Chapter 25 #2
Just like in the dream, the man snapped around and lunged.
I spun and tried to run, but my legs tangled.
The floor came up fast. My knees hit first, then my chest, then my arms.
Concrete? No, wood! My brain scrambled for the details, but they slipped away in the haze of panic and noise.
Something clamped around my ankle.
His hands.
His grip dug deep. Hot. Callused.
“No!” I screamed, kicking, twisting. My fingers scraped uselessly across the floor as he dragged me backward.
My heels skidded. I couldn’t stop him. Couldn’t break free.
And then—
It sliced me.
A knife?
No.
A nail.
I caught a glimpse of it in the corner of my eye: a jagged piece of metal sticking out from a floorboard. It sliced a path from collarbone to ear as the man dragged me.
Pain detonated across my skin.
A scream ripped from my throat. It was high-pitched and frantic, unrecognizable as mine. Warm blood poured down my neck, slick and fast, soaking into my collar.
“Help me!” I screeched, but the words were muffled as both hands flew to my bleeding throat. The warmth. The wetness. The horror made it hard to think. Hard to breathe.
Was I going to bleed out like some animal on a slaughter floor?
“Somebody, please help!”
A gunshot cracked through the room like a whip. The man toppled forward, his dead weight landing on top of me. His blood spilled across mine, hot and thick.
I kicked and screamed beneath him until a woman dropped to her knees beside me and tried to shove the man’s body off mine.
Cynthia!
But younger. So much younger. Her hair was golden blonde, cascading over her shoulders. Her face was delicate, striking.
“Get him off!” I screamed.
The little boy joined us, straining with everything he had. He was pushing hard, his face twisted with effort. Together, they got the man off—halfway.
But then he moved again and grabbed Cynthia.
“Run!” she screamed as the man’s hand clamped around her hair. He climbed to his feet, his rage boiling over as he slammed his fist into her face over and over.
“Ruuuuuun!” she screamed again as if this might be the last word she ever spoke.
I scrambled upright, blood still pouring down my neck in hot pulses. My head whipped around to find the boy. He was behind me, his eyes wide, following close as we ran into the hallway.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man smash Cynthia’s head into the wall.
I wanted to help her. God, I wanted to. But I couldn’t.
The boy had to be saved from the monster.
We had to run.
We’d barely made it outside into the violent storm when my foot caught on something and I dropped to my knees.
The wind shrieked around me, wild and ruthless.
It slammed into my body and tossed me from side to side as if I were a doll.
Rain pelted down in heavy sheets, soaking my clothes in seconds.
Then, in a blink, it was gone.
The storm, the boy, the blood—all gone.
I was back in the basement, drenched in darkness.
Everything spun.
My throat was still being crushed.
I clawed at the hands around my neck, my nails digging deep, desperate for release.
“Cynthia,” I gagged. The room wavered around me. My heart thudded slower in my ears, like it was giving up.
I was going to die down here.
“Cyn . . . thi . . . a,” I gasped, choking.
The pressure didn’t stop.
Before I realized what I was saying, before I could second-guess what I’d just chosen to be my final word, the sound slipped from my lips, soft and broken:
“Mom . . .”
Shock hit me like cold water.
The hands loosened.
“Mom . . . stop,” I said again, this time more clearly.
The grip fell away completely.
I gasped as if my lungs were trying to restart me. I sucked in air until I was dizzy with it.
My head spun. My heart splintered.
She was my mother.
The woman in the basement. Cynthia.
She was my freaking mom.
How was that even possible?
My body moved before my brain caught up. I staggered to my feet, raised my arm, and swung the heavy metal cuff on my wrist into the space where she had to be.
It hit.
Hard.
She let out a low, pained groan before collapsing onto the floor.
I leapt on top of her, slamming the metal chain against her head until she went limp beneath me.
My hands fumbled over her body. Somewhere under her tattered dress, I found it—a metal key.
It took several attempts to open my chains, as my hands were too shaky and numb to grip well. Eventually, one cuff clicked open, then the other. Then my ankles.
I stumbled toward the table I’d seen earlier, feeling my way across its rough wooden surface. The candle was still there. So was a match.
With trembling hands, I struck it.
The flame flared to life. I lit the candle and spun around fast.
And gagged.
Over and over, my stomach emptied. I doubled forward, choking on bile. It was all too much.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. The taste of acid still clung to my tongue. Then my eyes drifted back to her.
Cynthia—my mom—lay motionless on the cold stone floor.
Covering her face was a human skull mask that cast grotesque shadows in the flickering light.
She was wearing the man’s clothes—the same man from my flashback.
The fine suit hung on her like a costume, tattered, bloodstained, rotted from years of storage in some basement hellhole. But it was his suit. I knew it.
Was she dead?
Her silver hair spread around her head in tangled waves. I wanted to see if she was breathing. I had to.
But what if she woke up?
What if she came at me again?
I risked it.
Dropping beside her, I fastened the chains around her limbs. Wrists first, then ankles.
It felt awful.
Even after what she’d just done, I still felt awful chaining her in a basement.
But I had no choice.
I didn’t let my mind wander back to what all of this meant. The flashback. Cynthia. Me calling her Mom.
I just had to get the hell out of here.
But first, I checked her pulse. It was faint. Slow but steady.
A heavy breath escaped my lips. I wasn’t a murderer.
I grabbed the candle and rushed over to the old wooden door. The handle stuck for a second before it creaked open.
Then I froze.
The room beyond was almost worse than this Winthrop torture chamber.
It was a shrine.
Fabric and red silk curtains hung around a makeshift bed, like someone had tried to make it sacred. On top lay a skeleton, dried and yellowing, dressed in a filthy white undershirt and sagging underwear.
The head was missing. Cynthia had used it for her mask.
It didn’t take long to add it all up.
This was the man from the flashback. The one from the library. The one who looked just like Daniel. And the one Cynthia shot.
Old flowers surrounded the body. Clusters of sparkling shells had been carefully arranged around it, like twisted offerings.
My stomach twisted. Bile surged up my throat. I felt violently ill.
Staggering back, I stumbled out of the room and into a narrow hallway. At the end of it, a wall made of bricks loomed ahead.
It was the same wall I’d seen blocking one of the basement hallways before.
Only now, I was on the other side.
I rushed toward it and pressed a hand against the bricks. Some of them had to be loose. How else would Cynthia have gotten me in here?
A few of the larger stones shifted the second I pushed. I set the candle down on the cold floor and shoved harder. One by one, the bricks fell free with a heavy drop. Soon, I’d carved out a hole big enough to crawl through.
So that was how she did it. Cynthia must have dragged me through here, into her shrine. Into that nightmare of a room filled with memories and bones.
I pulled myself through the gap and moved quickly. I didn’t head toward the stairs leading to the yellow basement door. I figured it would be locked. Instead, I ran toward the room with the bookshelf—the one hiding the stairs to the pantry.
I hurried through the corridor and up the narrow wooden steps. When I reached the top, I stopped short.
The door was wide open.
Had Daniel already searched for me down there? Maybe he didn’t know that behind that brick wall was another hidden corridor and room.
“Daniel!” I shouted.
No answer.
Up here, the light was better. It was still dim from the storm outside, but compared to the basement with no windows, it felt like daylight. I went straight to the kitchen junk drawer, pulled out a flashlight, and flicked it on.
“Daniel!” I called again, louder this time. “Hudson!”
Nothing.
Just the growl of thunder and the occasional burst of lightning flashing against the windows.
I tore through the Breakers like a storm myself, bursting into room after empty room. Each shout echoed unanswered.
The parents’ bedroom door still appeared to be locked from the hallway, but when I pushed it open, I realized that Cynthia had shoved the dresser aside from the inside, then closed the door to make it seem undisturbed from the outside. She must have waited in there.
On the floor, my phone lay face down.
The battery was dead.
I put it into my pocket and pressed on, searching the rest of the Breakers. No sign of Daniel. No Hudson. No Mochi.
Nothing.
Panic clawed at my chest as I darted through the kitchen and out the back door into the storm. Rain hit me like needles. Wind shoved me sideways. The sky was black and roaring. Still, I ran.
Across the yard, a faint glow shone from Hudson’s cabin window.
I sprinted toward it, soaked and shivering. My hair was plastered to my face, and my shoes squelched through the mud.
Finally, I tore the door open.
The warmth of his cabin hit me instantly—the scent of firewood, wet fur, and blood all mixed in the air.
Hudson lay slumped on the couch, the cozy living room dimly lit by the fire in the stone hearth.
Blood soaked his shirt and spread across the cushion beneath him.
He didn’t move at first—then a faint groan slipped out.
Relief hit me, not only because he was alive, but because the dogs were back inside too, safe, pacing around him with low whimpers in their throats.