Page 64 of Long Pig

A figure filled the doorway, haloed by light from the corridor behind him. She could only make out the silhouette of broad shoulders and the slow sway of a key ring at his belt. The boots stepped forward.

The smell reached her before he did: cigarettes, whiskey, sweat.

Her throat tightened. She tried to shrink farther into the corner, but there was nowhere left to go. Her palms pressed against the cold wall, and her fingernails dug into her skin.

He stopped before her and bent down, his shadow swallowing the light, but it fell across his face, and her stomach dropped. It wasn’t the guard.

It was her father. The man she’d killed.

His eyes glinted now with something unrecognizable. His mouth curved into a smile that didn’t belong to him.

“Don’t cry, sweet Willow,” he whispered. His voice was almost tender, which only made it worse.

His hand reached out to her. They were calloused and trembled slightly. She wanted to scream, but her voice was strangled somewhere deep inside her chest.

The back of his hand brushed her cheek, and the walls closed in further. Beneath his touch, her skin turned to flame and skyrocketed her fear.

His hand slid lower, cupping her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his. His eyes had changed; they were hollow now, black pits of death.

She shook her head, trying to pull away, but the dream held her tightly. Her father’s whisper deepened, layered with voices that weren’t his; men, monsters, memories, all spoke through him. She fell to her back; his fingers wrapped around her throat.

“Don’t cry,” he repeated. “You knew this was coming.”

And when she finally managed to scream, it wasn’t her voice that filled the room.

It was his laughter.

Willow shot upright on the camp bed, sucking back another scream. Her racing heart didn’t slow for several longminutes as she attempted to breathe. The dream had never been that vivid.

Light filled her new prison, and Butch walked in.

“Are you okay, Willow?”

It was the voice of the monster.

Chapter Forty-Three

Night Terrors

Butch

He hadn’t been able to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her pale skin against the dark wall below. The image and need for her burrowed into his soul and fed the hunger that gnawed at him. His infatuation with Willow grew with each passing hour.

She didn’t belong chained downstairs like some animal. No, she should be upstairs, where it was warm, where she could cook for him, sit across the table, maybe even smile when he spoke to her. That was how it should be.

But for now, he had the camera.

He unlocked his phone, the glow of the screen washing his face in cold light. His thumb trembled slightly as he opened the feed. The picture flickered. Her small body lay curled beneath the sleeping bag. Butch’s breath deepened. He rubbed his finger reverently over the glass, tracing the curve of her shoulder as though she could feel it.

Then she moved.

A twitch. Her hand clenched the air.

He frowned and zoomed in. Her body jerked again, more violent this time. A soft sound, barely a whimper, escaped the speaker, and something tightened in his chest.

“What are you dreaming about?” he murmured, leaning closer.

Her legs kicked under the blanket, her mouth opening with a silent word he couldn’t read on her lips.