Chapter 33
Blake
For a long moment, Sylvia and I just stare at one another across the space over the doorway, the atoms rearranging themselves, time warping until I’m just a scared nine-year-old girl with her things in a plastic bag, meeting Sylvia for the first time, then folding back again, fast-forwarding to the present, me standing a little taller.
“Yes?” she says, her voice thin and rasping, like paper crumpling. Her eyes narrow as she looks me up and down, but there’s no recognition in them.
“It’s Blake,” I say again, trying to keep my voice steady. “Blake Taylor. I was one of your foster kids years ago before I was adopted by Trudy Summerton and Charlotte Harris.”
She stares at me, her expression blank, almost confused. “I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are.”
A flicker of anger flares inside me. She’s lying. I can see it in her eyes, the way they dart away from mine, refusing to hold my gaze. But I’m not here to play games. I push past her, stepping into the house, the familiar smell of must and decay hitting me like a wave.
It’s like stepping back in time, every detail almost exactly as I remember it—the worn, threadbare carpet, the faded wallpaper peeling at the corners, the oppressive, suffocating atmosphere that always made it hard to breathe.
I walk into the living room: the old, sagging sofa is still there. My eyes drift to the corner of the room, and there it is—the spot where Sylvia used to make me stand for hours on end, staring at the wall for infractions as minor as speaking out of turn or not folding the laundry correctly.
I turn to face her, determined to see this through. “Do you remember David Rawlinson? He was one of the kids you fostered. He was here at the same time as me before I was adopted. He lived here for almost nine years before he turned eighteen.”
Sylvia’s face is a mask of confusion. “David?” she repeats, her brow furrowing. “I don’t know any David. I didn’t have foster children. I don’t really like children.”
A pang of frustration, my heart sinking. “He was here, Sylvia. Just like I was.”
She only shakes her head, her expression vacant. I’m about to push further when I hear the sound of a car pulling up outside. Footsteps cross the front yard, and a cheerful voice calls out, “Hello, Sylvia. It’s me.”
There’s a knock on the door before it swings open, and a woman in a nurse’s uniform steps inside. She’s young, with a kind face and a warm expression, though it falters slightly when she sees me standing there.
“Hey,” the nurse says gently, walking over to Sylvia and placing a hand on her arm. “It’s time for your medication, okay? I didn’t know you were expecting anyone.” She glances at me as if waiting for an explanation.
“I’m Blake Summerton. I used to live here a long time ago.”
Sylvia looks at the nurse, then back at me, her eyes darting between us in confusion.
“Why don’t you sit down for a minute,” the nurse says, leading Sylvia to the sofa.
I follow the nurse into the kitchen, where the faint smell of mildew and stale air hangs in the air. There are unwashed plates on the sink and an overflowing garbage bin. She turns to face me, holding out her hand. “Maria. You used to live here? Are you a relative?”
We shake hands. “Actually, not a relative. I was a foster kid here.”
Maria’s expression softens. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I should let you know that Sylvia has Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t really remember much anymore, just bits and pieces here and there.”
“I didn’t know,” I manage to say.
The nurse reaches out, squeezing my hand gently. “It’s hard to see someone like this, especially when you knew them before. But she’s not the same person you remember. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”
I nod slowly, trying to process everything the nurse just told me. “Would it be okay if I went upstairs for a moment? Just to see my old room before I leave?” My voice comes out quieter than I intended as I ask for permission to step back into a place I never wanted to return to.
Maria hesitates, glancing back toward the living room where Sylvia sits, lost in her own world. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she says gently, but there’s a softness in her eyes that tells me she understands more than she lets on.
“Please.” My voice wavers. “It was a really hard time in my life, and I just— I need closure. It would mean so much to me.”
She studies me for a moment, then sighs. “Alright, but I’ll come with you. I don’t want you up there alone.”
Both relief and dread wash over me. “Thank you.”
Maria calls out to Sylvia, telling her we’ll be back in a second, but Sylvia doesn’t respond. She’s staring blankly at the television which remains switched off.
We start up the creaky, narrow staircase, each step echoing in the silence. The air feels thicker up here, like the past is hanging in the air, waiting for me to confront it. I walk past the room that was technically mine all those years ago, but my feet carry me right to the end of the hall, to the door that’s haunted my thoughts since David turned up—the locked room.
The door is just as I remember it, the wood worn and the paint chipped around the handle. It looks the same, but everything else about it feels different now, like it holds all the pain and suffering within its frame, waiting for someone to unlock it.
I stop in front of the door, my hand reaching out instinctively, but I don’t touch the doorknob, my hand hanging in the air.
“Go on.” Maria gives me a nod, and I reach out, finally connecting with the handle, trying to turn it. But it’s still locked, just like it always was.
A small part of me is relieved, thinking maybe it’s better this way, maybe I should just turn around and go home. But before I can act on that thought, she produces a ring of keys and selects a small, tarnished one.
“Here,” she says softly, holding the key out to me. “I think this is the right one. I don’t know what you’re hoping to find in there. It’s pretty empty.”
My heart pounds in my chest as I take the key from her, my fingers trembling slightly. I really wish Ethan were here with me, but there’s only me. With a deep breath, I slide the key into the lock and turn it.
The door creaks open, revealing a small, spartan room. A single bed, stripped bare of any linens, sits against the wall, the mattress sagging in the middle from years of neglect. The room is empty, devoid of any personal touches.
It’s cold, unwelcoming, but despite how empty it looks, as I step inside, I’m hit with a wave of emotion that threatens to overwhelm me.
There’s no evidence left of what happened to David in this room—no marks, no signs of the suffering that took place. But I can feel it, like the walls have absorbed all the fear, the helplessness. It’s like it’s seeped into the very floor beneath my feet, and just being in this room makes my chest tighten, my breath hitch.
I don’t need to see anything physical to know the truth. It’s all still here, lingering in the air. I’m not into anything woo-woo, but I can feel the evil here, right down to the marrow of my bones.
Maria stays by the door, watching me with a concerned look. “Are you okay?”
I don’t speak, walking over to the bed and sitting down on the edge, the mattress sinking under my weight. For a moment, I close my eyes, thinking about David, about what he endured here.
When I open my eyes, they’re drawn to the corner of the room, where the light doesn’t quite reach. I stare at it, the darkness there like a black hole, swallowing everything around it. I don’t need to know the specifics to feel the horror of this place. It’s enough to just be here, to acknowledge it.
After a long moment, I stand up and walk back to the door, where Maria is waiting. I hand her the key, my fingers brushing against hers.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, my voice rough with emotion.
Her expression is sympathetic. “I’m sorry,” she says again, and this time, I know she’s not just talking about Sylvia’s condition.