Chapter 11
Low echoes of conversation wove through the pub, broken up by the occasional clink of glasses and deep, baritone laughter.
The scent of aged wood and beer permeated every dimly lit corner, enveloping me in a claustrophobic haze.
Time slowed to an acute, molasses-thick crawl, sticky and cloying on my too-tight skin.
I was reaching the extent of how much time I could handle away from the sanctuary of home. There was no amount of beer that could make me comfortable around others when my social battery ran low.
“That girl they found,” Talon said, tone low, “wasn’t she a history major?”
All three of them looked at me, and unease pooled in my stomach.
“The dead girl under the tower?” The words felt sticky on my tongue. A spike of dread slammed down and pinned my heart to my ribs. The air lodged in my throat as I looked at them. “I arrived the day she was found. I wouldn’t know.”
“It’s always some pretty blonde playing the victim, isn’t it?” Talon said.
A queasy sensation roiled in my guts. “What do you mean?”
“Haven’t you ever seen a cheesy horror flick? Blondes like you always fit the description of the pure, innocent prey chased by monsters. Just like her, the first–”
Niffy cut in. “You’ve had too much to drink.”
“She’s an Ashcroft. She should know...”
The prickling on my skin worsened into unbearable needling. Each breath came shallower, slower, thinner. “My family? You’re not making any sense.”
Moth and Niffy shared a long glance while Talon scrutinized me. Their stare was narrow and pointed, as sharp as a knife. Like a scalpel intent on cutting into me and finding secrets in my organs.
Moth rolled his eyes, then waved his hand as if to clear away the negative turn of the conversation. “We are not getting into your weird conspiracy stories right now about the founding families.”
So, it wasn’t a new topic of conversation for them.
“There’ll be more. It’s never enough.” Talon’s voice wavered and their stare went distant, focused on the amber surface of their drink as if mesmerized by the shimmer on the top reflecting the pub lights. They must have had too much to drink before I arrived.
“I came here to have a good time and get pleasantly buzzed. If I have to hear one more story about monsters under the school, I swear to God I’ll cut off my own ears.
” Moth looked at me and grinned. “Don’t let them scare you, Blondie.
Every old school has ghosts if you believe in that sort of thing. ”
“And some of us are a little too zealous,” Niffy added, words on the edge of slurring. She shrugged and refilled her glass. Again.
Losing interest in my drink, I pulled my condensation-slick hand into my lap. My fingers twisted and squeezed under the table, as tight and unsettled as the knots in my stomach. I fought to keep my anxiety in check, but it was crawling up my spine and over my shoulders like a prickly cloak.
“N-not really,” I answered. Little moments rose to the surface, flickers of strange noises in the dark and shadows outside the windows. But all those things could be explained by science or nature, and I had always taken my studies seriously. I trusted in the reality of what I’d always known.
And yet…
The feather on my bed.
“But why mention my family?”
Sure, my grandfather had been an influential part of the school’s history, but that had been ages ago. He was dead, and my family hadn’t resided in Kilbride full time in years. Our connection to the town as founders had faded like ancient tapestries exposed to the gradual erosion of time.
“You’ve really never heard the rumors?” Surprise lifted Moth’s brows.
He leaned closer as a disbelieving grin curled across his lips.
That easy-going and charismatic energy he radiated now felt like a spell.
He drew you in until you were on the edge of your seat waiting for the next word from his mouth.
“Rumors? I don’t think I’ve been around long enough for all that,” I said. “Aside from seeing online articles about what my dad did.”
“The Ashcrofts were one of the founding families of Kilbride, and you’re telling me you haven’t heard the stories?” Niffy asked.
“It’s not like I was ghost hunting every winter I spent here,” I said, tone waspish as my frustration swelled. “And now you’re trying to implicate my family in weird conspiracies when there was a very real and very tragic death on campus?”
The three of them looked at one another, and I had a sudden feeling that I was the target of some joke. Using the death of some poor, innocent student and my already tainted family name against me.
It was cruel.
Wanting friends didn’t mean I had to subject myself to their suspicious, drunken nonsense. The fact that my skin had constricted around my bones and my heart weighed a ton only added to the pressure encouraging me to escape. Leaving my glass half full, I stood from the table.
“Blondie, wait,” Moth rushed out. He smoothed his hands over the edge of the table, shifting as if he intended to stop me, or follow me.
“No, I think I should go home. Actually—yes—it’s late and I still have coursework to do.” I felt exposed as the center of their attention. Being perceived so acutely left me flayed and raw.
“What about your drink?” he insisted.
I had already peeled myself from the table. “Yeah, thanks for the drink. I appreciate it. But I’m going to go.”
Halfway out the pub door, with cool night air rushing over my face, a hand on my arm stopped me. My nerves jolted, and I spun around.
Moth followed me and stood at my back. Too close. Far too close for someone I didn’t accept physical contact from yet.
“I’m sorry, Blondie. We didn’t mean to scare you off, I promise.” He ran his free hand over his face. “We genuinely like you and want you around, alright?”
“Alright.” I nodded slowly, moving on autopilot. I just wanted him to let go and leave me be.
His expression was sincere and drawn, as if genuinely hurt. But it couldn’t compare to the panic building in my chest, rational or not.
“Until next time?” he asked hopefully.
That part of me that wanted friends reared its head, bringing a tide of guilt with it.
Shame clogged my throat at my behavior. Maybe I had been misreading social cues again, and they were only joking.
I really wanted friends, and my mother was right that interactions were good for me on some level.
Becoming the local hermit would only add to whatever rumors they teased about.
“Sure,” I agreed.
A beaming smile flashed across his face. Moth winked at me before releasing my arm. He turned back into the dark interior of the pub, and the door clicked shut in my face. I stood there staring at the pattern in the wood, sucking in large gulps of air.
People milled about the streets, many of them bar hopping around the square.
Under the cover of night, no one paid me any mind as I drifted from the square to the parking lot around the block where I’d left my car earlier.
Voices faded as I left the center of action, floating in a mindless daze to my vehicle.
Darkness sailed higher as the downtown lights came less frequently, and I traveled further from the hive of activity.
Night unfurled across the sky, but I was still too close to downtown to see the stars. Nothing but darkness and outstretched shadows crawling across the pavement greeted me. Walking briskly toward the parking lot, my steps echoed rapidly against the eerie stillness converging on me.
Sparse trees lined the road, spilling out and erupting into a patch of woods around the parking lot.
Long boughs stretched over the sidewalk, swaying in the breeze, creating a song of nature only the birds and bees understood.
Leaves whispered secrets to one another as the wind picked up, whistling sharply and lifting the ends of my hair.
I reached up to brush the loose strands out of my face and angled toward the parking lot. A rustle in the foliage broke the silence.
I froze, and my pulse hammered at the base of my throat.
A dark barrier shielded the source of the noise. I took an unconscious step closer, peering into the shadows that expanded past the reach of the streetlights. My eyes strained but—there. A subtle shift in the wall of black.
Something watching. Two glowing orbs emerged, widening from slits to slanted, fixed animal eyes. Yellow and unblinking, glinting with an unnatural, hungry light.
Watching.
Watching.
A primal instinct sparked in my mind, screaming at me to run.
For an agonizing, eternal moment, I merely stood trapped in a web of my own fear.
It held me captive, rigid and unyielding as the rustling increased.
Frozen as the eyes grew nearer, creeping closer and narrowing with a predatory gleam.
It felt like watching the night convalesce and morph into a living creature before my very eyes.
Scriiitch.
It sounded like nails, or claws, dragging over concrete.
Run. Run. Run. Oh, God—run!
My paralysis shattered as swiftly as lightning striking glass, and my legs finally obeyed the urgent command to flee.
Adrenaline ignited through my veins, as potent and scorching as a wildfire.
Legs pumping and gritty concrete crunching under my hurried steps, I sprinted for the lot holding my car.
A sea of vehicles blocked me from my goal, but as I caught the sound of a huffing animal snarling and claws scratching the ground in pursuit of prey, the compulsion to escape and survive controlled me.
Shooting around a truck, a veritable horror flashed in my periphery. I turned down another row of cars, racing past a sedan as I tried and failed to come to terms with the monstrous creature I might have just seen.
A terrifying amalgamation of feathers and contorted shadows.
If I called it an upright bird-version of a werewolf, I wouldn’t be too far off.
A bird-faced creature with bright eyes, hunched over as it prowled after me.
I easily imagined it was massive at full height.
I hadn’t gotten a clear view to tell if the beast had front arms or wings, but I had a chilling theory it was both.
A four-legged bird-monster with wings.
And stark red stains splattered across the chest feathers.
“What the fuck? What the fuck? Whatthefuck?!”
I cut through a narrow gap between two cars, my heart almost dropping out of my stomach when I saw another flash of the grotesque creature in a side mirror. A frightened wheeze slipped through my lips and thinned into a whimper.
It had a beak, open and lined with serrated, flesh-ripping teeth. And it was chasing me, maw open and slavering for a fresh kill. A screeching hiss belted from the creature, and the sound chilled me to the bone.
It couldn’t be real. No, it couldn’t. After that strange conversation at the pub and the odd moments at the house, I didn’t want to believe it. The written history of the world—now that I believed. It was accounted for and notated, and heaps of proof existed. History could be explained.
This couldn’t.
Had I been alone too long? Was my already fragile mental health finally snapping under the pressure?
There was no world in which I could accept being chased by a fucked up looking bird.
Yet even as my logical mind argued with my current reality, I continued running, because real or not it meant life or death.
I shoved a shaking hand into my bag, clammy fingers fumbling around for my car keys.
My lungs burned and my muscles ached as the flight instinct pushed me further than my athletic limit.
A fresh wave of panic slammed into me as my keys slipped through my fingers.
Out of my hand, and clattered on the uneven pavement.
A sharp gasp cut through my chest. I dropped to my knees, bones cracking on the ground, but the rippling pain went ignored as I scrambled under the car. A sinister brush of air curled over my neck, and I frantically scanned the shadow under my front tire.
Crack.
A shiver of alarm wracked my spine.
My hand finally closed around the keys, slippery with sweat.
Oh, thank fucking God.
I shot upright and jammed the key into the lock, movements frantic and uncoordinated. The door finally swung open, and I shoved myself inside, slamming it shut behind me.
I caught movement in my periphery. A hulking terror outside, moving in jerky twitches, scouring the lot.
Go. Go. Go. Get away.
My fingers fumbled again as I turned the ignition, but the engine roared to life with a triumphant rumble.
A manic laugh belted from me as my car peeled out of the lot.
I drove away, a little too fast and a little too erratic, but the roads were strangely empty that night despite the crowd on the square.
The rumble of the engine and the lights of downtown vanishing in the rearview mirror eased some of the tension poisoning my blood.
I continued hyperventilating until the neighborhood came into view.
Residual fear clung to my skin like a sticky film, refusing to come loose. Even as I reached the house and parked the car, my hands trembled, fingers locked iron-tight the wheel. Minutes or maybe hours passed as my breathing returned to normal and the sweat on my temples went cold.
Nothing moved on the driveway behind me or in the surrounding trees.
Satisfied, I exited the car and rushed toward the welcoming soft glow on the front porch.
I needed a hot bath, which I would take and luxuriate in after flicking on every light in the house.
Maybe even the ones upstairs. And I would double—no—triple check that all the doors were locked. Maybe even quadruple.
A few steps from the porch, a static tension crackled in the air. My spine went rigid as a heavy, unknown weight settled on the back of my neck. Sucking in a breath, I looked around the property.
Amber light flashed from the roof.
My head snapped up, eyes widening.
Blinking slowly, something perched at the highest level of the roof.
My heart skipped a beat. Then another.
A sentinel or an omen, I didn’t know. But there sat a silent, unmoving barn owl. Air stilled in my lungs as the owl regarded me with a knowing gleam, eyes bright and yellow.
And watching.