Chapter 11
ELEVEN
FEAR OF THE WORST DEATH
VAL
A scream rips through the air.
We tear apart like we’ve been shocked, breath ragged, my pulse slamming for a reason that has nothing to do with heat or flirting or the sun on my skin.
“What the hell was that?” I whisper.
Shaun’s head snaps toward the main barn. His face drains. “It came from there.”
We jump off the truck and hit the dirt running. The sun hangs overhead, blinding and cheerful, like it didn’t get the memo that something is very wrong. The ground hums. Waiting.
“Fred?” Shaun shouts as he shoves the barn door open.
The hinge screams loud enough to hurt. Inside, the sound dies instantly, swallowed.
“Sandie?” he calls again.
I slap the light switch. Nothing. I prop the door open with my shoulder, dragging daylight inside with us.
The gift shop looks like it lost a fight. Shelves tipped over. Displays smashed. Coffee cups and lids scattered across the floor. A station abandoned mid-setup, like someone ran without thinking to grab anything.
My chest tightens. I grab a nearby bucket to keep the door open.
We move aisle by aisle. Behind the register. Around the endcaps. Avoiding the broken jam bottles strewn across the floor. The sticky orange substance is smeared everywhere, but there’s no one around.
“Maybe Sandie cut herself?” I offer, but my gut is telling me something worse happened here.
Shaun looks at me and I know he doubts it too.
A whiff of iron hits me.
Please don’t be blood . . .
Shaun steps in front of me without hesitation, his body a shield. “Stay close.” He reaches his arm around, tugging one of my belt loops, keeping me tight to his back.
We pass tables frozen in time. Discount mugs lie shattered across the floor. Plastic pumpkin buckets spill their guts, trinkets and candy skittered everywhere. Paper ghosts dangle crooked from their strings, swaying gently, cheerful faces mocking the wreckage.
Something very bad happened here.
The air turns thick as we near the back of the building, coppery and tense. My gaze drops to the floor and my stomach folds in on itself.
Dark red splotches lead to the back as though someone was rushing away with a serious cut. Shaun’s grip tightens as we slowly follow the trail to the back door. I grip the back of his shirt, ready to pull him with me if we need to run. We round the corner and catch sight of the door.
Open.
Dark streaks gleam in the low light.
Long. Uneven.
Drag marks.
“Oh god,” I whisper.
The hum under the floor deepens. Not subtle anymore. It feels aware, like whatever did this knows we’re standing in its house now.
Shaun crouches and drags his good hand through one of the streaks. He lifts his fingers. They shine red.
“Fresh.” He stands, jaw clenched so tight I can hear his teeth grind.
The trail drags straight out the back door and keeps going, a dark ribbon smeared through the dying grass toward the farmhouse. Thick in spots. Thin in others. Like whoever made it tried to run, then gave up. Or got dragged.
Beyond it, the farmhouse waits—windows black, porch light flickering weak and uneven, like it can’t decide whether to die now or later.
Sandie! The word jumps to the back of my throat.
I don’t say it.
I don’t know why. My brain just . . . won’t. Like my body understands something my thoughts haven’t caught up to yet. Like shouting her name is the same thing as ringing a dinner bell.
Shaun’s gaze stays locked on the blood. His jaw flexes once. “We go quiet,” he whispers.
I nod, because yes. Because my lungs feel too loud. Because every instinct I have is screaming the same message:
Don’t announce yourself to whatever did this.
We move anyway—fast, but not sprinting. Controlled. Silent. My boots land carefully, toe-heel, toe-heel, like I’m trying to sneak through my own nightmare.
My brain claws for normal.
Head wounds bleed like crazy. Sandie could’ve clipped her scalp on something. A nail. A fence post. A cabinet edge. It happens. It looks worse than it is.
It has to be that.
We follow the trail right up to the back steps. The door is ajar, hanging crooked on its hinges like someone shoved through in a hurry.
Not. A. Good. Sign.
Shaun lifts a hand, holds me back for a second, listening.
Nothing.
No voices. No TV. Just the farmhouse settling with soft ticks and pops, old wood adjusting.
Shaun eases the door wider.
A rush of cold, damp air spills out, carrying mildew and something faintly sweet underneath, like overripe fruit left too long in a bowl.
We step into a mudroom.
Boots line the wall like soldiers. A coat rack sags under the weight of heavy jackets. A basket of gloves sits overturned on the floor, fingers pointing in every direction.
The blood trail continues across the worn linoleum and into the kitchen.
My stomach tightens.
“Sandie?” I whisper, the name barely a breath.
Still no answer.
We follow the trail past the sink. Past the fridge. Past a calendar on the wall with FARM FESTIVAL in cheerful block letters.
The kitchen opens into a short hallway—thank god for old farmhouses and their closed-concept sins. Doors everywhere. Places to hide.
The blood thickens at the edge of the living room.
And then we see it.
Chairs tipped on their sides. A lamp shattered, cord ripped from the wall. Mud smeared across the rug in wide dragging arcs.
Pumpkin vines crawl along the walls.
Not decorative. Not cute. They’re thick and glossy, shoved through cracks in the wood like they forced their way inside. The wallpaper is torn where they burrow through—red threads hanging loose, shredded into ribbons.
And in the center of the room—
Blood.
A wide, dark pool spreads across the floor, deep enough to reflect the ceiling fan as it spins lazily overhead, blades clicking with each slow rotation.
My lunch crawls up my throat.
“Shaun . . .” I breathe.
His shoulder brushes mine. He’s tense like I am, but steadier. Like his body is already moving through the steps.
Back out. Quiet. Now.
He grabs my hand. “Val . . .”
My brain spirals, questions firing faster than I can grab them.
Why are there vines in a house?
What the hell happened here?
Where are Sandie and Fred?
Whose blood is that?
The answers don’t come.
We start to retreat through the hall—
—and then we hear it.
Thump.
Pause.
Thump.
Not in front of us.
Behind us.
From the kitchen.
My breath locks in my chest.
Shaun freezes. His fingers clamp around mine, hard. His eyes snap to the hallway—doors, doors, doors—
Thump.
Closer.
We can’t go back the way we came. Not without stepping into the kitchen. Not with that sound between us and the back door.
The floorboards under my feet creak, traitorous.
Shaun doesn’t hesitate.
He yanks me toward the nearest door.
We tumble into a coat closet off the hallway and he pulls it shut just as the kitchen lets out a long, wooden groan.
Dust scratches my throat. Old coats brush my cheeks and reek of mothballs and neglect. Thin slivers of light slice through the wicker slats.
I freeze.
My heart pounds so hard it feels visible.
Shaun presses in behind me. His breath warms my hair. His arms lock around me, tight and protective, like he can cage the whole world if he just holds on hard enough. For one stupid second, I believe him.
His mouth brushes my ear. “Stay still. No sound.”
His hand slides up my arm, pinning me gently but firmly in place.
I lean forward just enough to look through the slats.
Something moves in the kitchen doorway.
The light hits its surface and my stomach flips inside out. My brain automatically switching to my safe place. The facts.
Orange.
Glossy.
Shining.
Pumpkin flesh.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Not a scream. Not air.
Shaun’s heart hammers against my spine.
It lumbers into the hall. Each step jerks like it’s being yanked by strings pulled by someone who never learned coordination. Vines twitch where arms should be, slick and pulsing, dark with blood. They slap the floor and leave streaks behind. The axe in its grip slides across the floor.
Shhk. Shhk.
A tiny gasp escapes me.
Shaun’s hand clamps over my mouth, firm but careful, fingers trembling against my lips.
The thing turns its head.
Relaxed.
Deliberate.
Like it’s listening.
How is that possible?
I shake, terror flooding hot and dizzy through my veins. Shaun’s thumb presses beneath my chin, guiding my breath down, down, down.
The thing pauses.
Vines flex, tasting the air, thick and corded, slick with blood that drops to the floor in sluggish, sticky plops. Each one lands too loud.
The pumpkin head turns into the light and my stomach flips.
Red leaks through the carved grooves like it’s smiling through its own intestines.
Oh my god.
My chest locks up. My lungs scream for air, but my body refuses to listen.
Its perfume of blood and pulp rolls in waves, sickly sweetness underneath, like someone tried to dress decay up for a fall festival and failed.
The vines still.
Its head tilts.
Like it can feel us tucked inside this closet. Two hearts slamming against a wooden coffin, pressed together.