Chapter 45
I crawl to the bed, in disbelief at what I’m seeing. My fingers tremble as they press against cool skin, searching, praying for a pulse.
Stillness. It’s hopeless. The girls are gone.
A choked noise limps from my throat, something between a sob and a gasp.
Emma and Penelope lie tangled in blood-soaked fabric, their tiny bodies riddled with deep, ragged wounds.
Pajamas sticky. Limbs twisted unnaturally.
Their dark hair, once soft, brushed and braided with care, is now matted, clumped, ruined.
The smell. Like a storm in the air. Sweat. Something else. Something I can’t name, something that makes my stomach lurch violently. A scream builds in my chest. I press my hand over my mouth to stop it.
But I’m too scared to scream. Too scared of who or what it will conjure. A sob blooms inside me anyway. A sharp, stifled noise that barely escapes my lips. My vision warps, darkens at the edges. They were just alive. Hours ago, they were alive.
Penelope and her mischievous grin. Emma and her curious eyes. Little hands clasping their antique dolls. The ones that now lie discarded, their glass eyes staring, blind and empty.
My chest crashes, my body shaking so hard it hurts. I reach for my phone to dial 911. Shit. I left it downstairs. Then I see it, again.
The hunting knife.
Wedged in Emma’s chest, the hilt jutting out at an unnatural angle.
My knife.
My heart stops, and a slow, creeping horror slithers up my spine. Someone was in my room. I reach for the handle, then stop midair. My fingers curl inward.
Olivia.
No, it’s impossible. She doesn’t have a violent bone in her body. Then where is she?
A gust of wind sends the curtains billowing. Lightning cracks across the lake, flooding the room with a cold, white glow. I brace myself to see her—or someone worse—lurking in the shadows.
But there’s no one. Just the doll. The miniature version of me. Staring. Watching.
I hear footsteps.
A slow, deliberate creak down the hall. My grief shatters, replaced by terror.
I whip my head toward the window, but it’s too far a drop. My pulse slams through my skull. The only weapon within reach is—
The knife.
I clench my teeth and rip it free. The steel scrapes against bone. A wet suction sound follows as it slides from her flesh. A wave of nausea crashes through me, but I grip the hilt harder, ignoring the warm blood pooling in my palm.
My dad’s blood. No, Penelope’s blood.
The footsteps close in.
Five feet.
Four.
I slip behind the door, pressing into the shadows, my breath like miniature blades in my throat. I hear him before I see him. The slow creak of the floor plank. Then his shadow spills through the doorway.
Eric.
A kitchen knife gleams in his fist, reflecting the moonlight. His broad shoulders rise and fall with each breath. Sweat glistens on his brow, running down his temples in jagged streams. His eyes are wild, empty of reason.
Sweat slides down my spine. The icy breeze bites at my neck.
He takes a step inside into the semidarkness.
Another.
Now.
I slam the door into him. Wood meets bone with a sickening crack, sending him sprawling into the girls’ miniature table and chairs. I don’t wait to see if he recovers.
I run.
Bolting down the hallway, I fly down the stairs two at a time, my bare feet skidding on the slick floor. Behind me, I hear a sound.
A scream. Eric’s scream.
A symphony of rage and pain. Followed by an almost interminable silence. Then—the crash of wood splintering.
He’s coming.
I reach the patio door and yank it open, my fingers slick with sweat and blood. My breath sticks in my throat. I leap into the night. The lake? The woods? There’s nowhere to run.
The wet grass is icy against my bare skin as I sprint around the side of the house, my grip tightening on the knife.
I leap over the chrysanthemums and see a path through the moonlit forest. I push forward, leaves shifting beneath me, each crunch like an explosion in the quiet void between thunderclaps. Then—
The slam of the patio door. The pound of footfalls against wet wood. He’s moving fast. Faster than I thought he could.
I don’t know where I’m going. Just away.
The trees loom ahead, thick and endless. The path beyond is a blur of mud and darkness.
I run.
As I plunge deeper into the woods, the shriek of the crickets stabs my eardrums. I follow the map of the woods I made in my mind, pushing forward, twigs ripping the soles of my feet, branches clawing at my arms, slicing my face.
Somewhere behind me, Eric crashes through the underbrush. The distance between us shrinks.
I push harder, faster, but my body is already screaming. My lungs burn, my muscles thrumming with exhaustion. My toe catches on a hidden root, sending me stumbling forward. I feel it break. I throw out a hand, catching myself against a tree.
Keep moving. Keep moving.
Then, ahead, something emerges through the downpour.
The carousel.
It stands in the clearing, swaying and screeching in the wind. Raindrops from the trees above clink against the rusted metal, the painted horses frozen in mid-gallop, their eyes peeled wide in expressions of permanent terror like they know what’s coming.
I veer toward it, heart thundering in my chest. Is this a hiding place? Or a mistake? I don’t have time to decide. I slide to the ground behind a row of twisted metal poles, sucking in air that won’t come fast enough. My whole body shakes as I search the trees for help. Where is Olivia?
I listen.
Rain ticks against the metal canopy, soft and steady. Each drop a relentless count of moments slipping away. Time’s up.
I hear footsteps. Slow, methodical. Twigs snapping underfoot. A shadow emerges from between the trees.
Eric walks hunched, his blade dangling loosely at his side. He moves with eerie resolve, scanning the woods, his eyes flicking over every inch of darkness.
A burst of distant lightning illuminates the sky. For a split second, our eyes meet, white as snow.
I freeze. He stops.
A flash of movement. Fast. He’s coming.
I launch forward, scrambling out of my hiding spot. My legs barely obey, my feet slipping in the mud. Pain searing up my foot. I don’t care. I run.
But he’s closer than I realized.
I hear a snort of breath behind me. The rustling of fabric. The whistle of metal slicing the air. Fingers closing around the neckline of my tank top. Yanking.
I lurch backward, my spine snapping tight. My feet skid. My body jerks violently. I lash out, swiping my knife backward. The blade catches something.
Flesh.
He groans. His grip loosens.
I don’t stop to look. I rip free and sprint, half stumbling, toward the old Ferris wheel. The rusted skeleton looms in the distance. Calling me. I hear the scream of the girl who died here. The ghost. And I wonder if I will join her.
Then Eric’s hand snatches my wrist.
I cry out. Fling myself forward.
His grip tightens, jerking me off my feet.
My body slams into the ground, the impact knocking the air from my lungs. My hands scrape against loose rocks, the knife flying from my grasp, sliding in the mud.
Before I can move—before I can even breathe—he’s on me. Straddling my waist. His knee drives into my ribs, pinning me down. One hand clamps around my throat, crushing, choking. The other raises the blade, dripping in the stormlight.
I close my eyes and scream, “Olivia, help!”