Chapter 8
SALEM
I wake with damp grass clinging to my cheek like a hand that doesn’t belong to the living.
The ground is cold enough to ache.
When I blink, the world doubles, branch over branch, until the yews slide back into one dark canopy. Dew beads the grass; crow feathers have sifted into the dirt like ash. A few feet away, his grave gapes—ragged mouth, clawed loam, the hole he climbed out of refusing to close.
The air smells like wet soil and stone, with a metallic edge, like pressing your tongue to a battery.
My wrists throb.
I lift them slowly. Purple blooms under the skin, a crooked constellation where iron bit and held. I rub my thumb over the bruises; the ache sparks, and there it is, a string inside me plucked by an invisible hand.
A low hum. A soundless chord.
Not outside. Not around me.
In me.
The tether.
I hear him in the hum. Not words or a voice.
A presence leaned close. Like gravity.
Finn.
A bird slices the pale morning; its shadow skims my eyes and I flinch—just a bird. I breathe dirt and old wax.
My mouth is dry, parched and tastes like salt and earth.
And then the question hits like cold water—where is he?
After all that, he’s just… gone? Did he watch me sleep and leave? Did he walk the tree line, or vanish back into whatever door he pried open?
The idea that he didn’t need to stay stings; the idea that he did and I didn’t wake up is worse.
The hum doesn’t answer. It just keeps time.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I jolt like something grabbed me. For a second my heart’s in my throat, then I huff a shaky laugh at myself—just a phone, not a ghost.
I press a hand to calm the jump, breathe once, and tug it free with my good hand.
The screen lights my palm; the vibration keeps going like it’s trying to get my attention back to the real world.
I make myself look.
The lockscreen blooms with missed calls and texts.
Miles
where r u
pick up ur phone pls
went by Nathan’s place… no answer. door was locked and all his mf lights were off
no one’s heard from him since last night at the cornmaze, like wtf
SALEM! call me rn
not kidding, bish. i’m actually worried
if u ghost me i’m filing a missing persons on BOTH of u (deadass)
text back “alive” or smth
fr, salem. don’t make me show up w pancakes it just feels like it.
The wax softens right away and slides off in cloudy strings, pooling at the drain until it looks clogged with little white ghosts.
I brace my hands on the wall and let the water pound until my breathing matches it.
Steam fills the room. I keep thinking someone’s behind the curtain.
Every time I look, it’s empty. The tether hums anyway, through the scar in my palm, around the bruises on my wrists, in the spot at my neck where he put his mouth.
His words loop— “you’re mine… hell won’t keep me… death is a door I know how to pick. Bonepetal.”
I hate how my body answers to it.
“Enough,” I tell the water.
It doesn’t listen.
I scrub until the wax is gone and the smoke smell gives up to cheap citrus shampoo. The bruises bloom darker, from dull purple to near-black. When I run soap over my palm, the tether yanks tight, sharp, and electric. I hiss, leaning my forehead on my arm, and wait it out.
That metal taste floods my mouth again.
I swallow it and keep going.
When I’m done, I step out.
The mirror’s still fogged; fine by me. I wrap a towel, grab my phone—more messages. Miles again, and one from Jamie
Jamie
u ok?
I settle on home and hit send.
The phone rings immediately. I almost let it go, then answer.
“You’re alive,” Miles says. “You okay?”
“I’m okay.” Lie. “Sorry I disappeared.”
“What’s going on with Nathan? I’ve been trying to?—”
“I don’t care where he is,” I cut in. “He was cheating on me.”
Silence. Then a sharp exhale. “You’re kidding. Okay. Are you okay? Do you want me to come over?”
“I’m fine. I went out to Thorned Patch to clear my head, sat with my mom, came home and crashed. You don’t have to?—”
“Yeah, no. I’m coming anyway,” he says. “Muffins and coffee. Ten minutes.”
“Miles, seriously?—”
“Ten,” he repeats, already moving. “Lock your door.”
He hangs up before I can argue.
I set the phone down and breathe. Miles can be a lot—texts, calls, check-ins like it’s his job, but thank God for a lot .
He’s the person who actually shows up. He’s stocked my fridge, fixed my dumb smoke alarm at 2 a.m., driven me around when I couldn’t make myself get on a bus, sat on my floor and let me ugly-cry without asking for a plot summary.
I would not have made it through this year without him.
Annoying? Yeah. Necessary? More than air.
I dress in soft things that don’t feel constricting—cotton shorts and an old sweater that will hide the bruises on my wrists. My jacket lies crumpled on the floor, zipper teeth parted.
I think of his hands splitting it, of the way he held me together by taking me apart, and my stomach swoops.
I kick the jacket under the chair. I bandage my palm proper, carefully. The bruises at my wrists burn behind the gauze like a secret.
The knock is gentle.
I open the door and Miles pulls me into a hug before I can say hi. He smells like coffee and cold October air. There’s a paper bag in his hand.
“Brought muffins,” he says, squeezing once before letting go. “And yes, I got the good kind.”
“Bless you.” My voice is rough. He clocks it but doesn’t comment.
He hangs his coat on the hook, kicks off his shoes like he’s done a hundred times, and follows me to the little thrifted couch.
He drops the bag on the table, pops it open, and pushes a cup toward me. “Eat,” he says. “And… no offense, but you look wrecked.”
“None taken.” I break off a piece of muffin just to have something to do. The hum in my skin hasn’t shut up since I woke. It’s like I swallowed an amp.
“So,” he leans back, studying me, “talk to me.”
“A random girl DM’d me on my way home from class,” I say, picking the lie he’ll actually buy and keeping it bare-bones.
It’s not like I can say, oh yeah, my ex is back from the dead, crawled out of his grave, killed Nathan and wore his skull while chasing me around town and fucking me every time he caught me.
Oh, and now he’s bound to me, and I—unfortunately—like it.
So. Lie it is, even if it sucks to do it to him.
“She was looking for Nathan. Found me off his socials. Sent screenshots. Months of it. She didn’t even know I existed. So yeah—he was definitely cheating.”
Miles’s mouth goes flat. “What a catch.” Beat. “You okay?”
“I’m… doing the world’s worst self-care speedrun.”
He snorts, then sighs. “Well, not that I give a shit anymore, but we still can’t find him. No one’s heard from him since yesterday.”
I shrug because I don’t know what face to make. “Maybe he’s with… some other chick.”
Miles barks a humorless laugh. “Honestly? Maybe. And if so, who cares. Fuck him.” He tips his chin at me. “You deserved better anyway..”
“Thanks,” I reply with a genuine smile. Because he’s right.
We pick at the muffins. He tells me Jamie’s already stress-decorating and tried to bedazzle a plastic skull. I drink coffee. It’s hot and tastes like sugar pretending to be moral.
“Okay, logistics,” he says finally, brightening on purpose. “Halloween. Jamie’s party. Lakehouse. Playlists from 2012. Please come.”
“I’m not feeling?—”
“You never feel like it,” he says, gently.
“But tonight, I’m not taking no for an answer.
You owe me. After bailing early at the corn maze and then giving me a heart attack and ghosting me.
You’re coming. Don’t dance if you don’t want to.
You can stand by the chips and glare at people for all I care, but you’re coming. ”
I rub my wrist under the sleeve of my sweater. The hum spikes and settles. I still don’t know where Finn is. I don’t know when he’s coming back. The not-knowing scrapes against my brain, against every fiber of my body. Maybe Miles is right. Maybe the noise might help.
“I don’t have a costume,” I try.
“Just wear something black and sexy. I’ll bring accessories when I pick you up,” he says immediately.
“Absolutely not. I refuse to be a Sexy Balloon Animal again, like for Summerween where you were in charge and you strapped me into latex twists and a tiny hand pump.”
“That was iconic,” he says, hand to heart. “Hot-pink, squeaky, the pump as a clutch? Art. Come on, Salem. Even for just one hour. I’ll drive.”
I look at the window to avoid his face. A crow drops onto the sill like it heard its cue and just… stares, head tilted. My stomach dips for no good reason.
Miles follows my gaze. “Okay, that’s creepy,” he says. “Why is it looking at you like it knows you.”
“It’s just a bird,” I say, too fast. “They do that.”
“Feels like its judging me,” he mutters, eyeing it back. The crow taps the glass once, like a knock, then hops to the gutter and settles there like it owns the building. Miles shudders. “Yeah, no thanks, I hate that.”
I force a laugh and tear off another piece of muffin so I don’t have to explain anything.
I’m not going to say, the boy I loved crawled out of the ground and I can feel him like a second pulse.
I’m not going to say, I don’t know where he is.
I’m not going to say, I want him and I don’t and it’s making me crazy.
“Fine,” I say, because the hum is too much and I need to drown it in something that isn't my thoughts. “I’ll go. One hour.”
“Two,” he counters, grinning. “Compromise.”
“One and a half,” I point at him. “And you’re not putting me in anything that squeaks or has sequins.”
“No promises,” he says, already standing. He collects his trash, rinses his cup like a polite raccoon, and shrugs back into his coat. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I’m picking you up at eight,” he repeats, smug. “Text if you need me sooner.” He hugs me again, a quick squeeze that says a lot without forcing anything out of me. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m okay enough,” I say. “And… thanks. For showing up. Like always.”
He knocks his knuckles on the table like a drumroll. “Okay. Nap. Shower. Eyeliner that could stab a man. I’ll handle transport, costumes and snacks.”
“Deal.”
He opens the door, pauses. The crow on the gutter tilts its head to look at him upside down. “I’m leaving,” he tells it, deadpan. “You can stop glaring at my friend.” Then, to me, softer, “See you at eight.”
When the door clicks shut, the apartment goes quiet in a way that’s too loud.
The hum under my skin fills the space he left.
I stand there with a half-eaten muffin and a cup that’s gone lukewarm and listen to it.
I don’t know where Finn is. I don’t know when he’ll knock, or if he bothers with doors anymore.
I clean the table just to move. I set out the outfit I want to wear tonight. Something I know will hide the bruises on my body but still draw attention.
His attention.
The crow’s still there, hunched like a guard. I look away and pretend I didn’t see it.
I know better—it’s him, looking out through those eyes.
Waiting.
For what, I have no idea.
I flop back on the bed and stare at the ceiling.
Eight o’clock feels both way too close and stupidly far.