Chapter 9. Tessa
Tessa
Everything in my body went liquid and loose as I raced toward the front door. My focus singular: Don’t let them leave. It was a driving drumbeat to my every breath, a desire so strong and all-consuming that before I knew it, I was standing on the porch.
I don’t hesitate. In a heartbeat I’m down the steps, sprinting along the mossy stone trail toward the front gate, past decorative Grecian sculptures and the gazebo shrouded in creeping wisteria. My family is already gathered on the street.
“Jillian, wait! I’m coming!” I scream as she’s bolting the gate closed behind her.
Remnants of the party are scattered along the path as I race past: beer cans tumbled under overgrown rosebushes, cigarettes ground into the dirt. I guess the police didn’t need them as evidence, so here they stay. Living proof that night happened. Living proof I’m no longer living.
When I reach the gate, everyone’s already secured in their vehicles. No, please don’t leave. Let me look at you a moment longer. Why didn’t I look at each of you more? Hold you. Tell you I loved you every day when I had the chance.
I grasp the wrought iron bars—my new prison—and watch longingly as Reed’s parents pull away, then my father. My mom leans over to kiss my sister on the forehead in the back seat before their headlights vanish into the mist. Candles snuffed out, one after the other.
I waiver, uncertainty tugging at my heart.
Do I follow them? I’m sure I could make it past this barrier if I tried.
But what’s the point? We no longer belong in the same world.
The finality of that thought tears through me, but I know it’s true.
We can’t communicate. What am I going to do?
Sit in my room? Wander the halls of school?
Spend my days tormented by a life I can’t live?
Even if I wanted to leave, I’m not entirely sure how to get home.
Tilly, Brandon, and I got so lost the night of the party.
What if I left now and couldn’t find my way back?
As annoying as Reed is, I won’t ditch him just because he’s stuck inside.
Not after I’d hoped for the past week that he wouldn’t do the same to me.
Defeated, I trudge back toward the house.
But now that I’m here I don’t really feel like returning indoors.
I’m tired of the same old scenery. Besides, I need some time to think.
And grieve. I already miss my family so much I can hardly draw breath.
If that’s even what I’m technically doing, breathing.
It’s hard to tell what’s real anymore. It might be the only way my body knows how to relate to the world, so the habit followed me here.
As I round the circuitous path, Reed’s silhouetted in the window, shoulders slumped, forehead pressed against the glass. When he sees me, he frantically waves me over.
But I shake my head. I may not be confident enough to take off down the road, but it seems fine to explore the estate grounds. I never got a good look at them the night of the party.
Reed jumps and points at something. The door maybe? What’s his deal? Is he that freaked out about staying inside? God, get over it.
“I’m fine,” I yell. “See, no sandworms. I’m going to explore a little.” I indicate the path snaking around the back of the property.
He says something, but I can’t make it out.
Honestly, I have no idea what he’s up to.
I wave him off, then step onto the meandering path as it cuts through a grove of trees.
The trail, buttressed by the large stone wall on one side, opens onto an overgrown tiered garden on the other, ending in a hollowed-out, empty fountain.
This must be what the French club wanted to dance in.
A series of winding stone stairs lead to the rear of the mansion.
From this vantage point it’s clear several dark gray shingles have dislodged from the siding.
Elsewhere, a section of turreted roof has collapsed, a nest of sparrows making their home from the debris.
Even in its state of disrepair, the property is still grand.
Possibly most impressive is an extraordinary glass conservatory off the back of the house.
One wall is composed entirely of stained-glass windows—a golden sun with amber, coral, and deep-red rays now catching the evening light.
Some of the clear glass panels have fallen and shattered over the years, but two long tables once used to support a garden nursery are still intact.
Now they’re mostly draped in ivy or the occasional overflowing berry bush ripe with purple fruit.
Maybe it’s the sunshine or the freedom of having finally made it out of my gilded cage, but I’m happy for the first time since this tragedy began.
It’s an unexpected feeling, especially with my heart still tender from watching my family drive away.
But as I amble through the back gardens, almost entirely reclaimed by nature, I revel in the experience of being able to move around as I please, led by my own free will.
Arms outstretched, I let my palms graze over the wild grasses growing beside the trail, swaying like ocean waves in the light breeze. Sparrows dart to and from their rooftop nest. Pine needles dance on the wind to accompany the birdsong. It’s quiet and peaceful.
Until a shadow moves in my peripheral vision.
I still, my heart picking up speed. Is someone out on the road? “Hello?”
No one responds.
A shiver slips over my skin as I make my way down the sloping hill, past the old carriage house toward a small wrought iron service gate built into the stone wall at the back of the property.
It’s far less detailed than the one heralding the front entrance.
I rest my hands along the bars, scanning the surroundings for whatever caught my eye.
The road is empty of life in all directions.
There’s only a country lane with occasional wildflowers blooming, set against open farmland and rolling hills.
It should feel quaint and charming, but something’s off.
I can’t quite put my finger on it, until I realize the birdsong has halted. It’s eerily silent.
As I lean forward, glancing up and down the lane, the hair rises on the back of my neck, like someone’s watching me.
But there’s nothing except an oppressive fog.
It obscures all sound while it gathers more densely over the fields, grows darker, stormier.
It rolls across the road to swirl in tendrils around my ankles like so many icy fingers, beckoning me to step forward, come out and play.
Whispers find their way to me on the wind—a thousand pleading voices overlapping. I can’t make out any single demand, only a collective, pulsing desire for something that I have. Something the voices desperately want.
I should run. Back to the house. Back to safety.
I’m overcome by the wrongness of the moment, the sense that I’m bearing witness to something not meant for me, something dark and dangerous.
But fear and curiosity keep me rooted in place, as if my moving will bring unwanted attention.
The best thing to do is to let whatever this is blow past. I clutch the gate harder.
The fog has begun to take form now, billowing hypnotically upward into torsos, limbs, heads.
Four shadow-people emerge from the mist, the outlines of their bodies holding shape, with only swirling smoke contained within.
They’re like phantoms, something out of a nightmare, come to hover over the beds of sleeping children, threatening to steal their souls.
They don’t appear to see me, but they glide down the road, their curled, withered toes dragging along behind them. Reed was right that first night about monsters. Is the mist … alive somehow? I thought we were safe here—dead, but safe. Are we not?
Adrenaline courses through me.
Run, Run. Why didn’t I escape when I had the chance?
But I need to be smart. Careful. The creatures drift along, arms outstretched, appearing to head toward town.
Go now. Before they come back this way. I take a cautious step back, but one turns sharply in my direction.
Even without a face I know it’s staring straight at me.
Shit. Before I can pull my arm away from the gate, it’s upon me, having closed the distance between us in a breath.
A shadow-hand darts out and latches on to my wrist, holding me in place.
Clawed fingers dig into my skin. I try to tug my arm free, but although the figure’s made of vapor, its grip holds true.
“Let me in,” it begs in a harsh whisper.
“Let go of me!” I brace my feet against the bottom of the gate to leverage myself loose. But it only holds on tighter.
“Now.” The word is a command, though behind it there’s pain and a kind of desperate longing. Lights flicker inside the house behind me. Can Reed see me out here?
The longer the creature grasps me, the more it takes on a human form.
I try to pull my arm out of its viselike grip, but my energy leaches away as it grows stronger.
It’s no longer a collection of shadows but a woman, the dark mist coalescing into an elegant black corseted dress with a bustle and evening gloves wrapping up pearly white arms. A feathered hat sits atop her head.
Though her body has taken shape, her face remains half-formed. Scabbed-over sockets stand sentry where her eyes should be, while her cheeks are hollowed out by age and rot. A rattling breath escapes her gaping mouth. “Please,” she begs.
My knees start to buckle, my strength draining. What’s happening to me? “Reed,” I try to yell, but it comes out a feeble whisper, stuck in my throat. My mind is still hanging on her “Please,” so full of ache and longing. And those eye sockets: I can’t stop looking at those haunting empty holes.
“I don’t know how to help you,” I sob back.