Chapter 11
I jolt upright with the sensation of claws reaching for me, of snarling lips peeled back from bleeding teeth that want to sink into my throat. My scream comes next, and my eyes aren’t even open as I reach out, blindly fighting what I assume is there.
“Fern, Fern!” an unfamiliar voice calls. Arms grapple for mine, gently pushing me down, not against hard asphalt, but a soft bed. “Fern, it’s okay! You’re okay!”
My eyes finally snap open, and I don’t see the dark sky full of stars over Bluebone Ridge, but the white fluorescent lights of a hospital room that nearly blind me.
My scream dies to a whimper at the realization of where I am, and I let the nurse slowly push my arms back down to either side of me, though her hands remain on my wrists.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe, my voice hoarse.
Now that I’m awake, the ache in my head becomes less easy to ignore, as does the sharp pain in my shoulder.
I realize belatedly it’s where I got bit by the…
the thing from Bluebone Ridge; I have the urge to look at it, though when I roll my shoulders I can feel that it’s covered by bandages.
“Where’s Moro?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and way before I realize the nurse beside me has no idea who in the world I’m talking about. “The…the dog,” I add, feeling a little stupid.
“The dog?” The nurse shakes her head. “Sorry, but it was just you. I don’t know anything about a dog.” And by the tone of her voice, she doesn’t really care all that much about her.
“She saved me.” My chest tightens, the worry for Moro is heavy and weighing me down.
I can feel the sting of tears already, but I push them back with the hope that maybe, somehow, Moro spooked and ran away, off into the woods of the mountain.
Though I refuse to dwell on how slim the chances of her making it out alive are.
After all, there’s really nothing I can do about it now.
“Can you tell me what happened?” I make myself ask, looking around the small, private room again. “What did the others say they remember?”
When the nurse doesn’t answer right away, I glance back at her, watching her face go from doubt to concern, then finally to reluctant acceptance.
It gives me the chance to study her, to note that she’s probably only a few years older than me.
She’s pretty, and gives off a very comforting vibe, instead of my anxiously chaotic one, considering how I usually vibrate off the walls in my worry.
“There are no others,” she admits finally, her voice quiet and unsure.
“But that doesn’t mean anything yet,” she adds quickly, looking back up at my face to study my reaction.
“Not all the patients are accounted for, and half of the staff leaves for the night, so they were already gone. The police are thinking some of the other patients spooked and?—”
But I don’t need to hear her explanation or lack thereof.
There are no others .
Because everyone else is dead.
The thought is horrifying, and a coldness creeps through me, allowing me to hear my speeding heart on the monitor beside the bed, which doesn’t exactly help me calm down.
“Fern—”
The door opens before she can finish her thought. But I don’t need the empty comfort, and we both turn to look at the door as it bangs back on its hinges to reveal my mother, pale and worried.
And definitely here just to make my day worse.
“You shouldn’t have sent her to that place!
” Her righteous indignation is impressive as she marches in, followed by a doctor who was unprepared for her temper.
He slouches a little, shoulders hunched, and glances at the nurse plaintively for help as he stays in my mother’s shadow.
“She told me about tha-that hospital! Blueridge or whatever it is. And you!” She whirls suddenly on the doctor and I watch, impressed, without much pity for anyone here.
“You had her see a doctor on an iPad who deemed my daughter unfit to go home. What a joke.” She’s not normally this upset, and I can’t help but wonder how much of it is for my wellbeing, and how much of it is just for the situation.
After all, I’m sure this is even more of an inconvenience for her than it was to sit with me in the hospital for a few hours last week.
“How long have I been here?” I ask, interrupting the start of another tirade.
“Two days,” the nurse tells me, also seeming pleased to ignore my mother. “Give or take a few hours.”
“Which we will not be paying for,” my mother is quick to cut in as she glowers at the doctor again. “How long does she have to stay? Last I heard, her shoulder didn’t need stitches, and once she woke up, she would be fine to leave. Is that still the case?”
He’s nodding before he can really answer, and the doctor takes a nervous breath.
“Yes, umm. I’d like to keep her here until the morning.
” A quick glance at the clock shows me it’s almost eight.
And if it’s been two days, that would make today Tuesday, I think.
Which I confirm when I see the digital clock has a date on it as well, thankfully answering my questions so that I don’t have to ask them.
Well, at least I can start working as soon as I get home, since there are always freelance jobs to get done for my agency.
I have to pay that mortgage, after all.
“And the police want to speak with her,” the doctor adds, nervous as he looks between me and my mother. “They want to ask her about what happened since she’s the only…” But he trails off, and I lay back down against the white sheets, listening to the steady beat of my heart on the monitor.
To my surprise, my mother comes to me instead of getting into his face, and tangles her fingers with mine in a way that could almost be called comforting. “Fine,” she says, her attention fixed on me. “But I want to be here.”
“Mom—”
“No, no Mom, no arguments.” Her voice is firm, and when I look at her, I can see a glimmer of worry in her face that makes me wonder and hope that maybe I’ve been too hard on her. That perhaps she cares more than I’ve given her credit for.
Tentatively, I wrap my fingers back around hers, and give her a very small, very tired smile. “I want her to stay,” I agree, barely glancing at the doctor. “I’ll talk to whoever, but I want my mom to stay with me. That’s okay, right?”
Honestly, I don’t think the doctor could say no, even if it wasn’t. Not with the way my mom is looking at him as if she’s just waiting for a reason to fully go off and make his day worse.
He makes his escape quickly after assuring my mom she can stay, and in his absence and once the nurse departs, Mom pulls up a chair to the bed, though the sound of it scraping across the floor makes me wince.
“How do you feel?” Mom asks, her voice quieter and kinder now that no one else is in the room. She gives me an almost genuine smile, though it feels a little distracted.
Just like she usually is.
“Like crap,” I mutter, closing my eyes. “Mom, I don’t know what to tell the police.”
“Do you remember what happened? If you don’t, we can tell them that. We can just say—” But the door opens, allowing her time to just grip my hand a little tighter as two officers dressed in uniform come in, both of them looking like they’d rather be anywhere but here.
Honestly, they can just join the club at this point. Distantly, I dream of my damn bed, my clothes, and the way I can control the noise and what’s going on at my house. If I want quiet, I can have quiet. Or I can have the TV on, or music, or whatever.
And I don’t have to deal with people when I don’t want to. Unlike now, and the last several days.
I take a breath as the cops both sit, introducing themselves as they do, but it’s just white noise to me. I’m tired, though I won’t admit it, and as I answer their questions and repeat what I remember of what happened, I leave out one very important, probably life-changing detail.
That the things that had killed everyone were monsters.
I really don’t want to end up right back at some kind of sanitarium after going through everything I did just to get out of Bluebone Ridge alive.
The cops seem disappointed when they leave, and they seem to know that I’m not quite being honest with them. I barely sleep that night, even though I was given meds and my mom stays with me and promises me I can.
By the time I finally get back to my house the next afternoon and I convince my mom that I’m okay, that I really am fine, it’s night and everything is quiet.
But it’s not everything I’d hoped for. Even curled up on my couch with the television on just enough to be a source of white noise, it’s not… right.
Nothing is right now that it’s all sinking in.
Nothing is how it should be.
My mind races with the memory of the night at Bluebone clear and heavy in my head, no matter how many times I relive it or try to push it away.
I have no idea what’s on the TV.
I have no idea how long I’ve been crying .
But tears slip down my face unbidden, and I remember the feeling of claws on my shoulders and the sound of those gnashing fangs so close to me.
Part of me wonders if maybe I didn’t make it out, that this is some kind of hallucination my brain is presenting me with before the acceptance of death really comes.
No, I tell myself with a snort against my pillow. No, because I hurt too much emotionally and physically for that. But I can feel myself drifting a little, like I do when I’m overstimulated. Like I did the day that got me into this shit in the first place.
Maybe that wouldn’t be so awful tonight, though. Not when?—
My backdoor rattles. I know what it sounds like well enough to know the noise by heart, and when I bolt upright from the sofa, my bare feet hit the floor hard. “Hello?” I call, turning toward the kitchen. “H-hello?! Is someone?—”
The sound comes again. A rattling, like someone is shaking my back door trying to come in.
For a moment, I just stand there. I don’t know what to do, and tears continue to stream down my cheeks. The face of the monsters from Bluebone Ridge, Sam’s screams, and the fact I’m the only one left—all these facts tear through me at the sound against my back door as it rattles.
But curiosity and dread propel me forward. I stumble across the laminate floor, palms clammy and numb, with my heart pounding so loudly I can’t hear anything else.
Three steps to go until I turn the corner, and once I’m there, I won’t be able to unsee it.
Two steps.
I stop at the last one, wondering if I should call the cops or do something even slightly smarter than going for the back door to see what’s there. Nothing in me can rationalize it. It’s barely windy, and there are no trees close enough to make this kind of noise.
No, the rattling is distinct. Purposeful.
Something wants to come in here.
It takes longer than it should, but as I finally take that last step, my heart clenches in my ribs and a small, soft exhale leaves me. A pep talk runs on repeat through my head, reminding me that whatever is there, however terrifying it is, I can handle it.
I can handle it.
The moment she sees me, Moro barks. She stops pawing at the door and stands up on my deck, tail waving, and I nearly collapse in relief, barely managing to make it to the door to shove it open and allow the wolf dog into my small house.
I greet her with no shortage of relieved tears and lots of praise for the best dog that exists in Washington. Maybe anywhere, really.