Page 31 of The Circus

When he takes a step forward this time, I hesitate to follow, the dark gray fabric stretching out between us. But then the thought of being left out here alone forces me to follow, for I’d much rather be safe next to Teddy than a sitting duck, and then it sinks in; he’s having me follow him for a reason.

In every horror movie, the boyfriend tells the girlfriend to stay put and he will go be chivalrous and take out the bad guy. And nine times out of ten, the monster is already there, ready to strike once she’s alone. Teddy forcing me to come with him, to keep my eyes down…he trusts himself against whatever could be in here, trusts that in a fight, he will win, so he’d never risk me by leaving me outside.

Teddy is prepared to kill to ensure that, and then his prowess with knives sinks in. I mull over these thoughts as a distraction from my fear. I can acknowledge that I am afraid right now, but that I’m also sort of just…numb. Because the most frightening person in here is the one wielding a knife, the one who went to an abandoned asylum alone and said helovedit.

I’m beginning to hate how perfect he feels to me, as though I am a puzzle missing an integral piece, and he is it. As my heart begins to race for new reasons, we clear each room of the house until we eventually stand in my small kitchen. He flicks on the light above the sink and slides his knife onto the counter, the sound grating after so much quiet.

I release him, stepping back and blinking away the harsh light. When he comes into view, his jaw is still set, but his eyes are…haunted.

“I saw someone through the window,” he all but whispers, holding my gaze so tightly it feels like a rope anchoring a ship in a storm. Dread fills me, and then awe, because if he can see things, too, then he reallyisperfect for me.

“No one’s here,” I hedge. “I live alone.”

“I know.”

My brows drop over my eyes in a deep glare, and I cross my arms.

“Howdo you know that?”

He waves his hand dismissively in my face before pulling at the ends of his hair. “Not important right now. Isawsomeone, Eden. A figure. In your house.”

I chew my lip, feeling as though he’s accusing me of something. I’m not sure what, though.

“Maybe you’re seeing things? We’re tired?—”

His eyes slit in my direction, awfully accusatory, and I hug myself tighter.

“Why would you suggest that?”

Shit.

“Umm…because we’re tired, and it’s been proven that people see things when they’re tired?—”

He snaps his fingers at me, his teal eyes burning. It’s like I can see the synapses firing in his brain. It makes my head hurt, but it’s also fascinating, watching him figure things out, skipping the thousands of other steps normal people have to take to finally make it to the right conclusion. He is a genius, and that is terrifying.

“But, see, I wasn’t tired at the asylum and I still sawhim.”

“Him?” I parrot, now utterly lost. Maybe he hadn’t figured me out…

“The ghost, Eden,” he says flatly, his unwavering stare pinning me to this spot, as though my feet are encased in blocks of concrete. My eyes begin to water, my heart thumping a little harder the longer we stare one another down.

“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” I say, jutting my chin up, feeling insolent. The way his grin flashes immediately, his eyestaunting me, makes me petrified. All of my bravado slips to the floor, along with my erratically pounding heart.

“Filthy little liar,” he hisses, towering above me, his presence suddenly as consuming as night itself. I take a step back, fear coursing through me. He follows, his step heavy and meant to be heard this time. “Why do you like it there, Eden?”

I shake my head, about to part my lips and spill a lie, but he shakes his head, and takes another step forward. Backing away, I hit the cupboards behind me, trapped.

“I just do.”

“That’s not normal,” he says, cocking his head at me in his scrutiny. He’s playing with me, because he already knows these answers. He just wants to make me admit it, wants to wield his power over me to force my darkest secrets from my lips. The genius in me admires him for it, but I won’t make it easy for him.

“Normal is subjective.”

“Stop denying it.”

“Denying what?—”

“That you can see them. The dead.”

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