Page 171 of Unwrapping Deviance

They must have slipped off their hooks in the struggle. The thought is both a relief and revolting, but their combined weight has Dirk pinned. Vaguely, through the heavy fog of pain clawing to pull me under, I acknowledge the way they’re crossing over him, just perfectly so to keep him contained. Like they’re saving me, protecting me the way no one protected them.

It’s insane. Delusions, obviously, but it fills me with a new purpose. A new fire.

Leave!The voice in my head urges.Run!

But my swaying body is climbing to its feet. It shuffles in the dirt as I wobble back to stand over the monster fighting his own demons.

I can’t see his face. I can barely make him out at all, but I see the blur of his motions, hear the blood curdling screams. I can just make out the silver glint of steel jutting from a curved spine.

I waver between awake and soothing darkness, but I close filthy, bloody hands around the hook handle and jerk. The decayed flesh tears easily and I stagger back a step only to rear forward with what little strength I have left. My good arm swings up then down again and again, driving the sharp point into Dirk’s head. His face. Slamming and ripping until his wails are gurgles then silence.

“Piece of shit!” I scream. Sob. Choke.

Only when I can’t anymore and the world is a blanket of thick, rancid ashes swallowing me up, do I finally submit.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

MIRA

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The stench wakes me

It fills my lungs, coats my skin. I feel it burning my eyes as I pry them open to endless darkness.

My brain throbs in protest. My muscles ache and my stomach churns. I try to breathe but only inhale grime and decay.

Not dead.

Given the amount of raw agony pulsing through me, part of me wishes Dirk had finished the job.

Dirk!

It’s the memory, the creaks and groans from overhead that have me scrambling onto all fours. It’s the congealed blood sticking my shirt to my skin. I don’t look up but scramble across the dirt, clawing the stone, searching for the keys I’d dropped. I prayed they weren’t under Dirk and the small mountain of corpses. I prayed I could find the phones or the flashlight. Anything to help me navigate the yawning darkness.

I find the flashlight.

Dead. The batteries must have drained.

I chuck it aside and continue rifling until my fingers close into something cool and plastic.

The battery on the phone warns me of its approaching death, but it flares on.

I keep the light trained away from Dirk. Away from the girls. I survey the ground for any hint of metal and almost cry when I spot them in a small pool of dried blood. I scoop them up, duckmy head and run for the hatch. My feet slip on the rotting planks, but I hit the top and pause. I turn back.

“I’m coming back for you,” I tell the girls in the dark. “And thank you.”

I will never tell anyone. I don’t think anyone will understand if I tried. I probably wouldn’t believe me either if I hadn’t experienced it.

The dead are dead.

They don’t come back. They don’t stay and linger.

I don’t believe in ghosts.

But I wasn’t alone in that cellar. Aside from the physical bodies, those girls helped me. I don’t care how anyone tries to justify it, but I’m going to get them home, or give them peace at the most.

Keys and phone clutched to my chest, I sprint on shaky legs across freezing blades of grass in the direction of the dirt path and the beat up, blue pickup. I undo the locks and crawl in behind the wheel. My shoulder screams, but I close myself in and hit all the locks just in case.

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