Page 7 of All the Things We Buried

SIX

DORIAN

I t was just past nine when I pulled up in front of Gloomsbury Manor.

Before I got here, I stopped at a thrift shop off the highway.

I picked up a worn leather jacket, a black shirt, and jeans.

I even found a soft heat lamp and a cheap plastic terrarium for Nagi.

I slicked my hair back, but two stubborn strands fell across my forehead no matter what I did.

I let them stay. They made me look a little less like myself.

The gate creaked open without me needing to call. It was either the ghosts or the motion sensors that still worked.

The manor stood exactly as I remembered.

A house on a hill, staring down at everyone passing by.

The old walnut tree was still there, leaning.

The swing still swayed gently even without wind.

The barn sat where it always had, tilting slightly, empty.

And beyond it, the gazebo, half-hidden in a wall of untrimmed red roses.

A lot had been buried in that garden. I always wondered why the roses still grew.

The sky cracked open. Thunder lit it above. I pulled up just in time, hopping off the bike as the rain started. I stood at the front door, water sliding down the back of my neck, my hand already hovering near the bell.

I rang once.

Waited.

No answer.

I rang twice more; each time, I could hear the echo from inside the house.

The door felt smaller than I remembered, or maybe I had just grown taller, or maybe everything else had just stayed stuck.

The door finally opened. A girl with ocean-blue eyes stood in the doorway, blinking at me like she had opened the wrong door. Her mouth parted, but no words came out. She looked familiar to me, like a girl from a dream I had forgotten and suddenly remembered all at once.

“Hi,” I said, forcing a small smile. “Who are you?”

Still no answer.

She stepped back slowly and turned toward the hallway. I watched her go, then stepped inside.

Her eyes. That color. Ocean- blue.

Years ago, one of my father’s drinking buddies told me about “ocean blue.” Said if you ever looked into eyes that shade, you would feel like a key turning in the lock of your soul. I used to think that was bullshit.

Until now.

Looking into her eyes, she touched my soul. Just for a moment. And it felt all kinds of wrong, but for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel hollow. I felt at home.

“Dorian,” my mother’s voice came from the kitchen. She moved quickly toward me, arms open. “Welcome.”

To anyone else, she might have seemed warm. But I knew she didn’t want me here.

“Mother,” I said, faking a smile. “So nice of you to let me stay.”

Then her new husband appeared, in his navy cardigan. Cigar in one hand. Leaning in the doorway. His eyes were the same color as the girl’s. She must be his daughter.

I turned my head toward the staircase, and there she was again. Sitting near the bannister, holding a doll in her arms.

I knew that doll.

A little girl used to carry it. On the beach. Before she disappeared.

The girl looked pale, sickly. Her skin was like porcelain left too long in the sun.

I didn’t need proof to know my mother had her hands in whatever this was.

She used to “take care of us” too, Ian and me.

But she never did; she poisoned us slowly.

Kept us weak so she could feel needed. Loved the performance of fixing more than the act of loving.

She moved close to me and whispered, “I go by Vivian now.”

Of course she did.

I rolled my eyes.

Vivian turned back to the girl. “Lenore, darling,” she called sweetly, “would you take my Dorian upstairs and show him the attic? We’ve decorated—it even has a bed now.”

My Dorian. Like I was a pet she was showing. Nothing she said was ever without control.

Lenore blinked. “The attic? But—“

Her father’s voice cut in.“Do you want to take his place?”

Lenore went silent. She looked at me, then back at the attic stairs.

“No,” she said quietly, and turned.

Vivian smiled. That smug, too-smooth kind of smile. She patted my shoulder like I was a child again, then she walked with her husband back into the kitchen.

I turned to Lenore. She met my eyes, and for a moment, I saw fear inside hers.

“What’s with the doll?” I asked, walking toward the stairs.

“They don’t talk,” she said flatly, standing and brushing hair from the doll’s face.

I let out a breath of laughter. “Aren’t you a bit old to be playing with dolls?”

She was cute. Too cute. I needed to stop thinking like that.

She raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you a bit old to move back in with your mom?”

Touché.

“I didn’t have a choice,” I muttered, following her up the stairs.

At the landing, she paused. The attic door was cracked open just slightly. The air behind it felt cold, even from here.

“That room,” she said, “lock it at night. Father doesn’t like anyone awake after dark.”

I clenched my jaw.

“You’re no fun,” I said, brushing past her. “Sister.”

“I’m not your sister,” she said, annoyed.

Then she stepped forward and slammed the attic door shut behind me.

I heard her footsteps fading down the hall. She was probably fourteen, maybe fifteen. And I knew, even if she wasn’t my blood, I had to protect her. From this house. From the people in it. From whatever lived behind the walls.

The attic was cold. Dusty. The floor creaked beneath my boots.

Mother had won again. She put me back in my place. Out of sight. Out of mind. Out of her new family.

I sat down on the mattress. The springs moaned. The sheets were thin and smelled like an old musk.

My eyes scanned the space, and my gaze landed on an old mirror leaning against the far wall.

Something moved in the reflection.

My pulse quickened.

I stood slowly, eyes fixed on the glass.

But when I got close... There was nothing there.

Just my reflection. Still half-drenched from the rain. Still wearing clothes that didn’t feel like mine. Still looking like someone I barely knew anymore.

Something moved behind me.

I felt it before I heard it. A shift in the air. I gasped, breath catching in my throat, and spun around quickly.

But there was no one there.

I turned back toward the mirror, noticing the surface had started to fog. A pale mist spread across the glass like someone was breathing on the other side. My heartbeat picked up. I stood frozen, watching as letters began to form, traced slowly into the condensation on the glass.

Welcome home.

The words sat there, perfectly clear. Not smudged. Not shaky. Clear.

I stumbled backward, my eyes spread wide. My legs hit the edge of the mattress and gave out beneath me. I fell hard, landing on my back, the fall knocking the air from my lungs.

The plastic tank tipped off the bed and hit the floor. Nagi slipped out, her dark body gliding across the floor toward me.

But I couldn’t focus on her, I just locked my eyes on the mirror.

The fog was gone, together with the written message.

The surface of the glass looked clean again, but I knew what I had seen.

I felt fingers slowly touching my neck. Then the pressure started.

Fingers wrapped slowly around my throat, squeezing strongly against my skin. My arms tried to move, but I couldn’t. My eyes were wide as my mouth tried to gasp for air.

I wanted to fight. I had no strength.

The grip tightened, and my vision began to fade at the edges. My head rolled back. My mouth opened wider, but no sound came out.

Nagi reached the mattress, curling near my side, her tongue flicking.

Then a voice brushed against my ear. “She never let us leave.”

That was the last thing I heard before everything slipped away. My eyes closed. My muscles gave in. My body was moving from the mattress, almost like I was floating.Dark pulled me under like water over my head. And I was drowning.