Page 100 of Wicked Dreams

Now it’s total annihilation.

I stop just across the threshold. Ghosts are here, bringing an icy chill with them. I can’t do this.

You must face your fear.

I glance over my shoulder at Caleb, but his expression is unreadable.

I’m on my own.

There’s dust collecting over every inch of the space. The wine-red rug under the kitchen table with four chairs crowded around it, one of which has a loose leg. Dad used to stuff a folded newspaper under it when company came over.

Company being Caleb, of course. Sometimes Savannah.

The cup is in the exact same spot by the sink. I move through the kitchen. Caleb follows me like a second shadow, past the living room on our right and into the narrow hallway. Mom got a grippy material to put under the rug when I was eight, after I slid headlong into the wall with the rug bunched around my feet.

That was a game of chase that ended poorly, but I never blamed Caleb. The bump on my forehead made him feel guilty enough.

The first door on the left is the bathroom, and my bedroom the next door down. Between them, on the right, is the door to my parents’ bedroom. I hesitate, brushing my fingers against the painted wood.

“It’s not going to bite,” Caleb whispers.

Yes, it will. The memories will sink their teeth into me and never let me go.

I take a deep breath and push the door open anyway. What I see steals the air from my lungs.

It’s a wreck. Vandalized.

There’s a broken lamp on the floor next to the bed, cracked into three pieces. The lightbulb is smashed. Clothes…everywhere. It’s like a hurricane went through the room.

I take a step back, bumping into Caleb.

“What happened?” My voice is steady, even if the rest of my body wobbles.

He doesn’t answer.

I turn. “Caleb, what happened?”

“This wasn’t part of the deal,” he says. “You wanted to come in here. You’re asking questions you should already know the answer to.”

I… should?

He takes a step back. “Move on.”

I shut the door.

After a second, I continue into my old room, where I had run the other day. The door swings open with the barest touch.

I walk in and inhale the odor of stale air.

When I was twelve, I had nightmares about being locked in here. In the dream, I beat my fists against the door until they were bloody and bruised. After Caleb follows me in, moving a bit slower than I’d prefer, I close the door.

I don’t expect to find anything.

Hell, it was just a dream I had when I was twelve.

And thirteen.

And fourteen.

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