Page 66 of All the Things We Buried

They took me to an old, empty house.

The air reeked of rot, moldy rot, like the bowels of Gloomsbury Manor. But here, there were no spirits to haunt me. No ghosts to guide, torment, or set me free.

I was alone.

The room had no windows. Just an old, stained mattress on the floor and faded wallpaper peeling from the corners. It was painted with a crumbling bridge and a forgotten town, stretched across every wall like a memory too stubborn to die.

I ran to the door, threw myself against it, fists pounding, voice breaking. No one answered.

I screamed until my throat went raw, so hoarse it felt like I had swallowed ash. My nails scraped at the wooden frame, desperate to claw my way out. All I left behind were trails of blood.

“Dorian,” I whispered.

My body slid down the door as my legs gave out. I folded into myself on the floor and shut my eyes. I begged. I prayed.Anything, to whomever was listening, that he was alive. That he made it.

Not knowing was a slow, sick death. I had no tears left to cry.

I heard footsteps approaching from the front of the room.

I scrambled backward, dragging myself to the mattress. I curled up, shut my eyes tight, and waited.

The door creaked open. I felt the presence before I saw it.

A man stepped inside. He wore a black ski mask. I peeked through the narrowest slit of my lashes, heart pounding so hard it drowned out every other sound. He moved slowly and took my hand in his.

I didn’t fight. I couldn’t. I was paralyzed with a fear that swallowed everything.

He pulled out a needle and pushed it into my vein.

Dark poured in behind my eyes. My vision blurred. The room tilted, then disappeared.

But I could still hear the footsteps. I could still feel them dragging my body across the floor.

I wasn’t fully gone, but I wasn’t awake either. I had no control. No way to fight back.

So my mind slipped away. It searched for anything to hold on to, and found a memory.

That night in the graveyard.

Sophie was there, sitting on a flat stone with her legs crossed.

She was laughing, talking to someone on the phone. Scissors dangled from her fingers. She held pliers in the other hand.

“Yeah, so he won’t shut up about how her hair smells. I bet he’ll stop if she’s bald,” Sophie chuckled. Then she added, her voice lowering, “I slipped something in her drink. She should pass out soon.”

She was talking about me.

I knew it. Iknew. That’s not what friends do.

Something in me snapped. I knelt down, grabbed a jagged rock from the ground, and swung it at her head.

She dropped from the stone she was sitting on with a soft grunt. Just collapsed like a broken doll.

I stepped over her, looked down at her body. Whoever she had been talking to was still on the line.

I raised the phone to my mouth and said, mimicking her tone, “Yeah, let me call you back.” My voice was high-pitched and mean, just like hers. Just like a loud bitch who deserved to die.

The scissors were already in her hand. I took them and began cutting her hair. Chunk by chunk. She didn’t deserve it. Not that pretty, glossy hair. Not when I heard what she said.