Breathe. My lungs burned as I sprinted down the sidewalk, my shoes slapping against the pavement. Breathe. Though the temperature dropped significantly, I could feel sweat beginning to pool at the back of my neck, dripping back down between my shoulder blades. Breathe. Each step made my side ache, pinch like a stitch pulling too tight, about to rip the fabric.
And the screaming—it seemed to echo through the air. They came intermittently now, the screams, but they were loud enough to make my skin crawl. If the cold hadn’t beaten it to it, the shrieks would’ve raised goosebumps on my arms.
The yellow house with the purple mailbox came up much faster than I’d anticipated, and I slowed my pace as it loomed in front of me. The front door was shut, and relief poured through me at the sight. If the door was shut, that meant nothing had gotten in. Right? Nothing worth screaming about closed doors behind them.
But as I came closer, I noticed that the back door, the one that I’d left through just last night, had been pushed open wide.
Ice water replaced the blood in my veins, and I took a hesitant step closer.
“Help!” a voice called, though not from the house; further down the street. “No, no!”
I’m in hell, I thought, and it was the first clear thought that rang through my head. I’ve stepped into hell.
I climbed up the back porch, fingers shaking as they gripped the banister, and stepped into Cassie’s house.
Nothing looked out of place, at least not upon first inspection. The back door had just been pushed in, not broken in, and looked to be in find condition. The kitchen cupboards were still intact, shut. But then again, I didn’t know what I was looking for. Was I looking for a person? An animal? A monster?
Trapped in a cage with a monster. It sounded… I couldn’t even finish the thought.
“Cassie?” I whispered, and immediately wanted to smack myself for it. I knew saying anything basically alerted whoever was in the house of my position, Cassian or otherwise. Whatever opened the door.
Stop, Jonas, I told myself fiercely, moving to the hallway that led to the living room. Mrs. Rivers could’ve just forgotten to shut the door. Cassian could’ve opened the door to get air in. Stop imagining the worst.
But when I walked into the living room, the worst came to life, a loud pounding in my ears.
Mrs. Rivers, a lovely old woman of somewhere between 70 and 105 laid on the couch with her legs over the side, one shoe on, the other missing. Her eyes were opened and unfocused, gazing at the ceiling. The cream colored cardigan hung loose over her shoulders, bunched from how she laid. Or, at least I assumed it was cream colored before all of the blood stained it.
So. Much. Blood.
It coated her throat, the front of her cardigan, dripping down the side of the fabric of the couch. Staining the carpet. The very carpet I’d laid on last night, playing Cassian at cards. Losing to Cassian at cards.
And now there was a dead woman staining the very spot we’d sat.
My stomach seized, violently, as the scent of blood filled my nose. I gagged on it, pressing my fingers to my face in such a way that summoned pain, and I latched onto the feeling, swallowing hard. Dead. She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead.
