Chapter 4
I couldn’t sleep. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I must have slept at some point. Enough to dream, maybe. Enough to wake up with that thick, disoriented feeling, like my brain had been dropped back into my body without instructions.
I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the cabin settle around me. The wind pressed against the walls in uneven bursts, not a steady howl so much as a series of tests. It was like something was leaning in, backing off, and then trying again.
I checked my phone. There were no notifications, no service. It was just a clock.
The time felt accusatory. It was late enough that I should be asleep, but early enough that I’d be exhausted tomorrow even if I drifted off soon.
It was that strange hour when every thought turned unreasonable, when problems swelled to their true size or at least to the size they occupied in your mind.
The night replayed on a loop whether I wanted it to or not.
Jake’s question. The way no one had stopped him.
The laughter after I had left the room. I picked apart every word I’d said, every expression on their faces.
I thought about the things I should’ve said.
The things I shouldn’t have. I thought about how quiet my apartment would be right now if I’d stayed home.
How safe it would have felt to be alone somewhere familiar, instead of alone here.
My gaze drifted to the dresser. The pen sat exactly where I’d left it. In the thin wash of moonlight, the white lettering caught the light: stay wild. It was almost glowing against the dark wood.
I frowned and rolled onto my side so I wouldn’t have to look at it.
I just needed to sleep. I closed my eyes and started counting, imagining each number traced carefully in my mind.
It was a trick I’d taught myself years ago, back when my thoughts first learned how to run ahead of me. It usually worked.
I made it to four when I heard it. The front door creaked open and then closed with a soft thud.
My eyes snapped open, and I held my breath, listening. But there was nothing. No footsteps. No voices. No muffled laughter drifting from the living room. Just the wind and the cabin groaning under its pressure.
Someone must have gone out to the car, I thought. Or Ricky needed a smoke. Or maybe Maddie wanted fresh air. They were all reasonable explanations. But all of them included someone eventually retreating back to their room.
I waited a minute, then another. My skin prickled, that same awareness I’d felt earlier, like my body was responding to something my brain refused to name.
I sat up and swung my legs out of bed. The floor was icy under my bare feet. The door to my room was cracked open, but I remembered closing it.
I stepped into the hallway. A faint orange glow spilled from the living room—the last, low pulse of the fire. The hall itself was pitch black. No light made it past the threshold. There was no soft gradient transition, just a hard edge where the dark began, like the house had drawn a line.
I took a few careful steps. “Hello?” I whispered, hating how small my voice sounded.
No answer. I rounded the corner. The fire had burned down to embers, barely alive, flickering like they were deciding whether it was worth holding on. I crouched in front of it, and the heat didn’t even reach my hands.
Don’t let it die. Bill’s voice slid into my head uninvited.
I grabbed a log from the stack beside the hearth and laid it across the embers.
Then another, crossing them the way Noah had earlier.
I balled up a few newspapers and packed them underneath.
I struck a match. It flared bright and sudden in the dark, making me blink.
Then the fire caught, and warmth rushed out into the room.
Flames climbed the wood, crackling loud enough to make me flinch.
Satisfied, I turned and nearly screamed.
Jake sat at the kitchen table with his back to me. He was perfectly still, hands resting flat on the surface. I wasn’t sure he had been there a moment ago.
“Jesus,” I whispered. “Jake, you scared me.”
My first thought was that he’d been the one who opened and closed the door. That he couldn’t sleep either, and now he was being very Jake about it—silent and petty.
“What’re you doing?” I took a step closer.
The fire hissed behind me, loud in the sudden silence.
“Jake,” I said again.
Nothing.
I circled the table until I could see his face. His eyes were open, unblinking. He stared straight ahead, fixed on something only he could see. A chill crept up my spine. I waved a hand in front of his face, but he didn’t react.
I leaned closer, my pulse hammering now. “Jake. Knock it off.”
Still nothing. I tapped his shoulder, and that’s when it hit me.
“Oh,” I breathed. “You’re . . . sleepwalking.”
The explanation settled over me like a blanket. He’d done it before—after finals, after his birthday, once in Mexico. It was always when he’d gotten dangerously drunk, like he’d poisoned his mind but his body still had energy to burn off.
His pupils were huge, swallowing the irises of his eyes. I hesitated, unsure what to do next. I knew you weren’t supposed to wake someone while they were sleepwalking. But leaving him like this felt wrong.
“I’ll just take you back to bed,” I said, mostly to myself.
When I reached for his arm, he stood so abruptly the chair flew backward, slamming against the floor with a blow that made me gasp.
“Jake . . .”
He didn’t look at me, didn’t acknowledge me at all. He turned and walked toward the hallway, his movements stiff and awkward, his arms hanging strangely at his sides.
“Jake,” I said. “Slow down.”
He disappeared into the dark. I stopped at the edge of the hallway, my toes at the line where light ended.
“Jake?” I whispered.
Silence.
“Jake?”
Then I heard his footsteps. At first they were quiet, soft pads against the floor, moving slow and steady. Without warning, they changed. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Each step landed flat and hard, echoing down the hall like a warning.
“Jake,” I whispered, my voice shaking now. “You’re freaking me out.”
The stomping grew louder and faster. Then it sounded like he was running straight at me. My eyes strained in the darkness, darting back and forth in rapid vibrations as they tried to find the source of the noise. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
My hand shot to the wall and flicked the light on with a snap.
The stomping cut off instantly. The hallway was empty.
I stood frozen, my breath coming too fast, staring at the length of it. Every door was closed now, even mine.
“Jake?” I whispered.
My legs felt like lead as I moved forward, my hand trailing along the wall for balance. Stopping outside his room, I pushed the door open.
There he was, lying face down on the pullout couch, asleep. I stared at him for a long time.
“Get a grip,” I whispered to myself. “You imagined it.”
I blamed it on sleep deprivation, postbreakup stress, the alcohol. I’d been wound too tight all night, jumping at shadows. I closed the door behind me and immediately felt the cold.
The faint glow from the living room was gone. The darkness there felt heavier somehow, like it had thickened while I wasn’t looking.
I slowly moved toward it. Each step made my chest tighten. When I rounded the corner, my stomach dropped. The fire was dead. Not dying. Dead. It was just gray ash and blackened logs collapsed in on themselves. I stepped closer, holding my hands out toward the stone. It was cold.
“That’s not possible,” I whispered.
I’d fed it minutes ago. I’d watched the fire catch.
My hands shook as I stacked logs, stuffed newspaper underneath, and struck match after match until the flames finally roared back to life. Heat flooded the room, almost violent in its intensity, like the house was overcorrecting.
I exhaled.
Then I turned and froze. Jake was sitting at the kitchen table again, his back to me, shoulders squared, palms flat against the tabletop. The temperature dropped, sudden and unmistakable, like a door had been opened somewhere I couldn’t see.
My thoughts scrambled, and my chest tightened until it hurt.
I didn’t say his name. I didn’t step toward him. I slowly receded out of the room, my eyes locked on him the entire time, afraid that if I looked away even for a second, he’d be somewhere else when I looked back.
I reached the hallway and hurried to my room, shutting the door and jamming a chair under the handle to wedge it in place.
My hands shook as I crawled into bed, and my heart wouldn’t slow. I listened for footsteps, for movement, for any sound that would explain what I’d seen. But nothing came.
Lying there in the dark, I understood the silence wasn’t meant to comfort me. It was meant to keep me still.