Page 6 of Chalk Outline

I shake my head at that.

“You need years of practice to plan intricate operations, or learn from the best.” She winks.

It’s true. She didn’t make it this far by accident. She is strategic, meticulous, manipulative, ruthless, assertive, and clever. She knows how to make the right connections.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from her, it’s thatwhen you go to war, you should do your homework thoroughly.

The panic grows each year, knocking on everyone’s door as Halloween approaches.

The sacrificed are part of the Chalk Outline games. The Halloween Killers leave a chalk outline of a dead body in front of their house the day before Halloween. A group of people is selected, but no one knows who will die or how many of them.

That’s the sick part: they don’t kill everyone, but they terrorize them regardless.

Last year, only one person survived the tragic event. It’s still a mystery how she survived the bloody game. It always is. No one knows why some are spared while others are killed.

“The Halloween Killers are part of a criminal group calledCarnage Trolls. I looked into the name, and it turns out it’s the name of an inoperative circus.“ I state what she already knows, pulling out two pieces of paper from my back pocket and laying them in front of her.

Keep your feet up in the air and your worries at bay, because what I’m about to tell you might scare you away.

“It’s an old phrase from their circus show. Look at the handwriting,” I prompt. Some letters are cursive, some are not, but what stands out are the first letters of each word—they’re wider and curved, slanting to the left. “It matches the notes I found on my front porch.”

Don’t waste your tears on blood.

Whoever leaves them for me has a clear approach.

“I see. It even has the same whimsical style. You suspect it was written by a left-hander,” Grandma confirms, narrowing her eyes at me—the net of wrinkles around them deepening. “Where did you find the first one?”

“In your secret drawer, I know you like to collect old articles, photographs, and letters.”

She lets out an impressed chuckle.

The tense energy instantly shifts as we smile at each other, knowing we’re cut from the same cloth.

“I will be back,” I promise.

“You better.”

“Take care of Titan for me.”

“You’ve got my word.”

We straighten up together, and I round the desk to hug her.

“I love you,” she whispers into my ear. “Write a goodbye letter and say everything you want to say. I will keep it hidden.” She can switch from a warm grandmother to a cold businesswoman in the blink of an eye.

I pull away, but she immediately senses my hesitation. “I haven’t written one since he…”

“Died.” She finishes for me and brushes my fiery orange hair. “I left a paper on the desk for you.” She kisses my forehead and turns to leave. “Remember, when you’re lost—”

“Find your north star,” I complete her favorite sentence.

As soon as she’s out the door, I glare at the paper, wanting to set it on fire. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut and reach for a pen based on memory alone. A long inhale filters in, and I recognize the sound of madness when his voice is in my head.

How quickly can one lose touch with reality as it intertwines with their memories? Falling asleep is a nightmare, but being awake feels like the most agonizing nightmare of all.

I just want the pain to stop.

I settle into the leather chair and skim my finger over Grandma’s old, golden lighter with an embossed moth on the front. I hold onto it as the pen in my other hand touches the paper.