Page 40 of Lost Girl

I just want them to leave.

“You say that now.” He huffs a dark laugh. “But just remember, the Captain isn’t around. Malik, here, won’t always be around either. You’re locked in a castle with a brood of hungry vampires...never know when you’ll need the extra strength to fend off the claws of death.”

And with that, he turns on his heel and heads for the stairwell with Malik on his tail, leaving me with a steaming pile of eggs and meat that eventually have me doubling over as my stomach cramps anew.

I wretch nothing but bile until I’m too weak to do anything but sleep.

* * *

It’s happening againand I’m definitely in my room. There isn’t a single doubt about it. I’ve squeezed my eyes shut at least five times, expecting a different result with each round, and the scenery doesn’t change.

This is my room.

I can’t seem to leave the bed, restricted by some invisible bindings, but I’m not sure I want to. Moving might trigger that whisper and the terrifying feeling that accompanies it. So I lay still, continue taking it all in.

Everything looks just as I remember it.

The pale blue walls, the thin linen drapes lining the window. The window itself is still open, too, allowing the autumn breeze to filter through with each gust. The dresser housing mine and Peter’s clothing, my vanity—everything is still here, perfectly in place.

Except it’s not.

It’s the tiniest difference, but significant enough to break me out in goosepimples. I didn’t hear it at first, but there’s no mistaking it now, and I know exactly what the cause for that sound is.

I refuse to look though, focusing only on the sound. An abrupt buzzing, one that ceases as quickly as you first heard it. It comes and goes, in and out.

If you guessed flies, then you guessed right.

They’re flies, and the more I accept this is what I’m hearing, the louder it becomes, as though they’re multiplying.

“Look, Wendy, on your right. You know you want to,” the whisper tests.

No, I don’t. I don’t want to, but the next thing I know, my head is turning and it’s not of my own volition. Feels like someone has latched their grip to the sides of my head and is just guiding it, pivoting it in one fluid movement despite what resistance I try putting up.

I can’t stop it, can’t move any other parts of my body.

Can’t close my eyes, either. Meaning I can’t unsee what’s laid out before me.

I know my mouth pops open to expel the extent of my terror, and within my body, I can feel the scream exonerate from deep within.

Yet not a sound breaches the airwaves, just my jaw nearly coming off its hinges as I’m forced to look upon Peter’s rotting, dismembered corpse. Flies and maggots have consumed almost the entire span of each piece, only small portions of flesh visible through the gluttonous swarms. The blood still appears fresh, though, and there’s so much of it, saturating the light fibers of the carpet.

The most disturbing part?

He’s staring at me, those chocolate brown eyes I used to love so much now lifeless, frozen on my equally immobile form.

My skin crawls as though those very maggots are wiggling their way over me, my stomach roiling vehemently, a cacophony of my disgust threatening to taint the white sheets of the bed.

Why is he looking at me? Why is he fucking looking at me?

How?

Aren’t the eyes the first thing to go?

“Because you need to see what you lost, what can happen to you, too, if you don’t find a way home,” the whisper answers, tightening its hold on my head.

Suddenly there’s a weight on my chest, another grip sealing around my arms, then my legs. It’s worse than the last time, so much that I can’t breathe.

I feel like I’m choking, my lungs begging for air as panic consumes me.

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