Chapter Eight
Amelia
T he second I open my eyes, I curse myself. No. No, no, no—how could I fall asleep?! Idiot.
I swore I’d stay awake until morning. Swore I wouldn’t close my eyes, not even for a second, so that maniac wouldn’t touch me. Or hurt me.
That handsome maniac— Shut up, Amelia.
I throw myself off the bed, ignoring the way my knees nearly buckle as I run in the opposite direction. Away from him. My eyes lock on the dark space beneath the frame. No movement. Nothing. I take a step closer, my pulse hammering in my ears. Then another step. Another. Then I drop to my knees and peek under the bed.
It’s empty. He’s gone.
Good.
Maybe he got bored. Maybe it’s another girl’s turn for him to torment.
I push to my feet and begin to pace. Should I tell Margaret? What would I even say?
" Hey, Margaret! Remember how I told you I ran away because my village wanted to sacrifice me? Yeah, well, now I’m saying there’s a man sleeping under my bed and cutting off human tongues for me. Crazy, right? "
Yeah. No.
She’d pat my shoulder, give me a tight smile, and immediately call the cops. And when they showed up and found nothing? They’d assume I was a lunatic. Maybe even send me back there .
I turn off my brain and move on autopilot. I take a shower and go through the motions; pretending like it’s just another normal day. But as I clean the restaurant, my mind doesn't stop terrorising me. Is this a curse? Did leaving that place doom me to something worse?
…Or—and this is an incredibly stupid thought, one I refuse to acknowledge as anything other than sheer exhaustion—could the Hellkeeper take the shape of a man? Could he be tricking me?
God. I don’t know anything anymore. I don’t even know if I believe in the village’s curse or the Hellkeeper.
All I know is that I’m confused.
And homesick. Even though my village sucked, it was still home. The only one I’ve ever known. I miss my mother. I miss the peonies that infiltrated that village.
“Morning, sweetheart,” Margaret sing-songs with a bright smile.
“Morning.”
We fall into our usual easy rhythm. The familiar routine is oddly comforting, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Breakfast options today?” I ask as I scribble on the menu board.
Margaret hums in thought. “Let’s keep it simple. Pancakes with butter, avocado toast, or the special, French toast.”
“Sounds good.”
There’s still this nagging worry in my chest, and before I can stop myself, I blurt, “Can I ask you something weird?”
Margaret pauses mid-step. “Always.”
I grip the rag in my hands a little tighter. “Do you think the curse, the one my village believes in, is real?”
Margaret turns fully, her brows lifting. “The Hellkeeper?”
My body locks up, but I nod.
“No, sweetheart. That nonsense isn’t real.” She laughs like the whole thing is a big, stupid joke.
Even though it’s just her opinion, it makes me feel better somehow.
“So,” I say, swallowing, “you don’t think my life is going to be cursed because I ran away? Or that some… thing is after me?”
Margaret pats my back, warm and reassuring. “I promise that won’t happen.”
I let out a breath, nodding. “Thanks.”
“What brought this up?”
How do I explain that I woke up terrified out of my mind, convinced a monster was hiding under my bed?
I settle for not lying to her, but not telling her the complete truth either.
“I’m stupidly homesick,” I admit. “Even though the village was—” I shake my head. “Horrific.”
She doesn’t judge me. “What do you miss most?”
The answer comes easily.
“My mother,” I say quietly. “And the peonies.”
Margaret nods like she gets it. “Flowers were always a comfort to me, too.”
The conversation shifts after that, flowing back into work, customers, and the hum of the morning rush. But a realization slams into me. I never told her about the Hellkeeper. Just the curse. I open my mouth to ask, but then I shake my head. I must have mentioned it sometime without realizing.
I head toward the girl who just sat down near the window, her order in my hand. She looks about my age, and the first thing I notice is her energy, it's warm and comforting, like that of an angel.
“Here you go,” I say, setting the plate in front of her. “French toast. Enjoy.”
Her eyes light up. “Oh, wow, this looks delicious. Thank you!”
“Are you new?” she quickly adds when I turn to leave.
“Kind of,” I say. “I’ve been working here for a little while now.”
“Well, I’m glad I came in today, then. I’m Ruby, by the way.”
“Amelia.”
“Nice to meet you, Amelia.” She takes a bite of the toast. “Okay, this is so good. I think you just found yourself a regular customer.”
“That’s good to hear. Margaret—she owns this place—makes everything from scratch. She’ll be happy to know it’s a hit.”
This morning is slower than usual, so we fall into easy conversation. She tells me about her job at a little bakery down the street, how she loves reading but can never find anyone to talk books with. I tell her about working here, how it’s nice but busy, and how sweet Margaret is. It’s been a while since I’ve clicked with someone like this.
“You should totally give me your number. We could go out sometime, just talk and get to know each other better.”
The moment the words leave her mouth, my stomach twists. I don’t have a phone.
Insecurity prickles at my skin, and I open my mouth, ready to admit it, until I see the innocent curiosity in her face. I don’t want to see pity there.
So I lie.
“Ah, well, my phone’s, uh, broken,” I say, forcing a sheepish smile. “I’m getting it fixed, though. I’ll give you my number then.”
Ruby blinks, then laughs. “Oh, gotcha.” She winks. “Guess I’ll just have to keep coming here for breakfast until you give it to me.”
I snort. “Not the worst plan.”
She slides a bill under her plate as she stands. “Well, I’ll see you soon, Amelia. Don’t forget to fix that phone of yours.”
“I won’t,” I say as I walk her to the door.
The second she’s gone, another wave of insecurity hits me. I didn’t really fit in back in my village, but I want to fit in here. I want somewhere I can belong. That’s why I will get a phone. Maybe tomorrow. Damien, my monster, left me a huge tip last time. I can spare a little.
My fingers tighten around my apron.
I called him mine.
I frown.
My monster.
I’m starting to get used to him.