"I have to go,too," I spoke up, my voice barely above a whisper. "My mom's waiting for me." It was only half the truth.
I went around the circle, giving each of my friends a tight hug, saving Ben for last. I tried desperately to keep the tears from...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
•°Corinne's POV°•
I was hunched over my desk in the office, laser-focused on the final edits for this month's issue before it went to print. Technically, it wasn't in my job description, but when Charles discovered I had a sharper eye for typos and awkward phrasing than the entire editing team, he'd insisted I become the final gatekeeper. It was a tedious, pressure-filled task, but the extra pay was significant, and truthfully, I appreciated the work. It kept my mind occupied, a welcome distraction from the things that lurked in the quiet moments.
Around lunchtime, I ducked out to grab our usual order-a turkey club for him, a chicken Caesar salad for me, and two large, life-giving coffees. When I returned, we fell into our easy rhythm, eating at our desks amidst the comfortable clutter of his office.
"The days seem to be going by faster these days," Charles remarked, wiping a spot of mayonnaise from his lip.
He wasn't wrong. The past two weeks had been a relentless blur of deadlines, photoshoots, and stakeholder meetings. I felt like I could sleep for three days straight. "We've been busy. This month's issue is a big one. Important, not just for us, but for a lot of other people," I stated, taking a bite of my salad.
"Yeah," he agreed with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. "A lot has happened this month."
My phone, lying face-up on the desk, began to vibrate with an insistent, shrill ring. I reached for it, my brow furrowing. The caller ID showed a number I didn't recognize, but the area code sent an immediate, ice-cold jolt through my system: 207. Derry, Maine.
My legs went weak beneath the desk. My breath hitched. I hadn't gotten a call from that area code in over a decade.
"Hello?" I answered, my voice tighter than I intended.
"Hey, Corinne Summers?" a male voice said. It was calm, steady, but carried a weight that felt ancient. "This is Mike Hanlon."
The name was a key turning in a lock deep inside my mind, a lock I'd kept sealed for years. A flood of fragmented images-a quarry, a sewer, laughter, blood, and seven blurred faces-threatened to surface. My grip on the phone turned white-knuckled.
"Mike who?" I asked, my voice a hollow whisper. Charles was watching me now, his sandwich forgotten, his expression shifting from casual curiosity to concern.
"Mike Hanlon," he repeated, as if he knew I remembered. "You need to come home. All of you do."
The words were simple, but they were a command. A summons. The room seemed to tilt on its axis. He gave me a time and a place to meet-the town library. The details barely registered. All I could hear was the roaring in my ears and the two words echoing: come home.
I managed a choked "Okay" before ending the call. The phone clattered onto the desk.
"Corinne? What was that about? Who was-" Charles began, standing up.
But the world had already narrowed to a pinpoint of light. The floor rushed up to meet me as a wave of dizzying, profound nausea washed everything away to black.
Waking up in a stark white hospital room was deeply disorienting and utterly unpleasant. The sterile smell of antiseptic filled my nose, and an IV was taped to the back of my hand.
Charles was sitting in a chair next to the bed, looking pale and worried. "You gave me one hell of a scare," he said, his voice soft with relief. "The doctor says it's a combination of exhaustion, low blood sugar, and... well, extreme stress. They want to keep you for observation for a few hours."
"Charles, I..." I struggled to sit up, my head throbbing. The memory of the phone call crashed back over me. "I need to go. I need a few days off."
He looked at me, his business partner demeanor gone, replaced by genuine care. "Corinne, what is going on? Was it that phone call? Who is Mike Hanlon?"
"It's... it's something important," I pleaded, my voice desperate. "It's about some friends. From a long time ago. From middle school, in Derry. I have to go back."
I saw the conflict in his eyes-the responsible CEO versus the friend who saw the raw, urgent fear in mine. Finally, he nodded. "Okay. Take the time you need. But you're not driving up there in your death trap." He fished his car keys from his pocket and placed them on the bedside table. "Take my car. It's reliable. The last thing I need is for you to break down on some backroad in Maine."
The gesture was so unexpectedly kind that tears welled in my eyes. "Thank you, Charles."
"Just promise me you'll be careful," he said, his tone deadly serious. "Whatever this is... be careful."
