, sat a framed photo of my mom and me: a selfie she’d taken with an old disposable camera, hugging me close as we stood on the beach.
I couldn’t remember that day anymore. I couldn’t remember her voice, or her smell; the clothing of hers I’d kept smelled like mothballs and dust now instead of her old perfume.
I couldn’t remember what it felt like when she hugged me, but I could still recall the tune she would hum to me, gentle and slow.
She was the one I would always go to. The one with an answer for all my questions and comfort for all my pain. When my father spoke of angels in his sermons, I envisioned them like her.
That was before I knew how dangerous angels could be.
“What do I do, Mom?” I said softly. I stubbed out the joint in my ashtray and set it aside, staring at her photo as if she’d speak if I just listened hard enough. But the photo was silent, her smile frozen in time just like mine.
Then, with a start, I saw a light bobbing outside the greenhouse.