Page 93 of Bound By Crimson

Chapter Ninety-Three

Feral

The attic had gone quiet again.

The light was gone, swallowed by nightfall, and with it, the small comfort it brought.

Lyric sat against one of the support beams, her mother’s locket warm against her chest, her father’s cardigan wrapped tightly around her.

She stared at the wall across from her, willing herself not to cry.

Then she heard it.

Footsteps.

Sharp. Controlled.

Editha.

Her voice curled up the stairs like smoke.

“I brought you some food.”

Lyric didn’t move.

“Don’t get too excited,” Editha continued. “I just don’t want you dying up there and stinking up the place.”

Lyric slowly stood and approached the attic door but didn’t open it.

“Will you come down and eat?”

Lyric laughed—dry and bitter.

“Eat your poisoned food? Ha. ”

Silence.

Then Editha replied, sounding almost bored.

“No, dear. I won’t waste my time trying to do that right now. You’d just make a mess. You’re too—feral.”

The word sank into Lyric’s skin.

Feral.

Like an animal.

Editha sighed.

“I brought granola bars and bottled water. That’s it. No silverware to throw. No soup to stain the walls.”

Lyric didn’t respond.

She just folded her arms and stared through the wood.

“Are you coming down or not?”

Still nothing.

A beat of silence.

Then the sound of something tumbling onto the bottom stair.

Plastic wrappers.

The clunk of bottles.

“Suit yourself,” Editha muttered.

Click.

The door locked again.

Lyric waited.

She listened for the retreating footsteps.

Then slowly, she opened the attic door and looked down the stairs.

Three granola bars. Two bottles of water.

She hesitated.

Her eyes scanned the dark stairwell, searching for movement, shadows, a trick.

But the stairwell stayed quiet. Still, she didn’t trust it.

She took a breath, bolted down the stairs, snatched the items and turned—

Creeeak.

A floorboard.

On the other side of the door, leading into her bedroom.

She let out a quick gasp—every hair on her body standing on end .

She didn’t wait to see if it opened.

She flew back up the stairs two at a time.

Lyric burst into the attic and slammed the door shut behind her.

Then froze.

There was no lock.

Her mind raced.

Editha was terrified of the attic—but Charles wasn’t.

What if she sent him to drag her out?

Lyric spun around. Eyes scanning the dim space.

Without thinking, she tossed the food and water toward the attic window.

There—

She lunged for the heavy wooden dresser near the wall. Braced her shoulder against its side and planted her feet. Then pushed.

The wood groaned, but it barely moved. She adjusted—bent lower, shoved harder, using her legs this time. Digging her heels into the floorboards, jaw clenched, thighs burning.

Inch by inch, the dresser scraped forward. Her shoulder ached. Her breath came in gasps.

Then—

Footsteps.

On the stairs.

Coming up fast.

A jolt of terror shot through her. She threw her whole weight into it—legs straining, shoulder screaming. The dresser screeched across the floor.

The footsteps reached the door. Lyric shoved the dresser in front of the door just in time. The doorknob turned.

But it was too late.

The dresser was already there.

Lyric dropped to the floor, bracing her back against it, planting her feet into the floorboards.

Every muscle locked.

Ready.

The handle jiggled again.

Then a third time .

Push.

The pressure hit the door—subtle, testing.

Another push.

Stronger this time.

The dresser shifted a fraction of an inch—but Lyric pushed back with all her weight, gritting her teeth, heart hammering.

Then—

Nothing.

A pause.

Then slow, retreating footsteps down the stairs.

She held her breath.

Listening.

Then—

The lower attic door creaked shut with a soft click.

The lock.

Only then did her muscles begin to uncoil. Her breath came in ragged waves. She stayed seated, trembling, listening for anything else.

Nothing.

She finally crawled away from the dresser and curled on the floor beneath the attic window.

The granola bars and bottles lay beside her.

She sat up, crossed her legs, rested her back against the cold wall.

Reached for the granola bars. The wrappers crinkled in her shaking hands. She didn’t open them right away. Instead, she turned each one over, inspecting the seams, the glue, the edges. She squinted at the print. Sniffed for anything off.

Was that corner tampered with? Was that a puncture?

Her stomach growled, but she kept examining—once, twice, three times.

The last time she ate something from Editha, it nearly killed her. She knew better now. Only when she was satisfied did she peel one open.

She chewed slowly, methodically, eyes locked on the door.

She didn’t cry.

Tears wouldn’t help her now.

One more night.

That was all she needed.