Chapter 5 The Long Walk to Horror
I stare down from the roof’s edge at Arcana & Bloom.
The streetlight flickers and splits into two, then merges. Shadows stretch and writhe like ghouls in the night. A fire burns through my veins, and my breath quickens.
The adrenaline is kicking in, just like last week at the hospital when Ren rescued me. I swallow, keep my feet planted, and force myself not to reach for the brick.
My palms sweat anyway.
During the day, I save people.
But at night, I test how close I can get to the edge without falling.
It started three months ago when I found a self-help book, Break the Rules, Break the Shackles, and highlighted half of it.
If rules and order ended in heartbreak, I might as well break them. At least then, it’d be my choice.
But I’m not stupid. I know I can end up on my own gurney if I’m not careful.
When I was growing up, Mom stood on edges like this—metaphorical and literal—and called it living.
Rules and responsibilities never applied to her.
I learned early on to cook if I didn’t want to starve.
She’d disappear for days, then send postcards from the Swiss Alps with skydivers in the background and I miss you scrawled in the margins.
It drove me nuts.
But last year taught me something: Blake followed the rules—drove under the speed limit, returned shopping carts to corrals, paid his taxes on time.
He still died.
He walked out of a ten-hour open-heart surgery into a war zone.
Wrong place. Wrong time.
Poof.
Gone.
So maybe Mom was onto something. Live on the edge before it drags you over.
And now, standing here, a step away from plummeting to my death, something buzzes under my skin. Grief recedes into the shadows like a faded photo of a great-aunt you barely remember.
I’m alive.
A shrill ringing slices through the air.
“Shit!” I jolt back and silence my phone. Damn spammers. They’re everywhere like pests these days.
Then I notice an unread message badge on the skull icon, and my pulse kicks. Quickly, I open the TellNo1 app.
He replied.
My smile widens.
Ghostface444
Which rule did you break today?
I bite my lip and respond.
ILoveDarkStories
Standing close to the edge. It’s freeing—looking down and knowing what separates life and death is thin air.
Three dots appear.
Ghostface444
Good girl. I’m proud of you.
A laugh bursts out of me—which is ludicrous, but there it is. His messages crack open a piece of my armor.
Letting in little sparks. Flashes of color.
ILoveDarkStories
You always know what to say.
Ghostface444
You were expecting something else?
ILoveDarkStories
Something like, “Are you stupid, and don’t you have better things to do?”
Ghostface444
What’s the fun in that?
The butterflies in my belly riot. He gets me. I hold my breath when three dots appear on the screen.
Ghostface444
And don’t you need more fun…ILoveDarkStories?
And if I can get you there…why not?
Something clenches sharp and low. My exhale rushes out.
ILoveDarkStories
Why do I think you’re talking about something else?
Ghostface444
Do you want me to?
I bite my fist. What are you doing? He’s a stranger. You don’t even know his age. He may be a balding creep with soundproof walls and a locked basement, cruising online for his next victim.
Maybe grief is making me do stupid things. Or this is just me breaking another rule.
On Blake’s birthday two months ago, I’d lain awake in my much too large king-sized bed, staring at the ceiling after a brutal shift. A drunk driver collided with a tour bus. Screams stuck under my skin and followed me home.
Something in me snapped. I downloaded TellNo1 and mad-typed a post about the unfairness of it all—irresponsible drivers walking unscathed, innocent lives cut short. I wanted retribution. I wanted the scales evened.
Ghostface444 replied then.
Ghostface444
What if you could even the scales? What would you do?
I didn’t have an answer.
But it helped. Talking to him. Being honest—darkness and all.
And he’s never stopped replying.
I know he’s in his thirties, or so he says. Works in security. Wry sense of humor. I told him about Blake. About my world dimming after he died.
Death has touched him too. He’s lost both parents—one at a young age and the other when he was a teen. The man loves to debate literary versus genre fiction. I always win, obviously.
But lately, the conversations have shifted.
Less anonymous. More intimate.
I wonder if he needs me as much as I need him.
Ghostface444
I read The Ecstasy in Wraithmoor Abbey. It was…different.
I snicker. I guess he hasn’t read a book about a woman needing sex with demons in a spooky manor to survive before.
Grateful he’s steered the conversation into safer waters, my fingers fly over the keyboard.
ILoveDarkStories
Don’t focus on the sex. Focus on the romance and the freedom after facing your fears.
Tell me your greatest fear.
His response pops in before I can blink. Like he was waiting for me to ask.
Ghostface444
Losing control. Being human.
And still not stopping. Until there’s nothing left of me.
I furrow my brows, a chill skating over my arms. The words should scare me. Maybe they do. But beneath the darkness of his answer, I sense the self-erasure. Something I’ve also felt before.
ILoveDarkStories
Do you think that’s what’s happening to me? Losing control? These dark confessions and my job don’t go together.
Ghostface444
Who says you have to be a saint?
You’re human. That’s all.
ILoveDarkStories
If you get it, then why are you afraid?
Ghostface444
I’m better as a monster. The world is safer that way.
My throat tightens. I stare at the screen. A hard beat trips through me—hot, wrong, and something…more.
“Aria, I asked you to grab a fresh pot for the peonies from the shed, not make one from scratch,” Scarlett hollers from the stairwell.
I quickly stuff my phone into my jeans pocket.
“What are you doing there?” Twinkling green eyes squint at me. “Texting a man or something?”
“You’re ridiculous.” I kick the ground. “And I’m not ready. I was just getting some fresh air. Don’t get that at the hospital.”
“Sweetie, you have to live.” She wraps me in a tight hug. “Everyone’s worried about you. All work, no life. This is the first time I’ve seen you in a month.”
Heat prickles behind my eyelids, and I hug her tighter.
“I swear I’m fine.” Stop telling me I’m not. “He’s not coming back. I know that.”
“I’m so sorry.” Sympathy suffuses her voice. “Let yourself grieve. Feel the emotions.”
“I swear I’ll go crazy if you guys tell me to grieve more.” Straining a laugh, I pull back. She frowns. “I’m fine. Really. I’m studying for my GRE again. Keeping busy. A year’s long enough. Need to try again.”
“I don’t know how you do it, surrounded by sick people and chaos.”
“And to think you were going to be a nurse.” I try the chuckle again and glance away, not wanting to see if she buys it.
Scarlett laughs. “What was I thinking? Luckily, I came to my senses.”
“You were much more suited for this.” After grabbing the flower pot I originally came up here for, we make our way down to the café.
Scarlett and I met in the nursing program at U of Chicago, but she dropped out midway to open the apothecary café and bookstore, the only place in Saints Hollow that feels like a warm hug in the winter.
My phone buzzes. Ghostface444? Did he reply?
I dig my nails into my palms to stop myself from pulling out my phone.
“There you two are.” Lana Anderson Kent scowls as she fiddles with the sputtering coffee machine and smacks it twice. “I swear this usually works. Why am I manning the machine for you? I don’t even work here.”
“Because you love me.” Scarlett beams.
“Or she loves your elixirs,” I add. Lana swears by them.
Another whack later, the machine purrs, and the scent of fresh coffee wafts through the air.
“Yes!” Lana cheers, her thick brown ponytail whipping behind her. “You know, I can just get you a new machine. Call it my investment.”
“No! Pookie has been with me through thick and thin.” Scarlett throws her arms around the stainless steel appliance as if it were her newborn.
The bell on the front door chimes. Steady footsteps and familiar lighter clicks follow.
“Ready to go?” a low rasp asks.
Soft conversations silence. Silverware clatters. Someone coughs.
Elias Kent strides toward us in his well-tailored suit and perfectly tousled dark hair, every inch the gentleman mobster. He stares at his wife like she’s the only person in the room.
When we first met him, Scarlett and I were wary.
Elias is the kind of man who takes lives without blinking.
And Lana? She couldn’t go anywhere without Ren hovering—all courtesy of Elias’s orders.
But last year, Elias protected Lana during the hospital shootout that took Blake’s life. Nearly died for her.
“Ready. You guys sure you don’t want to join us? Dinner at Royale,” Lana asks.
“I think Elias would end us if we tagged along,” I quip, and the mobster chuckles. “I’m going to the movies. There’s a film I’ve been meaning to see.”
“A scary one. Why would anyone pay to freak themselves out?” Scarlett mutters.
Lana laughs. “What about you, Scarlett? Dinner?”
Scarlett snorts. “And be the third wheel? No, thank you. I’m spending my night here with Queen Cece and all these peonies.” She motions to the calico tabby cat who’s the unofficial café mascot.
“I can stay and help,” I offer.
“No. Do your thing. I need silence for my peony masterpiece.” She shoos me away, then her eyes turn solemn. “And what I told you earlier, I’m proud of you. Go see that movie. Take that exam. That’s what he’d want.”
A lump thickens in my throat as I think of Blake’s smile and boisterous laughter—I hate how the memory of his voice blurs at the edges.
The faint echo of grief stirs, but I force a smile at my friends.
Break rules. Just…live.
A dense fog shrouds the wrought-iron street lamps, giving the illusion of ghostly balls of fire hovering against the obsidian sky. My ankle boots clomp against the cobblestones, a Saints Hollow signature, remnants of a historical neighborhood that hasn’t been completely gentrified.
I glance at my watch.
Shit. Five minutes until The Haunting of Amityville starts, and I’m at least ten minutes away.
Unless I take a shortcut.
I eye the small alley cutting through the dilapidated limestone buildings to my right. During the day, it’d be easy to navigate the dumpsters, the graffiti-tagged walls, and the occasional teenagers up to no good.
But at night, with the lone streetlamp casting more shadows than light and the sinuous mist cloaking the air, a thread of unease moves through me.
But then the feeling shifts.
A pulse of warmth unfurls at the base of my spine. My vision sharpens.
Fear. Adrenaline.
Proof of life.
I’ve walked this path a million times before. It’s fine.
Mind made up, I stride into the alley, all senses alert. Tiny feet pitter-patter on the ground. A cloying stench of decay lingers in the air. My heart pounds harder. A genuine laugh bubbles in my throat, and I quicken my steps.
Until I hear the echo.
Muffled thuds behind me.
I stop. The echo silences.
I look around. There’s no one there.
Still, I reach into my purse and grab my pepper spray before I continue.
Maybe it’s all in my mind. Maybe it’s a random passerby. But I’m not staying to find out.
I break into a run. My boots pound on wet cobblestones until I—
A low grunt rattles behind me, and I spin around.
Dark shadows materialize in and out of the mist—hard angles, fast movements.
I slap my hand over my mouth, my feet unfreezing so I can flee.
Then they’re gone.
No movement. No shadows. Only eerie quiet remains.
On the ground, something glints—a cracked phone screen, facedown, still lit.
Cold sweat drips down my back. Goosebumps rise on my skin like warning lights. I sprint toward Broadway Street, the movie theater a hundred feet ahead.
The thumps begin again.
Someone’s following me. But this time, the steps are softer and slower. Almost as if this person is making noise on purpose to let me know of their presence.
I glance over my shoulder, my strides even.
But there’s no one there. Only fog.
“Rules exist for a reason. Do stupid shit, win stupid prizes,” I mutter and—
Air wrenches out of my lungs as I slam into someone.
“Easy,” a sinister voice hisses.
My gaze snaps up. A tall man with a buzz cut and dark eyes looms before me.
Asian. Tattoos writhing up his neck—one I recognize instantly.
A skull with snakes coming out of the eye sockets.
The Triads. I recognize the mark from their soldiers when they’ve landed in my ER. But I’ve never met one up close outside the hospital.
“Watch where you’re going.” The man smiles, teeth glinting like razor blades.
Run.
“S-Sorry.” I step around him.
“You have something we want.”
What?
I ignore him, but he snags my wrist in a tight grip. His nails dig into my skin like talons.
“If you’re smart,” he warns and leans down until he’s eye level with me, “you’ll give it up. Don’t make us work for it. We’re not polite company…Aria.”
Not waiting for my response, he drops my arm and disappears into the alley. I sprint the rest of the way, not stopping until I step through the double doors of the theater.
My heart hammers. My hands shake, and dread freezes my veins.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Calm yourself.
I quickly buy a ticket and focus on deep breathing.
Give what up?
Questions swirl in my head when I take a seat in the middle of a row just as the opening credits roll.
The room is fairly empty—a few people huddled in front, a couple giggling in the far corner.
I rake in a deep inhale.
A whiff of leather and amber reaches my nose, followed by the buttery scent of popcorn.
Hairs rise on the back of my neck.
This scent.
Dark eyes, a black mask, and a strong silhouette flit through my mind.
Ren.
Lana’s former mute bodyguard. The same dangerous, intense man who steadied my panic in the hospital.
Why would he be here?
My imagination is working overtime. It’s just fragrance—other men can use it.
But still, I close my eyes and breathe in. Somehow, it smells like him.
And Ren feels…safe.
The earlier panic in me settles.
Until a sharp thought slices through the peace.
How did the man in the alley know my name?